Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (38 page)

The tee shirt
stretched thin over his chest, and the cut fell away. The black angry ink
etched into his flesh stained through the white cotton. I brushed my hand along
his shoulder. He didn’t push me away, but his hand fell against the leather of
the couch before he dared to touch me.

I didn’t expect
anything from him. A million shameful moments ruined me before he even thought
of me as anything but his best friends’ younger sister. I wondered how he
looked at me now.

“I’m sorry I
didn’t tell you,” I said.

He hesitated. “I
understand why.”

“I am sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.
You go through all that shit, and I make you suffer more.” He met my gaze. “I
can’t let Brew go.”

“He doesn’t want
to leave. I think I crushed them.”

Thorne’s hand
curled into a fist. He still didn’t touch me. “It isn’t your fault. None of that
is your fault.”

“I had to tell
them.”

“I know.”

“They would have
let him out of jail.”

“I wish they
would.” Thorne’s jaw tensed. “I’d kill him myself.”

“And Anathema
would rip itself into chaos.”

“They’d
understand.”

Thorne was
smarter than that, but his rage wasn’t. I shook my head.

“When I was a
kid my mother filed charges on my father for knocking her down the stairs. The
next day my father and two of his crew took turns throwing her down the
basement steps and threatened her with a baseball bat until she climbed back up.
She withdrew the charges from the hospital. Brew had to take me in for a week
while she recovered.” I didn’t let the bitterness sharpen my voice. Mom
convinced Brew she was clumsy. That it was better for her to be the klutz than
me. “Dad got her heavy into drugs after that. Two years later she was dead. Believe
me. You can’t touch my father. Not even now.”

“Anathema is a
different club now.”

“But the rules
are still the same. You can’t kill my father. You’d become the traitor. There
wouldn’t be a safe place in the city for you.”

“So fucking what?”
He meant it. “I want you safe. I don’t care whose blood I have to spill to do
it.”

“I am safe with
you.” That truth came easily. “I should have felt that way with my brothers. I
never did. And it wasn’t their fault. I treated them horribly because I was too
afraid to tell them the truth. And I was too afraid to tell you the truth.”

“I don’t want
you to be afraid of me.”

I leaned
forward, brushing my fingers over the dark stubble on his jaw. He stilled, grabbing
the couch to keep from touching me. I didn’t have anything to prevent me from
moving.

Gently, as if I
hadn’t done it before, I brushed my lips against his and savored the sweetest,
kindest kiss of my life.

“I should have told
you,” I whispered. Thorne reached for me, his hands guiding my hips until I
nestled deeper into his lap. I broke the kiss only as I folded my leg opposite
his and straddled the heat of his body. “You deserved to know.”

“Don’t worry
about it.”

“I said I was a
virgin.”

“You were, and
don’t ever fucking think otherwise.” He brushed a hand through my hair. “I
shouldn’t be doing this to you. Touching you. Kissing you. Wanting you.”

“I need that. My
entire life I was ashamed and frightened of what happened to me.”

“You never have to
be ashamed or scared.”

“I’m not. Not
with you.” Our lips met again. The music of the club, the closeness of the
office, the panic and desperation and fear faded away. The simple pleasure
shielded me from everything, and it was the greatest gift I ever received in my
life. “I didn’t know I could feel this way. Safe and protected and desired.”

Thorne’s
calloused hand cupped my cheek. He brushed his thumb along my lip. I kissed it,
and he sighed, closing his eyes and swearing a soft profanity.

“I’m not good
for you, Rose. I was using you. I was obsessed with finding the traitor, and I
didn’t care who I hurt to get what I needed.”

“I want to be
with you.”

“You say that
now.”

“I’ll say that
always.”

His voice
rumbled through me, a perfect baritone, a masterful cadence, and a warmth I
envied for my own songs. I closed my eyes as he brushed my lips. I wouldn’t let
his kiss be a goodbye. Not when every passion within me had finally come to
life.

“I’ll never be
out of the club,” he said. “Not until they draw the chalk outline around my
body. That’s the life. And it’s not for you.”

Like I knew
anything different. I shrugged. “That life scares me, but I don’t want to leave
you or my brothers. I blamed Anathema for everything dark and twisted in my
life. I blamed Brew and Keep. I blamed you. But running away won’t save me.” I
kissed him again, my words murmured over his lips. “You will.”

“Just tell me
what you need.”

“You.”

He groaned. “You
have no idea what you’re asking.”

I kissed him
again, parting my lips in invitation. “I need to feel safe.”

“I can’t protect
you without spilling blood.”

His tongue
flicked against mine. Sweet, despite the terror of his words. The thrill of his
kiss quieted the roar of memory in my mind. He struck me in the present. Bolted
me without music or instruments, notes or songs, to the real world, where his
touch rendered my body into shivers and his kiss teased like jazz upon my lips.
I wanted his safety. I wanted his touch. I wanted everything he could offer.

And I’d give him
everything he wanted in return. Not because I was scared. Not because I was
forced.

But because he
was Thorne. Handsome and sexy, dark and dangerous, as seductive as thick bass
and a tapping snare and more powerful than even the worst nightmares that
prevented me from touching another man, kissing another man, and offering my
pleasure to another man.

His fingers
unhooked the button of my jeans.

It wasn’t
surrender.

It was perfect.

“We’re in
Sorceress,” he warned.

“We might not
make it back home.”

“Don’t talk like
that.”

“Don’t take that
chance.”

I moved his
hands lower.

Anathema didn’t appreciate
sonnets. The club ignored poetry and song. Thorne needed a gun more than a
guitar and a willing woman more than the burden of responsibility. He kissed,
he touched, he tasted, and he took, and I offered him every last imperfection I
hid if only to cleanse the secrets I carried. I needed the music and the beauty.
He needed the rush and the conquering. The heat blushing my body promised it
all.

