Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LUCIFER
She didn’t want me to stop.
The words replay in my head like a broken record, each rotation sending another bolt of electricity straight to my cock.
She was in pain, and she still wanted my mouth on her.
That knowledge is almost too much for me to accept, so before I fall to my knees and drape her legs over my shoulders, I sweep her off her feet and into my arms in one fluid motion.
She gasps, her arms immediately winding around my neck.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you somewhere you can sit.”
I turn and carry her toward the clubhouse, ignoring the way her body molds perfectly against mine. It’s like she was fucking made for me. I adjust my grip beneath her thighs, and her breath hitches slightly as her fingers find the hair at the nape of my neck.
Desperate to put her down so she can’t torture me with her touch, I pick up the pace.
When I finally make it inside the clubhouse, I deposit her gently onto one of the leather couches in the main room.
She stares up at me—her cheeks still flushed.
Lips still fucking swollen, and the bruises on her neck somewhat darker.
I groan as something possessive and primal roars inside me, and my cock—which is completely unconcerned that she’s hurting—throbs against the zipper of my jeans.
In all my years, I have never been this on edge with a woman. It’s not so much a want as it is a need. I need to be inside her. I need to feel her wrapped around me, her sweet pussy squeezing me tight, milking every drop of cum from me.
I need it like I fucking need air.
I clear my throat, forcing my gaze away from the marks I left on her.
“Do you want something to drink?” I motion toward the bar with a jerk of my chin. “Might take the edge off.”
She laughs slightly, the soft, breathy sound doing absolutely nothing to help the situation in my jeans.
“You’re going to serve me?”
I shrug, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I’m no bartender, but I can pour a shot.”
She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, contemplating the offer, and I track the movement. Those fucking lips would look so pretty wrapped around me. It’d be a tight fit, but I bet with a little praise, she’d stretch that mouth wide for me.
Her teeth release the plump flesh, and she nods.
“Okay.”
I adjust myself through my jeans, turning toward the bar before she can see just how fucking hard I am.
I grab the first bottle my hand lands on and snag two shot glasses from the shelf.
When I return to the couch, her right leg is propped on the seat beside her, and her dress is hiked to her thigh as she rubs the spot behind her knee.
I sit beside her and pour two fingers into each glass. She takes hers, our fingers brushing, and the contact sends a jolt up my arm.
“To weddings,” I mutter, because I can’t think of anything else.
She lifts her glass, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on her lips. “To weddings.”
Our glasses clink, and I watch her throw the whiskey back with practiced ease, her throat working as she swallows. The liquor burns its way down my own throat, but it does nothing to cool the fire she’s ignited in me.
She sets the empty glass on the coffee table, and I do the same.
The silence stretches between us, thick and loaded.
I want to take her into my room. I want to strip that purple dress from her body and lay her across my bed.
I want to kiss every scar, every graft, every inch of damaged skin until she forgets that anything in this world has ever hurt her.
I rub my hands on my thighs, the leather of my cut rustling with the movement.
“Still hurt?” I ask, my voice rough.
“A little,” she admits.
She shifts on the couch, her fingers still pressing into the muscle behind her knee.
I turn to face her, and we stare at each other. The air between us feels charged.
“Fuck it,” I mutter.
I lean back against the cushions and slide her leg onto my lap. She sucks in a breath, her hand falling away from her knee as I take over.
“Where does it hurt?”
Her hand moves to the spot just below her knee, her fingertips brushing against mine as she points. “Here. It’s a weird sensation. Almost like pins and needles.”
I wrap my fingers around her calf, my thumbs finding the spot she indicated. Her skin is warm beneath my palms, and I start to work the muscle in slow, deliberate circles.
“Is this okay?”
Again, she pulls her lower lip between her teeth. But she nods. Her chest rises and falls a little quicker as she does, and my gaze drops, tracking the movement.
My suspicion from earlier is confirmed instantly.
She’s not wearing a bra. The thin fabric of her dress does absolutely nothing to hide the shape of her tits.
They’re not overly big, just the right size for my palms. Her nipples are pert, pressing against the thin fabric of the dress, and I have to force myself to look away before I do something I can’t take back.
“Getting a massage from you wasn’t on my bingo card,” she says, her voice slightly breathless.
