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“Okay, it’s rock, paper, scissors, then throw your sign on shoot, got it?” I ask, narrowing my eyes on the two prospects. They all shuck their jackets off, getting ready for a fight to the…bed?
Is it bad that I actually want to lose so I can bunk with her?
Chapter Sixteen
Leather
Holy shit. They are not joking. I swear my face is bright red as I watch them duke it out in the age old game. Pulling out my phone, I hold it up to take a video of the group. Four burly men, guys who are considered deadly…are playing children’s hand games.
“Fuck!” A deep roar shouts. “Best two out of three.” Looking past the phone, I catch Tornado pouting like a schoolgirl.
“Nah, dude. You agreed to death first.” Bear shakes his head, stepping back. My laugh finally erupts, all four turning toward me. I can’t help the wicked smirk as I point to my phone.
“Hurry up, I’m tired.” They roll their eyes, turning back to their little pack. I can hear Tornado pleading for them to let him try again, but they all refuse. His back muscles ripple under his shirt, the dark shadows casting over his body just accentuating the look. Knuckles is no better. His biceps ripple with irritation as they continue their game. Tornado groans and moans at the fact that he lost, definitely not happy with the results. Knuckles looks like he’s determined to lose this little charade.
“Ah!” A deep voice shouts, arms pumping. The other three look at him like he grew three heads. “Dibs on the side closest to the bathroom.” Knuckles grabs his gear off the seat of his bike and bounds up the stairs toward me. His arm is around my waist before I can blink, grabbing the room key from my hand and pushing our way inside the bedroom.
I can’t help the little laugh that breaks free, this grown man throwing me around like I weigh nothing. Not that I’m against being thrown around but…Heckles.
Shaking the name from my head, I slap his ass with effort and the smack is loud. He yelps, nearly dropping me into the corner of the dresser thing. Setting me on my feet, he eyes me. The look is deep, full of something I’m too scared to admit.
I clear my throat, taking a cautionary step back and throwing my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m going to, uhm.” Pointing, I don’t wait for a reply before I slip into the bathroom. The door shuts gently before I sag against it, breathless and slightly needy. The sudden ache between my thighs isn’t from riding on the bike for the past few days. No, it’s from watching two grown ass men play hand games with the two prospects.
My body threatens to go straight into an orgasmic spiral if I don’t take care of it, but the guy who haunts my dreams flashes before my eyes. I squeeze them shut, praying that it’ll end the damn suffering I have endured for years on end. His fucking face curls into that sadistic smirk I used to love, his yellowing teeth taunting me. The way his teeth would snag on my throat, breaking the skin for him to taste my blood…
“Leather?” My eyes pop open as a banging knock pulls me abruptly out of my thoughts. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I open the door to see Tornado there, his hardened eyes assessing me before softening slightly. I grasp the metal knob tightly in my hand, putting my free hand in my pocket. My body is open. Exposed. The deep colored iris’s lock onto mine, keeping me in place. It’s like a tornado of emotions swirling behind his depths, waiting to pull someone under. I wouldn’t mind being pulled under.
“Uhm,” he croaks, grunting to clear his throat. “How long are you going to be? I smell like exhaust and want to go to bed.”
“Give me ten,” I say, but it sounds more like a question. He nods, not moving from his spot. His fists clench at his sides, his forearm veins popping from the tension. Biceps ripple with strain. I swallow several times trying to clear the damn egg in my throat. Once I realize he isn’t going to move, I take a tentative step back. A part of my brain wants him to step inside with me, swim the depths of my mind with me. The more logical part tells me to slam the door quickly and to save myself.
His spine snaps straight, his knee bending as if he’s going to follow. Instead, he swiftly shakes himself and turns, walking back to the main room as I shut the door.
I strip quickly, wanting to be done with this shit as much as the next guy. With steam billowing from over the curtains, I hop in. Washing myself thoroughly, I do my best to keep from fading into taunting memories with him.
Unfortunately, it’s like a black hole mixed with a vortex. It’ll suck you in, and you’ll never be the same again.
“Oh, Leather,” he sneers, shaking his head as he rolls another set of chains over his fist. “I can’t wait to see how these shred your pretty skin.”
“They won’t scar?” I ask softly, knowing better than to question him loudly. He will snap. He kneels in front of me, a mocking coo leaving his lips.
“I thought you liked my scars, whore?” A whimper escapes me, one that I can’t help. It’s not one of pleading, if anything, it’s the opposite.
“I’m sorry, Master,” I mutter, keeping my eyes cast to the floor just like he taught me. He jerks my chin, lifting my face to meet his.
“You’ll be sorry for questioning me. In case you needed reminding, you’re my blood slut.” He throws my face the other way and my body tilts as I work to keep myself upright. In the shadows, I can see his arm jerk back just as the chains slam onto my body.
“Stop,” I hiss to myself, looking between my breasts. A deep, pale scar sits jaggedly on my sternum, taunting me at every turn.
“Please stop, sir,” I rasp. Liquid pours down my shredded back. To seal the deal, he sprays bacitracin right over it because it apparently has lidocaine in it. I can’t keep the animalistic scream from ripping out of my lips when the stuff hits my skin. The alcohol burns, the jagged pieces of my skin seers for a few more moments as the pain slowly dissipates with my consciousness.
My scars taunt me. They are my formal sign of weakness.
“You’re not weak,” a voice says, startling me so hard I damn near piss myself.
“What the fuck!” I shout, covering my body with my hands. There’s so many places I don’t want others to see, scars that some would use as trophies, but this is torture that was sold to a forbidden paradise.
“Why do you hide?” He asks, yanking back the shower curtain. My mouth falls open, unable to give him an answer. Knuckles stands there in a white tee-shirt that hugs him completely and his jeans, which I’m sure will fit snugly against his pert butt. Water splashes off of me, slowly turning the material see-through.
