I pull back just enough, fist my cock once, twice–hard, punishing strokes–and come with a guttural groan, ropes of hot cum striping across her lower belly, painting her skin, marking her without ever getting inside.
The orgasm rips through me, brutal and blinding, leaving me shaking over her. When the fog finally lifts, I stare down at what I almost did—at the tender flesh I could have easily snapped with mybare hands. I step back, chest heaving, truth creeping. I almost didn’t stop. If he hadn’t spoken…
The speaker crackles once more, the King’s voice softer now, almost satisfied.
“You both did good.”
Good.
But when our eyes meet–hers still glassy, mine raw and exposed–we both know the truth.
It was close.
Too fucking close.
17
Damon
The engineof Slade and Jace’s borrowed Charger rumbles low as I cut through the city, no destination, just motion. West End fades behind me, and I find myself on the outskirts of campus, slowing when I get to the spot Arianette spoke about–the spot right outside of her dance class, and try to envision it. The late summer afternoon. The crowded sidewalk. Arianette, with her hair piled up on top of her head, skin warm from dance. One of those tight little leotards clinging to her body. In my mind, she looks small. Young. More naïve than she is now. It’s before everything she went through. The kidnapping. The time locked away. Her escape and near death.
Before everything with us.
I sit for a long minute, the car idling as I stare at the sidewalk, willing the answers to appear.
Whotook Arianette?
Wheredid they take her?
Andwhy? Why would they take her and the others in the first place?
There’s been no ransom. No indicators that it’s a sexual predator. No gory bloodbath like the Forsyth Carver. What’s the point? Is it all just a game?
With no answers, I shift the car into gear and peel off, tires burning on the pavement. The fresh tattoo throbs over my eye, and the conversation with Remy rings in my head. Maybe I’d know the answer to those questions if I hadn’t been tossed from the room. But I’m not used to tiptoeing around people like this. I’m a die-hard loner. Independent to my core, but he’s right. I branded myself in the most visible place on my body. My dick keeps getting hard over a girl who is nothing but a bundle of trauma and obligation.
Fuck. I feel like I’m going crazy.
I don’t slow down until I cross from one territory to the next. Unlike the fairytales told to us as kids, the streets of East End aren’t painted gold. Every territory has its blight. East End’s is called the Stacks.
I turn down the narrow street toward the three and four-story multi-family housing, where the people who do the grunt work in East End live stacked on top of one another. I drive up to the two men standing at the entrance, acting as guards.Acting,because there are no official guards here. What’s there to protect? Third-hand couches and busted TVs? These men are self-appointed, monitoring who comes in and out. Keeping track of the Scratch, guns, and other Forsyth inventory running in and out of the Stacks.
I ease the car to the checkpoint and roll down the window. The guard closest to me steps forward, and his mouth quirks up when he sees me. “Kemp. Long time, buddy.”
“Titus.” I nod at him and out the window at the second guy. His name is Pike. They’re a decade older than me and have been working this spot for years, trying to pretend like they’ve got some authority. “How’s it been?”
“Good,” he straightens up, looking around the Stacks like it’s his version of the Purple Palace. “Just holding down the fort.”
I don’t miss how his eyes flick to the tattoo over my eyebrow. It’s covered in plastic to keep germs out of the fresh wound, but I can sense when he realizes what it says.
What it means.
“You here on business?” I hear the edge in his voice.
“Nah, just came down to check in.”
“Gotcha.” His shoulders relax. He steps back and pats the roof of the car. “Try the Side Pocket.”
I nod again, understanding his meaning. “Thanks.”
