37

Portia
“Do you ever just shut up?” he growls the question into my mouth before he kisses me so hard, all I can do is suck in his whiskey breath and feel his soft lips. “You shouldn’t have come down here,” he says, kissing me harder, pushing my pants down just far enough that they slip off my hips and pool around my ankles. “You’re going to make me do things you don’t want me to do.”
My eyelids fly open to find his eyes on me as he slips his hand between my legs and cups the crotch of my panties.
I gasp.
We stand there like that for a long minute just staring at each other. My hands rest on his chest but don’t push him away. He’s about an inch from my face, barely, and he looks fucked up. Not angry.
Something else. Just messed up.
“You shouldn’t have come down here,” he growls again.
“Let me go and I’ll go away.”
“Too late for that,” he pauses, his fingers moving a little. I haven’t had a woman in ten years.”
I swallow and push against him, knowing I won’t be able to budge him, still not sure I want to.
He moves his hand a little, sliding it up over my panties and to my belly. The pads of his fingers are rough against my skin. My hands curl around his shoulders but I’m not sure if it’s to hurt him, to get him off me, or what. But if I’m hurting the shoulder he dislocated, he doesn’t seem to care.
“Ten years,” he repeats. He slips his hand into the waistband of my panties and I gasp as his fingers curl into the little mound of hair there, then down.
Down to my sex. A sound comes from deep inside his chest.
Something animal.
“Callahan, ” I start, his name a breathy whisper.
“And what do I get?” He moves his fingers a little and my mouth falls open to take in a shallow breath. “A virgin.”
I swallow hard because his thumb is on my clit and two fingers are smearing my wetness onto me.
“A virgin when what I need is to fuck a whore.”
I gasp but when he takes my lower lip between his teeth, I close my eyes and let my head fall back.
He releases my lip and kisses my neck, leaving a trail of small bites to my ear.
“I’m going to make you scream,” he whispers.
I should stop him. Drag his arm off me. But his fingers are doing something to my clit that feels better than when I do it to myself. His hand is so big, the pads of his fingers rougher than my own fingers, and I’m already soaked.
Needy. So needy.
But then he pulls his hand out of my panties and steps back.
I stumble forward on an exhale of air I’d been holding. He catches me, sets his hands on the neck of my hoodie and in an instant, it’s off.
Ripped in two, sliding off my arms. “What – ”
I look down at the ruined top, then back at him.
He glances down at my breasts which are exposed now. I wasn’t wearing a bra. I’m a B-cup on a really, really good day and today isn’t one of those days. My first thought because I’m a dummy – is to wonder if he’s disappointed.
Although it’s not the first time he’s seen them, but that time was different. Very different.
I move to cover them, but he takes hold of my hands, bringing my arms to my sides and looks again. It’s a moment before he shifts his gaze back to my eyes, my mouth. He smears his fingers across my lips, and I taste myself. I should be outraged.
Humiliated.
“Open your mouth.”
I swallow.
“I said open your mouth.”
I lick my lips and do as he says. He pushes a finger into my mouth.
“Suck.”
I do. I have to.
His breathing is ragged, eyes dark. He tastes like me.
“Fuck, Portia.” He pulls his finger out and kisses me hard. There’s something urgent about the kiss.
Something possessive and hungry.
“I’m going to devour you,” he says, then draws back just a little, eyes on me as he crouches down. Placing one knee on the floor, I watch his dark hair as he peels my panties down, exposing me, taking the time to slide them all the way to the floor. His knuckles whisper along my skin before he helps me step out of them.
I feel exposed and shiver when he pushes two fingers of each hand into my triangle of hair then down to spread my lower lips.
He looks at me for a long, long time. I think about the ten years comment. Has he really not had a woman in that long? Is that normal for men?
“I smell you.”
I swallow. I’m wet. I feel it trickling down the inside of my thigh.
“I smell your want.”
When he closes his mouth over my clit, I lose the thread of my thoughts, only feeling his warm, wet mouth on me, his tongue licking me.
My hands move, one into his hair the other onto his shoulder. He pushes my legs wider and licks and sucks. I’m gasping for breath, moaning, my eyes cast down to watch him. When he takes my clit into his mouth, I’m undone. I come.
I come so fucking hard my knees give out and he has to hold me upright as he sucks harder.
I bite down on my own lip, cutting it. I taste that copper of blood and I realize that moaning, growing louder, is mine. Me. Blubbering words, calling for god. Calling him god. I don’t even know.
