21. RYAN #2
“No.”
He growls, fucking me harder as if that will drill it into me better.
“Say it.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Which is pretty damn funny when you think about it, seeing as he’s actively fucking me.
Tate doesn’t find me amusing at all. His teeth sink hard into the flesh where my neck meets my shoulder.
I scream. There’s wetness—his saliva and my hot blood.
He does it again, and again, and again, until I must look like some of Beck’s old hockey sticks.
Don’t ask me how they get chewed up, but they fucking do.
There’ll be bruises all over my body from his eagerness, and with the way he’s fucking me, it’ll feel like he’s in me for days. My shoulder’s already throbbing with his teeth marks, exactly what I want—what I need—to survive more silence.
But then he slows down. I can almost hear the cogs of his mind turning. Shit. No. I fucking know better. The bastard always gets what he wants. Somehow, I admire that about him, even when it’s from me.
I’m flipped again, this time to face him, stare into his eyes so they can lie to me some more. He teases his cock back inside me as I spread unprompted. His ever-eager whore. Wanting that cock of his more than I need dignity.
Or pride.
Or even a conscience.
He fucks me slowly, in a way that could be mistaken for loving. Even his body language, the way he moves with me, cataloging my breath changes, making sure my eyes are locked on his. He leans toward my ear like he’s going to tell me a secret.
“You’re mine, dollface.” His hips pick up speed, but never go too hard or too fast, maintaining the slowest of burns.
“I hate you. Hate you so much.”
“Hate me all you want, owning you is sweeter that way.”
My balls feel as if they’re pulling away from my body, pleasure curling low in my belly. The tears are sharp, but still hot enough to choke on. He’s right. I can deny it, bite it back all I want, but there’s only one truth.
“Yes. I’m yours, Tate. Just yours.”
“Fuck. Fuck, I’m gonna—” His cock pulses, and he fills me so full that cum leaks with his cock still inside me.
I follow, orgasm overtaking me, blacking out for a flash.
My eyes flutter open. I didn’t know they’d closed.
Tate’s head is on my chest—he’s timing my breaths and heartbeats again, isn’t he? —and there’s a weight around my finger.
I hold it up in the winter moonlight. Wedding ring. I flex and extend my hand. Gotta make sure it’s real and not a figment of my imagination, and then I find his ring hand, threading my fingers with his. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t bark at me for touching him.
Tate wasn’t okay tonight. Maybe he never is. Do I bring him peace? He used me like a whore, and now I’m his teddy bear.
Teddy whore?
Don’t know if that works, but he needs me as much as I need him. I know it, even the fucking person at the front desk knows it.
But will he ever let himself admit it?
We lay for a long time, breathing together, tracing each other’s skin.
Secrets and the past whispered around us while I tried and failed to come up with a way to get him to talk to me about what was definitely plaguing him.
The room hummed with the chemistry between us.
A gravitational pull so wicked we’re enslaved for life.
Maybe this began with one prisoner—me—but Tate is as much of a captive as I am to this fucking agony.
Here we are, tangled together as close as two people can be, separated by an unfathomable distance, because our insides are fractured beyond repair. He can’t find his way to me through the brambles, and I don’t have the emotional maturity to get him out.
Finally, he stirs, sliding away from me. I sit up. Dammit. I wish I had words beyond unbelievable fucking anger.
“Am I dismissed now that you’re done with me?” I can’t help watching his every move as he slides into the long-sleeved white shirt he wears for games. Why are the most devastatingly handsome men such evil fucking snakes? I can’t decide whether I like it better on or off.
No, definitely off. But him in a suit is no hardship.
The fucker smirks. He knows I’m staring. But he’s mine, too, even if he’ll never admit it. Tate has an unhealthy obsession with me. Specifically, with my ass. He loves being the only one I’ve ever let dominate me in the way he does, and that he owns me the same way a person owns a car.
He gets off on that power. He’s a slave to it. I’m the only place he can get that feeling in a real way. One that’s not pretend. If I need to trade that feeling as a currency and use it as a weapon, I will. The only weapon in my arsenal when it comes to Tate.
Because he’ll only fuck me if I beg him for it—if I want it. But he wants me to want it, so he can fuck me.
And that’s all we are.
Sex. Toxicity. War.
He stalks over to me slowly, a sharp-gazed predator. Calculated. A warning wearing skin. His shirt still half unbuttoned, fly unzipped, belt buckle undone. He grabs my face again, but this time I don’t dare pull away, heart hammering in my chest.
“I’m never done with you, Ryan. Fucking never. Not even death can save you, because should you die, I’ll follow you into the next life, too.”
See? Obsessed like a fucking psychopath.
Tate is a psychopath.
At least the sex is so. Fucking. Good.
He lets go of my face. “But you are dismissed.” He doesn’t leave, analyzing me. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re a goddamn asshole, that’s what’s wrong.”
“I’m always an asshole, and you never look like that. C’mon, let’s have it. We have a deal, and I intend on living up to my end of the bargain.”
“Don’t act like you’re a fucking saint, Tatum. You do it to keep me happy enough to get what you want from me.” Calling him by his full name gives me a sick sort of pleasure. I know he hates it.
He shrugs, gritting his teeth. “Both things can be true. Now, tell me. I promised to take care of you, and I will.”
A fact that he loves rubbing in my face, because I do need him. As much of a fucking dick as Tate is, he’s the only one standing between me and the worst fate I can imagine—being my father’s captive for the rest of my life.
My lip trembles against my will. “I know the plan; I’m trying to be patient, but every week I have to prevent some new catastrophe. No one wins every game.” Not even McKinnon, my brain supplies, tonight being a perfect example. “What if you’re not there? What if I lose?”
His thumb caresses my cheek, and I have to fight not to close my eyes and enjoy it. I’m pathetic. Needing his touches so bad, I’m willing to take them anywhere I can get them.
“I’ll speed things up.”
“You will?” Didn’t expect that. Not with how he’s been.
“I already have.” He’s choosing his words carefully. “My brother knows about our wedding. We sorted out the inheritance.”