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She shot to her feet, startling Patriot who stared at her, wide-eyed, his nostrils flaring.
“Wingman?” he growled. “Cilla?—”
“No!” she snapped, holding up her hand to stop him. His eyes narrowed, his brows furrowing, obviously not pleased with her.
Well, too freaking bad! She was tired of holding her tongue, of being the woman overlooked, ignored, played with, pushed aside, left alone and anguished—she was done!
Humiliation poured from her along with the burning tears she’d kept leashed for so long.
Looking stricken, Patriot lunged to his feet and took a step toward her, his hands clasping her shoulders, the warmth of him pouring into her.
It only made things worse—that desperate need for more of his warmth, more of his touch.
“What do you want from me? Why are you doing this to me? Why have you been coming around, hanging out with me, talking with me, spending time with me? Are you bored? Do you have nothing better to do than hang around the hangaround, just biding your time until you can claim Jaime?”
There, she’d said it, the words like acid dripping from her lips.
Suddenly, the hands on her arms slid up to her face, his palms encompassing her cheeks, chin, holding her in place.
“What the fuck did you just say?” he growled, his nose inches from hers. The anger in his voice rumbled through his chest, which vibrated against her breasts. Her nipples hardened, tingling at the sensation. Aw hell.
“Wingman? Biding my time?” he repeated, his voice a low, deadly timbre. “You honestly think I’ve been spending time with you because I have to?” He shook his head slowly, deliberately.
From that and the tone of his voice, the answer was “no”, but what else was she supposed to think? He was Patriot, she was Cilla—they were so different, it wasn’t even funny.
Unable to move her face to shake her head, she simply spoke, not daring to look him in the eye. “Horde needed you to keep me busy so he and Stephie could get together,” she admitted, hating how the words sounded. Like she was a loser. “I just don’t understand why you’re still…you know…talking to me. And breaking into my house.” She said that last bit with a bite to her voice.
One second she was glaring up at him, and the next the breath exploded from her chest because she was hanging over Patriot’s shoulder as she stalked down her hallway, through her bedroom door, and came to a stop at her bed.
Delirious from the blood rushing to her head, she didn’t fight him when he slowly laid her down on the bed. He laid his great bulk down on top of her, pinning her to the bed, his weight on her both exhilarating and frightening. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew where he wanted this to go, where, honestly, she wanted this to go, but she’d only ever been with one person, one time, and it was not something she ever wanted to repeat.
She met Patriot’s dark, ravenous gaze and opened her mouth to ask him something—she couldn’t remember what, but he cut her off.
“I didn’t come around you for any other reason than I want you, so fucking bad,” he growled, then nipped at her chin with his teeth. He pulled back, and she stared up into his suddenly glittering eyes. Stunned by the level of need she saw there, in a daze, she helped him remove her clothes. First her shirt and bra, then her jeans and panties, until she lay beneath him, naked. His gaze, hungry, predatory, devoured her.
In the back of her head, she could hear the screaming of high school Cilla, the one who’d endured years of fat-shaming, body-shaming, and humiliation. She knew what Patriot saw when he looked at her: big boobs that sagged to the sides, large nipples, a belly with a slight pooch, thighs that jiggled and were covered in cottage cheese divots, and a pussy that hadn’t seen a razor in weeks.
Her face flamed and she raised her arms to cover her face with her hands, but his words stopped her.
“You’re perfection,” he rasped, his voice thick with lust. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. So fucking lush and sweet, like the moistest, most delectable sponge cake…. I need to taste you.”
Her skin went from flaming in embarrassment to scorching in need in a single breath.
He leaned down, his loose hair spilling from his shoulders to tickle her chest and collarbone. He pressed a kiss to her neck, then dragged his mouth down to her chest where he sucked a nipple into his mouth. She cried out, arching her back, silently begging him to take more. She fisted her hands in the blanket beneath her, straining against the need to reach out and touch him.
He licked her, sucked again, then nipped the bud. She groaned at the pleasure-pain sparking through her body. He moved to her other breast, sipping, licking, nipping with his mouth, as his hand cupped, kneaded, and squeezed her other breast, his thumb and forefinger pinching her needy nipple.
God, what has happening to her? She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—all she could do was feel.
“Patriot,” she moaned, and he chuckled wickedly, before moving down from her chest to press a kiss to her belly. She jumped from her skin when his tongue lathed her belly button, and she nearly came out of her body when he sucked her clit into his mouth.
Pushed to the edge of reason, she loosed her hold on the blanket, and grabbed hold of his head, pressing his face deeper into the core of her. His hair was like silk ribbons shifting through her fingers.
“Fuck, you taste like sweets, baby,” he groaned, then set about eating her like she was the best thing he’d ever put in his mouth.
Cilla screamed, trying to pull away from the overwhelming sensations erupting from her core, but Patriot’s thick arms held her down. With one hand, he slid a finger into her slick, pulsing hole, which sucked at his digit like it was life.
“Oh, baby, your pussy is greedy for me, I like that,” he purred, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through her pussy lips and clit.
