1. Lily
1
LILY
Four and a half years later
I ’m reaching the point in my cross-stitch where I want to throw in the towel. With my propensity to skip around the pattern to stitch the same colour all at once, I always find that I’ve miscounted when I go back to fill in the more unique colours. My sloppiness irritates me, the need to rework parts feels like an indictment of my incompetence. Of course, it doesn’t help that I can hear Serena’s voice in my head, chiding me for my impatience, every time I have to redo a section.
Serena Abaddon is the oldest club princess from the Black Shamrocks MC Philadelphia chapter, and after her visit to Australia for my eighteenth birthday, we fell into the habit of sending each other pieces of handcrafted, one-of-a-kind, adult art.
And by adult art, I mean cocks.
Embroidered cocks.
Watercolour cocks.
Knitted cocks.
Clay cocks.
My mother started the Moscato and Monet club for the old ladies back before I was born, and I kept it going after she died. When I introduced the American old ladies to the club during their Australian trip, we stuck to watercolour, paint-by-number pieces that I sourced from an online adult superstore. Serena is the one who took the original incarnation of the old ladies’ club global and started the competition to see who could create the most unique piece of cock art.
She won our last battle with a hand-painted ceramic tea kettle that had a, shall we say, unusually decorated, spout. It was a housewarming present sent to Zeke and me, one that had us laughing at six in the morning when I poured a cup of tea without realising what the pattern looked like when it was tipped on an angle until it was too late.
My creation is a collage of dicks—circumcised and uncircumcised; flaccid, hard, and ejaculating. The design is being stitched to a piece of satin that another club princess, Ziva, is going to glue to Serena’s graduation cap for me. They will film the presentation of the mortarboard for me, so I can revel in my win, even though Serena is likely to wear it with pride, since that’s just the type of girl she is.
Totally unflappable.
Perfectly poised.
The opposite of me.
“Now I just need to get it finished in time,” I grumble to myself.
On the muted television that’s lighting up the early morning dawn, Klaus Michaelson expertly dispatches someone who’s displeased him. Most likely a family member—which is an inclination I find myself battling more and more as my brothers get older. I allow my gaze to drift from my cross-stitch to the screen a second before the piece of satin is gently snatched out of my grasp and I’m pushed backward on the couch.
“Good mornin’, metukà shelì ,” my fiancé tells me in a growly voice as he pins my arms over my head. Above me, Zeke’s hungry gaze roams my face. His pupils contract, his multi-coloured irises take on a lusty light. He bites down on his full bottom lip, shaking his head. “Fuck you’re beautiful.”
It’s more than five years since Alex raped and beat me, yet I still can’t accept compliments without hearing his voice in my head adding his commentary. Informing me how unworthy I am. Calling me a Jezebel. Telling me that he’ll always be in me. Reminding me how easy it is for men to deceive.
The smile that I offer Zeke is genuine.
It’s also a lie.
He makes me feel beautiful.
It’s my mind that tells me I’m ugly.
“Yeah,” I say as I strain against his grip. In an effort to drown out Alex’s voice, I use one of the distraction techniques my therapist taught me. “Does that mean you’ll bow down before me?” Lifting my head as far as I can, I nip at his lightly bearded chin with my teeth. “After all, you’re the one who tells me beauty like mine deserves to be worshipped.”
“Like this?” Zeke uses his free hand to slide the hem of the t-shirt I’m wearing toward my collarbones. Once my upper body is exposed, he dips his head and the longer tresses of his bronze-brown hair flop forward over his forehead. He twirls his tongue around my left nipple. The sensitive flesh tightens, my skin electrifying when he runs his tongue across the valley of my cleavage to lavish attention on my right breast. “Is that the kinda worshippin’ you want, sweet thing?”
“It’s a good start.” Zeke chuckles at my breathy tone. “But I’m sure a talented man like you can do better.”
“Better, she says,” my fiancé teases me with a smirk. “That sounds like a challenge, Lil. And you know I never back down from a challenge.”
Lowering my gaze, I regard him through my eyelashes. “You have fifteen minutes before I need to be in the shower. Gabriel’s called an early meeting.”
“A challenge with a time limit. Looks like my woman’s really layin’ down the gauntlet this mornin’.”
Before I can respond, Zeke is moving above me. He makes quick work of securing my hands over my head with the t-shirt that I stole from the back of the chair he uses as a half-way house for his clothing before they’re dirty enough to be added to the laundry hamper. The panties I’m wearing are ripped at the waistband, then tied around my ankles, and he has my arse in his hands as he pulls me to the edge of the couch.
