All traces of indecision left her face, and she looked purely turned on—that bright-red flush she got high and dark on her cheeks. “Oh, kinky,” she whispered. “I’ll have my wicked way with you.”
“Doesn’t feel quite right without the fluorescent lighting,” Clay said. He was actually joking, which was a miracle, considering he was fucking tied up—which maybe hadn’t been the best idea after all, considering the way he responded to feeling trapped. He went on, “And that sexy paper sticking to my back.”
“Okay, so what do you want me to—”
“You could open up that package for starters.”
With a nod, she knelt above him, grasped the condom, fumbled it, dropped it on the bedspread, and reached for it again before letting her head fall forward through a couple of deep breaths. Then she lifted up to look him straight in the eye. “I’m in charge.”
Clay hesitated, then gave a quick nod. “You’re the boss.”
“I want to touch you.”
Feeling like he’d already crossed over to that place he’d gone when she’d touched him in her office, he said, “Do it.”
“What happens when I touch you, Clay? What do you feel? Does it hurt?”
A flash: leaning over the back of the chair at the Sultans’ clubhouse, the medicinal ink stink strong in his nostrils, thankfully beating out the usual smells of beer and puke and piss. The wild beat of thrash metal hot in his ears, overlaid by the buzzing of the tattoo machine. It was the moment he’d waited for, the milestone he’d worked so hard toward—he was in. And he was proving it by letting that fucker ink their goddamned blazon on his back. Around him, guys laughed and went about their business, but inside, Clay had felt every prick of the filthy needle like splinters in his soul, the ink a poison he’d never get rid of. This was it. This hellfire and damnation spread across his skin, thinner than body armor, but ten times more effective.
Somewhere close by, a softer touch, incongruously layered onto the ugly memory. Caresses along his arms, his shoulders, and he struggled, the memory slipping into another one—the stink of decay, the buzz of flies, Kathy’s dead eyes and—
“Clay,” said a voice in his ear, clear and strong and clean. There came a press of warm lips to his face, his neck, his shoulder and chest. A tongue painting a stripe along his abdomen, warm breath on his cock. Fuck, one of the club hangers-on. He didn’t want to, because Carly, Carly had been like this, and her memory—
“It’s okay, Clay.” A soft, soft cheek close to his, lips tender and hot against his ear, a whisper. “It’s okay, love.”
Feminine flesh against him, beside him. Nothing weighing him down. His breath came easier. Humming, fingers trailing. “This is for Carly, isn’t it? Mercy,” the voice asked as perfectly cool palms trailed lightly over his stubbled, scabbed-up chest. Her palms. George, who had the softest touch he’d ever felt. The only woman who’d ever gotten this far under his skin. He wanted her there.
He wanted her here and wanted to be here with her.
A light tweak to his nipple drove goose bumps skittering along his body and brought him back to the room. He could feel it in his balls and all the way to his toes.
“And this. It’s about vengeance. I’ve seen these before,” she said as her breast slid along his side, her nails running a trail down his arm, over the plastic at his wrists, to grasp his hand. She was so small, her fingers fragile, bones so easy to break. So fucking vulnerable.
A groan escaped Clay’s mouth, and he recognized it for pleasure rather than the pain he’d been channeling from memories long gone.
His hips lifted unconsciously, showing her how hard he was.
“Hurts,” he muttered.
She stilled. “Should I stop?”
“God no. Just…go lower. Please.”
Her voice was sultry when she chuckled and slid down his body, let her breath heat his dick even more, made him feel like he’d bust something if she didn’t take him in—her mouth, her body, her palm; he didn’t care.
“Fuck me, George. Please,” he begged, and this time, she gave him something—her hand—a crumb. Just barely enough to tide him over.
* * *
Clay’s body was a war zone. She knew that. She’d known it the first time he’d come to see her, but…seeing him like this, arms tied together in front of him, the rest of him splayed out, open and exposed, George felt so many things for him. He was beautiful in his pain, his vulnerability, and she wanted to hold that, to savor it, to protect it. Such a strange notion from someone who was half the man’s size.
She caught his mouth in a kiss, deep, obscene, and openmouthed. The kind of kiss she remembered from high school, the kind fueled by hormones and youthful excitement, illicit desires she hadn’t even begun to understand.
Clay augmented her frenzy with his own, punctuated with dirty, little, helpless sounds that made her even hotter.
“Put the condom on me, Georgette,” he said. Her blood grew thick, heavy, and she was wet with wanting the man. She ignored him, enjoying the power, liking how in charge she felt, and wanting to abuse her position, just a little. Just to help him forget.
With a nudge, she bent his arms up, hands clasped as if in prayer. She lifted a leg and straddled his long, thick body, the condom crinkling loudly beneath her knee. Wasn’t this what being in charge was about? Making it last, relishing the feel of him? Torturing him in the best possible way? Letting her eyes take in his tragic beauty, one follicle, one pore at a time?
