Nine Ella
NINE
Ella
I can’t believe Justice Beathach just kissed me as I sit wrapped up in a blanket on his damn lap.
My lips sting and the rest of me heats to match.
This can’t be normal. His eyes glitter, steady and unreadable, and I keep looking because breaking the line feels worse than holding it. This is a disaster.
The way he carried me out of that hospital room keeps playing in my head.
He threw me over his shoulder. He’ll pay for that.
Even so, his grip stayed careful. He read every injury and moved like he refused to add another one.
The memory warms places I should lock down.
Truth be told, I feel good. Not safe. Not calm. Good.
I need time with a citrine. A big one. I want the pulse that comes with it, the clean push that sets my spine straight.
He doesn’t have one. I’d bet on that. I’ve never tried pulling from a garnet, and the idea sits wrong in my bones.
I shift to get leverage and brush across his erection.
A sound climbs my throat and I swallow it.
My breath comes back rough. Heat spikes through me again and my focus blurs, then snaps tight.
“I’d like to get off your lap now,” I say.
“No.”
The arrogance tugs at my temper. I tip my head back and lean away as far as he lets me. It isn’t far. He cradles me, one arm under my knees, the other across my back, and his body doesn’t give. I feel the strength in it, and self-preservation holds me in place when sense tells me to squirm.
“You don’t want to mess with me, Justice.”
He shows his teeth. The expression passes for a smile and does nothing for my nerves.
It feels unwise to remind him that I nearly killed his brother, so I lock that threat away.
I don’t think he’ll actually kill me. Alana is family now, and that draws a boundary I can use.
I don’t trust what he’ll try inside that boundary.
His scent closes around me. Male and warm, with a spice I can’t name. It slips under my caution and lingers. Another shiver runs through me, and I hate that he feels it. Something shifts in his eyes. They’re brown, deep as old wood, and threaded with lighter flecks that weren’t there a second ago.
I finally release my arms from the blanket wrap, and his arm tightens a fraction. He’s tracking every twitch. I match him breath for breath and refuse to give him the flinch he’s waiting for. I set my hands on his chest because there’s nowhere else to put them.
He leans in again. His nose nearly brushes mine.
A shudder rolls through me and it zaps straight to my clit. When God gives a man this face and this body, anyone would heat up. Maybe it isn’t God. Justice carries the flavor of the devil.
“Definitely,” he says.
Crap. I said that out loud. “Let me go.” I forget self-preservation and push against him, struggling for all I’m worth.
He lets me.
I don’t move. Damn it. Fury careens through me, and I punch him in the neck. The sound echoes around the car. I suck in a breath.
He casually, way too easily, captures my wrist, manacles it to my other wrist, and secures them at the back of my waist with one hand. The blanket falls down to my hips. “That wasn’t nice.”
“I’m not nice,” I gasp out.
His free hand wraps around the front of my throat, his thumb on one side and his fingers on the other. He tightens his grip. “It’s a good thing I don’t like nice.” With just that hold, he pulls me toward him, his mouth taking mine again.
Hard.
Fast.
Deep.
I can’t breathe. As his tongue slips between my lips, the taste of fine Irish whiskey fills me. He growls low, pushing me down to the left, his mouth brutal on mine. I fight to free my wrists, but his strength far outmatches mine. I thought he’d kissed me before.
Not like this.
There isn’t anything like this.
My mouth opens under his, and I take him in. Rough callouses brush my ribcage, and I jerk, realizing my hands are free.
He caresses up my ribcage, a hard press, and cups my breast.
I murmur a protest into his mouth, and he pulls at my nipple. Not hard. Not gentle, either. I gasp and my body takes over, pressing against him. Right against his cock, which seems to be trying to escape the confines of his pants.
He moves to the other breast, and the tug this time holds more pain.
Enough to shoot lightning through me and wetness from my core.
His chuckle into my mouth is dark. Filling me, taking over, just like the rest of him.
He releases my throat, and I have a second of relief, until he tangles those long fingers in my hair and jerks my head back, his mouth unrelenting as he takes from me. But the heat he gives, oh God, it’s all encompassing. Everywhere.
He isn’t gentle as he scrapes down my abdomen and slips his fingers into my panties.