I just… my god. I’ve never felt like this before. Never come like this before. I’m bucking with it and all I can feel is him. On me. His hands.
His mouth. His tongue. Him.
I’m limp when it’s over, a whimper all I have left to give. He meets my eyes, holding onto me as I slide down to my knees. I stare up at him as he sets his other knee on the floor. His eyes, my god.
His eyes. They’re so beautiful even for the sadness ever present in that brilliant blue.
I think about what he said. How none of it will matter after he does what he has set out to do.
And I understand what it means and something inside my chest twists at the thought.
I touch his face. When he kisses me, I kiss him back and let him have my tongue.
He wraps a hand in my hair again and draws my head back, kisses my throat, bites the curve of my neck before facing me again.
“Take me out, Portia.” His voice is a growl.
I lick my lips, looking down at the crotch of his jeans, at the erection pushing against it. I fumble when I reach for him, undoing the button, the zipper, pushing his jeans and briefs down far enough to see him.
He’s big, Thick and throbbing, a vein pulsing.
I look up at him and he guides my hand. I close my fist and he squeezes his hand over mine so hard I’m sure it must hurt him.
“Fuck,” he starts, and I watch in awe as he pumps his cock once, twice, then stops to pull me close, to kiss me again, his cock at my belly, the tip wet on my skin. He kisses me as he guides himself between my legs and I draw in a breath when he rubs himself over my still-sensitive clit, between my wet folds.
“Oh, god.”
He looks at me then. We’re so close. AIl it would take would be the slightest shifting of position and we’d be even closer. He’d be inside me. I swallow hard, wanting it.
Wanting him to do it. Greedy in my desire to be closer. To feel him fill me. Greedy to come again. It’s the first time I’ve wanted a man like this. I never thought I’d want to be touched by a man again.
But then he makes a sound, a low groan followed by a curse. He draws back so abruptly, I startle, and the moment is gone. Poof. Just like that.
Like it never even was.
He stands, turning to tuck himself away.
I remain on my knees staring up at him and his look is pained when he looks down at me.
“You need to go upstairs,” he says, his tone on edge. Tight.
“Why?”
He looks me over again, shakes his head, walks back to his desk where his shirt carelessly hangs over the back of his chair. He takes it, tosses it to me.
“Get dressed. Go upstairs. Get out of here. Now.”
I pull the shirt on, feeling embarrassed. Unwanted.
I stumble to my feet and watch him tilt the bottle back to swallow the rest of the whiskey.
When he turns to me, his eyes are shuttered.
“Nathan’s already upstairs. You don’t go down to the cells again, understand?”
“He is?”
“Do you fucking understand?” he, asks, stepping toward me almost aggressively and forcing me to take a step back.
I nod quickly. I’m still afraid of this man. It’s a mistake to be anything but afraid. He’s holding on to his sanity by a very worn thread.
“What happened just now? I don’t understand.”
“Go upstairs, Portia. Please,” he says through gritted teeth.
I want to. I want to run out of here but he’s too close. Beyond him I see the pot of ink on the desk, a towel, what looks to be a homemade tattoo machine. I look at his chest, at his arm where the bloody streak was, and see the dark lettering. I don’t know if it’s too dark or just badly done, but I can’t read it.
He walks to an armoire and opens it, takes out a fresh bottle of whiskey and twists the lid off.
“Haven’t you had enough?” I ask. He turns to me, looking at me as he swallows three glugs out of the bottle.
“Go to bed, Portia. I mean it. I’m about this close to losing what little control I have left tonight.”
“What did you do?” I ask, pointing to the spot. “Did you add a name?”
He steps toward me, the bottle dangling in one hand at his side.
“Enemies crawl inside my house the way maggots crawl over a corpse.”
Hate punctures his words making the visual that much more terrible. It takes all I have not to back away from him.
“Where the fuck is Alec?” he barks, then opens the door and yells for him. But when he doesn’t come, he mutters a curse and loudly sets the bottle down on his desk, some of the whiskey splashing out.
He takes my arm roughly to march me out of his study and to the stairs.
“Let go!”
But he doesn’t let go. He drags me and when I stumble, he just keeps going, righting me as we take the stairs. Like he’s bringing an errant child up to her room.
“Let me go. You’re hurting me!”
“Remember it next time and do as I say,” he barks as we get to my borrowed bedroom. He opens the door. “In,” he says and deposits me inside.
“What did I do?” I cry out.
He opens his mouth as if to answer then shakes his head closing the door between us. Then, for the first time since he’s put me here, he locks me in.