“Zeke?” I hate the fear in my voice. The same terror that I know he can see in my face. “I don’t know if?—”
“Keep your eyes on me.” The take-no-prisoners tone he invokes is exactly what I need. “Trust me, metukà shelì … I’ll take care of you.”
His Hebrew endearment makes my heart race even faster.
Being Zeke’s little sweetheart is my favourite role in life.
“I know.”
His eyes narrow when I hesitate.
My bomb-proof man never looks unsure of himself—especially when it comes to dealing with me and my trauma-induced quirks. Today, though, his throat works as he peers down at me with a strange glint in his eyes. It takes me a second to decipher his expression, but when I do, my heart sinks.
I’ve made him uncertain.
“Say it again, sweet thing. Tell me you trust me like you trust no one else.”
“I trust you, Zeke.”
This time, my answer is immediate. I don’t hesitate, responding in a breathy rush, not because I’m trying to hide the truth that my faith in him has wavered—it hasn’t—but to show him that I have complete confidence in his ability to protect me.
It’s me I don’t trust.
My mind.
My choices.
My thoughts.
Destroyed. Dangerous. Disgraced.
What if I make a bad decision that puts Zeke at risk this time?
“Eyes on mine.” Zeke’s demand shatters the shame spiral I’m caught in. His fingers bite into the soft flesh on the inside of my thighs as he pushes my legs open. Exposed to the morning air and his ravenous gaze, I squirm. It’s too intense. Being bare before the man I love. Exposed to our emotional connection. Trapped by the trust, I promised him. “Let me worship, Lily. Let me show you exactly how much I love ya, sweet thing.”
Unarmed, naked, and on his knees before me, Zeke is as vulnerable as I am. It’s rare to see him without his cut and at least one weapon strapped to his body or within reach. His lack of defence soothes me. Reminds me that our trust goes two ways. I’m the only person he reveals his full self to, he’s the only person I allow to see my brokenness, which helps me shake off Alex’s poison to concentrate on the man who would literally kill for me.
When Zeke dips his head to press the flattened tip of his tongue to my clit, my hips jerk, my butt lifts from the couch. His grip on my thighs tightens, holding me in place, forcing me to accept every touch. Lapping at me with his tongue, working me over with dedication, the powerful man kneeling between my legs trails his fingertips over my skin. He tap-dances along my hip bones, runs his palms over my abdomen to cradle the underside of my breasts.
All the while, his tongue doesn’t stop moving.
He licks my clit, making shapes that curl my toes.
He spears my entrance, and I jolt at the sensation.
When Zeke’s thumbs flick over my nipples, I curl upright. His big tattoo-covered body stops me from moving, my arms caught in the knotted t-shirt, my ankles bound by my tattered panties. After he nips at my clit with his teeth, one tattooed hand drops between my thighs. A light spanking of my clit is the only warning I get before two fingers are pushed inside my overstimulated body. My walls clamp down on his fingers, the telltale tingle of an impending orgasm building in my lower belly.
“That’s right, sweet thing. Keep your eyes on me,” Zeke croons. His breath is warm where it flows over my sensitive flesh. He pumps his fingers faster. I arch my back as my thighs start to tremble. “Yeah, Lily. There ya go. You’re gonna come. Aren’t ya, sweet thing?”
“Zeke,” I whimper his name as he drives me toward the abyss. “God.”
“Come on, Cherub, you’re almost there.” My walls spasm, gripping his fingers tight as my hips move of their own volition. The rhythm of his thrusting hand gains tempo. I throw my head back as far as I can, moaning when Zeke tweaks one of my nipples and hums over my clit. “That’s right, sweet thing. Ride that wave. Come on my hand.” The sounds I make as I tumble over the edge of blossoming bliss into ecstasy would be embarrassing if I was conscious of them. “Good girl, Lil. So beautiful. Flushed and needin’ a hard fuck… after I make you come again, that is.”
Before I can come back down to earth, Zeke frees my limbs, then sweeps me from the couch and tosses me over his shoulder. He carries me through our living room, down the long hall, and into our bedroom. I expect to be thrown onto the bed and covered with his body, but he keeps moving. The sound of the shower being turned on is the only clue I have to the location of my promised second orgasm before Zeke steps under the waterfall and then I’m lowered to my feet.
“Gonna fuck you now, sweet thing.”
Trapped between Zeke’s body and the cold tiled wall at my back, I smile. Pressing my palms to his cheeks, I pillow my breasts against his chest and plaster my body to his. I make him angle his face so I can kiss his forehead, then I press my lips to Zeke’s.
“I love you.” After running my teeth over his bottom lip, I kiss him a second time. “To the moon and back.”
“Fuck the moon, metukà shelì . I love you to Neptune and back.” He grins at me. “It’s the furthest planet from earth.”