The night
offered moments of passion, echoes of pain, and the threat of violence. Everything
he said and everywhere he touched would be lost in the flash of a bullet
escaping a chamber. I didn’t know how much time we had, but, together, pressed
against his lips, desperate for his grip, aching for his hardness, a single moment
tangled with his strength would protect me for an eternity against the truth of
what awaited us.

I tugged my
jeans from my hips. Thorne forced my panties over my bared legs, trembling with
goose bumps. Our kiss broke only so he could free himself from the tightness of
his pants. I didn’t wait. Couldn’t wait. In his presence, caught within his
arms, trapped in his battlefield power and authority and conquest, my passion
bound me in desperation.

I didn’t let him
guide his length within me. I didn’t think I ever would. Not when I had so much
to learn. So much to feel. The confidence and the pleasure and the intimacy of
accepting a part of him, a part of the man who fluttered my heart, twisted my
stomach, and wetted my slit teased me like the fading remnants of a beautiful
dream. I needed to take him. My body craved the feel of him. I sunk down onto his
length under my own power, with my own determination, my own undeniable
wanting.

He offered me that
moment of control. Allowed me to move as I wished, to take what I wanted, and
to experience every pleasure stolen from me. He might have protested or fought.
Demanded his own satisfaction.

Instead he
hissed my name, swore a quiet oath, and shuddered as our shared passion rolled
from me through him.

In that moment,
I fell in love with him.

Even if I knew
what would happen the instant our bodies parted and the weapons loaded.

His hands
tightened around my waist. I tucked in his lap, tiny and fragile. I wielded the
power over him with every press of my hips. The motion rendered the most dangerous
man I ever met into the passionate lover who wanted only another kiss, another
sigh, another tease of tightness that rewarded his good behavior. Thorne wasn’t
a man to be dominated. And with his thickness impaling my most vulnerable core,
I couldn’t pretend I controlled him.

The heat bundled
within me. My muscles ached and my breath trembled. My every whimper uttered
over his name, again and again, as the invasion of his body into mine rewarded
me with pleasure and conquered the dark and terrible panic that lingered just
beyond my rationality. Part of me would always fear this. Part of me had
already forgotten.

“I never thought
I’d want this,” I whispered. Just the sound of my voice drew a shudder from Thorne.
“
You
make me want this.”

“Glad to be of
service.”

“I’m serious.”

Thorne shifted.
His hips pressed upwards, deeper. The breath escaped from my parted lips. The
other times Thorne took me, I had surrendered to passion. The amazement
resonating from such a long ignored and forsaken desire overwhelmed me. The
freedom to feel and revel and the simple delight of a lover’s touch blinded me
to everything but my own lust.

Thorne confessed
he had used me to learn about my brothers. My confession wasn’t any better. I took
pleasure from him, experienced the brunt of his animalistic intentions, and
selfishly, unabashedly used him. I learned how to touch, taste, and accept, but
I hadn’t learned how to love.

He didn’t
understand how desperately I needed him. The rush of his kiss, the possession
of his touch. The fear passed only because his passion overruled it. My
pleasure burst within me only because his desire created it.

I had the
courage to do what other women had done for him in the past. My motions wound
only tiny movements over his hips. Just feeling. I explored how every inch of
him fit within me. It wasn’t gentle or delicate. But I didn’t need a soft
touch. I wanted Thorne. All of him. The hands that prevented my escape. The
kiss that muffled my groans. And the cock the claimed me as his and his alone.

His was a
perfect possession.

His grip
tightened over my hips. I was probably teasing him. I doubted a man like Thorne
ever experienced anything like that before. The curiosity of the woman sealed
around him. The breathless longing of a lover who didn’t understand why such uncompromising
penetration felt so perfect. The inexperienced motions of a lost virgin fucked,
abused, and rescued.

I offered him
myself, and I’d make sure we would never go unsatisfied.

I moved faster,
raised my hips higher, and Thorne’s triumphant kiss satisfied both of us. The
rapid, desperate coupling did nothing to ease our need. Too many layers of
clothing separated us, and we had too little time to explore the pleasure.

But I didn’t know
how much romance to expect with Anathema. Thorne didn’t make love. A man like
him hardly controlled his need to push his hips and impale. He growled as my
body submitted, yielded, and trembled over of the widest part of him.

Even if Exorcist
hadn’t threatened us, our passion wasn’t born of champagne and roses. Bullet
casings, pain, and fear forged our shared pleasure. That was Anathema. That was
Thorne.

It was all I ever
needed.

I bucked against
him. I let his hands lift me only to slam me back down and accept the wild,
brutal force of his lust. Each unrepentant thrust demanded my pleasure, and
every moment of fullness my body accepted clenched him with my own demands. I
needed him. Just as much as he needed the club. Just as much as he needed the
road. Just as much as he needed me.

I crashed
against his body as his grip tightened to bruise. He held me like I might’ve
escaped. Even if I might have wiggled from his strength I would only have
fallen closer to him. My breath pitched in beautiful, prophetic gasp. This
time, I didn’t take. I allowed him to give. I ground against his thickness and
whimpered as the force of his body and the heat of his hardened cock imprisoned
me more than any binding on my wrist or weapon against my temple.

I didn’t fight.
I didn’t demand. I
trusted
. My pleasure struck as I rose up, and my thoughts
fractured into concentrated, frazzled, helpless verse when Thorne drove me
down. The rush of masculine heat slickened my core. My body ached in delirious
warmth with every subsequent pounding. His conquest jetted within me, and I
quaked in my own triumph.