I keep my thumbs moving in slow circles. “Yeah, well, you being here wasn’t on mine.”
She settles back against the couch, and the front of her dress dips a little more, giving me an even better view of the cleavage I’m desperately trying not to stare at.
“Amelia came to see me the other day and invited me. I wasn’t going to come, but all I do is go from therapy back to my apartment.” She lets out a soft sigh. “I thought a change of scenery would be good.”
“How have you been feeling since you’ve been home?”
She glances at me, something vulnerable flickering across her face.
“Truthfully?”
“Yeah.”
My fingers continue their work, drifting a little higher, just above her knee.
“You were right.”
I raise an eyebrow. “About?”
“Everything.” She exhales slowly. “I can’t stand for long periods of time, and it’s a lot on Tori. I still haven’t been cleared to drive. That’s why Jude drove me.”
My hands tense on her leg at the sound of his name. I force myself to keep the motion steady, but something dark curls in my chest.
“Amelia offered for Maddox to give me a ride, but with it being his sister’s wedding and all, it made sense for someone else to do it.”
I suppose that’s true, but I don’t like it.
“You should’ve called me.”
She cocks her head to the side, studying me with those big brown eyes. “Lucifer . . . come on. I was awful to you the last time I saw you, and we haven’t spoken in a month.”
“Doesn’t matter. You need something, you call me.” I press my thumb firmer into her skin, and she hisses. “At least until we’re divorced.”
“Counting down the days, are you?”
I don’t respond. That’s a loaded fucking question, because right now, I don’t want to divorce her. I want to carry her into my room, lay her across my bed, and make this marriage real in every sense of the word. The girl is fucking killing me, and she doesn’t even know it.
“Not going to answer? Okay,” she says. “I’ll just ask you something else.”
“You can ask me anything you want. Just know I hold judgment on whether or not I answer you.”
She rolls her eyes, but her lips curve slightly. “Such a badass.”
“Ask your question, Jess.”
“Okay.” She readjusts the strap of her dress, drawing my attention to her shoulder. I’d really like to give her a mark there too. “No one here knows about us, do they?”
I tear my gaze away from her shoulder. “You’re going to have to give me more than that.”
“I know Dread knows you married me, but the rest of the club doesn’t. Am I right?”
I pause, considering my answer carefully. The truth is, I’m not even sure why I’m keeping it a secret. In the beginning, I told myself I had a reputation to uphold. If my brothers knew how far gone I was for this girl, they’d lose all respect for me.
They needed a leader they could depend on.
One who put their needs before his own.
Not a president who was willing to deplete their reserves and take all their money so he could fix the girl he was obsessed with.
But the more this thing between us goes on, the more I think I’m keeping it to myself because I don’t want to share her with anyone. I like having something that’s all mine, even if it’s fake.
Even if it has an expiration date.
“No need for them to know,” I finally say.
“Because it’s not real?”
She says it so nonchalantly, and I hate how she can casually dismiss something that’s been consuming my every thought for weeks.
“Yeah, exactly.”
I stare at her, watching as something flickers across her face. For one foolish second, I let myself believe it’s disappointment, but then reality slams into me.
“How old are you?” she asks suddenly.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Where’d that come from?”
She shrugs. “Just curious.”
“Are you going to ask me what my favorite color is too?”
She bends her knee, wincing slightly as she nudges me with her foot.
“Maybe. I might even ask you more personal questions, like how old you were when you lost your virginity and how often do you masturbate.” I don’t know what kind of expression crosses my face, but she laughs at me, nudging me with her foot again. “Come on, tell me. You can’t be that old.”
“Thirty-five. Black. Fourteen. Twice a day.”
“Black isn’t a color, fourteen is young, and twice a day is impressive.”
I grin at her, and she returns the gesture, her cheeks flushing slightly.
“By the way, you’re practically ancient.” She straightens her leg, then brings the other one to my lap, settling it there as though we sit together like this every night. “I’m kidding. Age is nothing but a number, but I am curious about something else.”
“Of course, you are.”
“You’re thirty-five, and you’ve never been married before?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Marriage was never in the cards for me.”
“Because you don’t like the idea of being tied to one woman?”
I wouldn’t mind being tied to one woman at all, so long as it were her, but there’s no fucking way I’m telling her that.