I jolt, but he kisses me harder, stealing any sound I might’ve made. Then he’s inside me. One finger. Two. Then three. Stretching me. The need inside me is so great I can’t breathe.
A horn echoes. Somewhere.
I jolt, remembering the driver.
I push against his chest, maybe, but I remain locked in place. One hand in my hair, the other inside me. Those three fingers begin to move, in and out, showing no mercy.
I pant, kissing him back, knowing I shouldn’t. But my body is moving against him, with him, like it has its own goal. I know what it is. Damn it.
“We’re getting close, boss,” the driver says.
A roaring fills my head, and I push harder against Justice.
He bites my lip.
The sharp sting goes through me, somehow erotic. I moan.
“Then I’ll hurry,” he says against my lips, letting me breathe for a moment. I suck in oxygen, and his words penetrate. I pull in more air to protest, and he kisses me again, driving deep in rhythm with his fingers.
It’s too much. Live wires explode inside me. He scrapes his thumb across my clit, and I explode. The climax burns, careening across every nerve inside me. He releases my mouth just in time for me to cry out. Loudly.
I shut my eyes.
The waves take me and I ride them out, pressing my lips together to keep from crying out again. A small whimper still escapes. Finally, I come down, sagging against him.
He releases my hair and then my pussy, which protests and tries to grip him. “So this is how to gain your obedience.”
I blink and look up at him, my vision clouded. Heat spirals into my cheeks, and I can never look at that driver again. “I hate you.” My words slur.
“Then you’re gonna want me dead after I fuck you a couple of times.” He sounds almost cheerful. Then, keeping my gaze, he licks his fingers clean. “Delicious.”
I don’t have the energy to punch him again. “Gross. Just gross.” Yeah, I’m cradled against him, snuggled into him in a way I can’t afford. I can’t trust any man, anybody beyond Alana and Rosy, so this can’t happen. “I’m going to kill you slowly,” I mutter.
“Maybe we should go again.” He rubs his thumb across my bottom lip.
I tear my gaze from him and pretend to study the world outside of us.
It’s about two in the morning, the hour when downtown Palo Alto shows both polish and rot.
LEDs glow on glass towers, and a street sweeper sends water across broken cups and napkins.
A delivery bike runs a red light and vanishes.
A man sleeps under a silver survival blanket near a bench lit by a boutique’s sign.
The city throws sparks and shadows in equal measure, and our car swims through both.
I mark the route. University. Ramona. Bryant. We slip past late offices with screens still on and cafes that never close. The air inside the car holds whiskey, leather, and him. My pulse won’t settle. “Where are we going?” I whisper.
He turns his head so close that his breath warms my mouth.
“Wherever I want.” He leans toward the front and speaks to the driver in Gaelic while his hand settles at my waist. The cadence is sharp and quick.
Alana taught me enough to recognize the language, not enough to pull meaning from the words.
I track the driver’s small nod and the way his grip tightens on the wheel. We avoid each other’s gazes.
We keep moving toward the city center, which argues against a body dump, at least for now. I’m sure he’d bury me out in the middle of nowhere if he wanted me dead. Right now, anyway.
Wait a minute? Why would we head into town? “Are we going to Malice Media?”
He ignores the question but still holds me tight. Heating me.
Movement erupts at the edge of my vision as two black SUVs barrel out of opposite alleys and box our lane. Our driver swears and cuts for the curb, and the grille of a Mack truck fills the street ahead, dead center. Brakes slam. My stomach flips and I yelp before I can stop it.
Justice pulls me tight and locks my hips to his chest, then lifts his chin toward the front.
“Go back,” he orders. The driver throws the car into reverse and hammers the pedal.
The car jerks hard and surges backward, tires screaming while the lane opens for half a block.
A second Mack rolls out behind us and drops its broad nose into our path, killing the escape.
The driver stabs the brakes, and the chassis shudders under me.
I twist enough to see past Justice’s shoulder. The driver shouts a string I can’t interpret and slaps the horn while he checks both mirrors. Sweat beads at his temple. His breath rasps. “Punching in a 911 to the men,” he mutters, tapping against the dash.
Justice stays calm and holds me steady against him. His heartbeat presses against my shoulder in a slow, fixed rhythm. I push closer because my body wants the steadiness, and I hate that I need reassurance from him. My hands grip his shirt to anchor myself.