Give Me What You Won’t #3
Thaddeus moved, twisting out of his grip before launching himself at the brute, but he slid on the shattered glass and slipped, sending them both backward into the broken security gated window.
The man in black let out a hiss of pain.
He then unexpectedly reared his right leg upward, right into Thaddeus’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
The man in black roughly grabbed him by his suit jacket and threw him like a sack of fucking potatoes, twirling him and slamming him into the same window.
Thaddeus felt the slice of broken glass sting into his lower back, and he, too, let out a hiss of pain.
The office door was shot open.
Bob and two others flooded the room, armed.
The man in black, without warning, butted his head into Thaddeus’s face, his head jerking back from the impact, blood erupting from his lower lip.
His hands shot out, gripping the only thing they could, which was the man’s thick black shirt.
He was hot to the touch, his heart beating wildly, which almost gave Thaddeus the impression he was handling an animal, not a man.
He didn’t want to get hit again, but he also didn’t want this man to get shot.
“Wait!” Thaddeus ordered, tasting blood on his lips. “Wait. Don’t shoot.”
The man in black’s whiskey-colored eyes narrowed, confused. He was willing to fight his way out of this situation, but there would be no fighting through bullets. And Bob and his team would shoot him to protect Thaddeus.
Dragging the man in black closer, he whispered, “Gun. Waistband.”
The man in black didn’t have to be told twice and moved, reaching behind Thaddeus, his deft fingers finding the gun and withdrawing it.
I just armed my attacker.
Hopefully he doesn’t decide to fucking kill me with it.
The man in black whirled Thaddeus easily in his strong arms, slamming his back against his chest and pivoting them to face Bob and the security team. He placed the gun beneath Thaddeus's jaw, causing him to jerk his head back and into the man’s shoulder.
The man in black slowly walked them toward the exit, the security team moving out of their way, guns trained on them.
The man in black turned, not giving them his back as they exited.
“Close the door,” the man in black instructed quietly.
Thaddeus obeyed.
The sprawling warehouse was miles deep and led out to the docks. It was larger than an inner-city airport. There was nowhere to go on foot. But from the video footage, he knew the man in black had a motorcycle he used for his quick escapes.
“Why are you helping me?” the man in black breathed. The warm, overwhelming press of his body was hot against him as he dragged him down the corridor and into the vast warehouse.
“I’m not,” Thaddeus said drily.
“You are.”
“My mother gave me that gun. I would appreciate it back if you don’t plan on using it.”
The man in black hummed, sounding amused, and continued to manhandle him, using his body as cover for any more security guards lying in wait.
They finally reached the empty cargo shipping containers in the back of the warehouse, and he was once more led down a maze of rows before coming to a stop. He roughly pushed Thaddeus against the metal steel box.
“Stay there,” he ordered.
A few seconds later, he heard the roar of a motorcycle and footsteps. He turned and saw the man in black approach him, his hips swaying ever so slightly as he walked. His long arms were well-defined and roped with corded muscles. Muscles he had been all too aware of being dragged around by.
The man in black watched him closely, and unexpectedly, he pushed Thaddeus back into the cargo container, his stomach pressed against the cold steel. The hand on his back pushed aside the fabric of his jacket, and the gun he had taken was returned to his waistband.
With both hands free, the man in black did not immediately leave as Thaddeus had anticipated. In fact, he kept surprising him by invading his space, boxing him into the container, using his considerable bulk to press into him.
Something warm slipped into his veins, feeling like the burn of whiskey heating his belly from the inside out. Whiskey—the same color as the man in black’s eyes. An unforgettable, striking color that almost seemed flecked with gold.
His chin, covered by the mask, pressed against Thaddeus's neck, his breath loud against his ear. He and Thaddeus were the same height, yet for some reason, maybe it was the muscle difference between them, he felt smaller, almost insignificant to his bulky frame.
The tension between them was unexpected and hard to fucking ignore.
Thaddeus balled his fingers into fists, controlling himself, tamping down whatever was trying to rear its ugly head inside his body. He could not—would not—be interested in his enemy, to the pig he planned to lead to the slaughter.
“I didn’t expect Kirill’s nephew to be so…” the man in black husked against the shell of his ear, “pretty.”
Thaddeus almost laughed, if not for his precarious circumstances.
His large body brushed against his, his hips swaying forward, and fuck…
Thaddeus nearly whimpered.
Jesus Christ, this man was large, everywhere. The harsh imprint of his cock ground into him. The man in black who had just kicked his ass was now rubbing a semi-hard on against said ass. He wondered if it was for him or the adrenaline of the escape. Probably the latter, he thought.
“And easy,” the man in black drawled, and somehow his Cajun accent deepened.
Thaddeus stiffened, and this only made the man in black crowd him more, his entire body now pressed against his. The warmth flooding his body transformed into a liquid, dangerous flame.
You can’t get lured into a trap.
He’s obviously toying with me.
This is just a game.
He was smart, almost as intelligent as his father.
But intellectualizing something versus feeling it in the body were two separate things.
And Thaddeus was feeling a little too much, too quickly.
It did not help that he hadn’t had sex in almost a year.
Ever since his father’s death. Everything had changed.
His own safety had been compromised, and he couldn’t allow himself to get attached to anyone, not even a sex worker.
He wouldn’t risk an innocent person’s life for his personal gratification.
Kirill was looking for anything to use against him—he knew this because he knew his uncle.
And being seen with anyone came with potential devastating consequences.
It was his choice and penance to bear until Kirill was dead.
Until this empire was his and he could do whatever the hell he wanted.
But until then, he was as celibate as a monk. He had to be.
Which meant he was susceptible to moments like these. Weak even. Because he was touch starved. He would have to remedy this and quickly. More meditating. Less drinking. More control. Anything to keep his body from reacting.
Before he could stop him, the man in black jerked oddly against him and stumbled back, hand over his bleeding thigh, sucking in giant breaths.
Thaddeus watched as the man in black slumped against the shipping container, unsteady on his feet.
Blood loss, he realized, surprised, and took a step closer.
“Fuck off, joli diable,” the man in black hissed, glaring daggers at him and then toward his motorcycle.
If he tried to ride out on that thing, he’d end up in the fucking river and drown, without ever making it to Kyross.
And wouldn’t that be a pity?
Several hours later, nearing morning, Thaddeus finally returned to his office, an ice pack on his lip and his ego sorely bruised.