“You got that little fact from Hunter, didn’t you?”
The humour in Zeke’s gaze doesn’t match the faux urgency in his voice when he tells me, “Never wanna hear you mention that little shit when I’m about to put my dick in you.”
“I’m getting dick, am I?” I tilt my head to the side, then slide my hand between our bodies. “This dick?”
“This dick,” Zeke responds, tipping his head back when I work him up and down with my hand. “Definitely this dick, only ever this dick, sweet thing.”
My teeth are cruel as I nip at the cords in his neck and the soft skin above his collar bone. My grip on his hard length increases, my thumb brushing the sensitive underside of his circumcised head on each up stroke. I jack him off with longer pumps, edging him in the way he hates to love. When I lick my way along his collarbone, from his shoulder to the notch at the base of his throat, Zeke growls. I slow down my ministrations, lowering my head to press a kiss to the tattoo of my name where it sits right over his heart, then I catch his pierced left nipple between my teeth and tug hard.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
“You ready to fuck?” I ask with amusement when his hips buck as I jack him off. “Or would you rather come on me?”
“Sweet thing.” Zeke knocks my hand away. His fingertips, each knuckle inked with a letter that spells out GOOD NITE when he holds his fists together, bite into my hips when he turns me around and kicks my feet apart. I don’t have time to catch myself against the wall before he has the head of his cock notched at the entrance of my pussy. “Gonna fuck you so hard you see stars.”
And with one swift pump of his hips, he makes good on that promise.
It’s hard.
It’s fast.
It’s wet.
It’s savage.
It’s perfect.
“Zeke. Zeke. Zeke ,” I cry out his name as another climax ratchets its way through my body. Neon colours burst in my vision when I screw my eyes shut to ride out the waves of oblivion. “God. Yes. Fuck.”
His hand snakes up to cup my throat and he pulls my head back to rest on his shoulder. “Good girl. Grip me with that tight cunt while I fill you.” The staccato pumps of his hips punctuate his words as he reaches his own orgasm. “Fuckin’ hell, sweet thing. Love the way you take every inch of me.”
Once he’s caught his breath, he kisses me until I’m panting, then turns me so I’m under the water. My grin is wide when he leaves me alone to finish my shower. Conscious of the time, and cognisant that missing an early meeting with Gabriel would be career suicide at this point, I hurry through my morning routine at warp speed. Once I’m dressed in a pencil skirt and silky shirt, and my damp hair is gathered into a knot on the top of my head, I stagger past Zeke. With my handbag slung over my shoulder and one of my heels in my hand while I attempt to slide my foot into the other, I’m a flustered mess.
Zeke bites back a smirk as he butters toast.
I narrow my eyes, daring him to laugh.
Smart man that he is, my fiancé chooses to humour me.
“Here you go, sweet thing. Ladies first…”
I snatch the piece of Vegemite toast Zeke hands me, clamping it between my teeth as I lean against the wall to put my other shoe on. My man grins at me over the top of his coffee mug while I swallow down my breakfast with the least amount of chewing possible. Once Zeke has exchanged my uneaten crust for a travel mug of coffee, I stop to take him in. He’s almost dressed for the day, sporting his usual black jeans, Shamrocks t-shirt, and boots.
Looks like he has club business today.
“Don’t you need your laptop?” he asks while I eat him up with my gaze. After I nod, Zeke tosses his cut onto the kitchen table next to me, then passes me a second piece of toast. “I’ll grab it while you eat.
His carelessness has caused an envelope to slide out of the inner pocket of his leather cut. At the sight of the familiar handwriting, I recoil from the missive like it’s a bomb. My entire body shakes as I grab the pen I unconsciously tucked behind my ear as I got ready and use it to push the envelope back into the worn Black Shamrocks MC vest.
I can’t bear to touch it, not knowing that he’s infected it.
If I was brave, I’d tell Zeke that I know Alex still writes to me.
But I’m not brave.
And I don’t want to be brave.
Not yet… at least.
So, my fiancé can continue to intercept Alex’s poisonous missives and I’ll pretend that I have no clue that my monster still hunts me. It might be the coward’s way out. It might even backfire in the long run. I don’t care right now, because I understand Zeke’s choice to keep the letters from me. I understand his need to protect me from the things he can control. Because we still have over a year before Alex is free. More than seventeen months to create a plan. More than a year to get brave. More than enough time to ensure that when he comes for me, I’ll have an army at my back.
Because I know I can’t beat him alone.
I also know that Zeke can’t take him on without me at his side.
Alex is too smart.
Too dangerous.
Too desperate.
He’s been defeated once… that means he won’t underestimate us when the next round in our war commences.