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Fuck, yeah, the asshole finally responded. About goddamn time! And what the hell was he doing in North Carolina?
Tossing a glance at Roger, who was blubbering in his chair, he tipped his chin to Horde to let him know he was stepping out.
Patriot and Stallion had some shit to settle, and he would rather do it without the audience. Horde would continue having his fun with Roger’s soon-to-be-carcass, but he’d leave enough for Patriot to play with before finally putting him down.
…I think you aren’t giving your friend enough credit. Will he be pissed that you diddled his sister, and then kept it a secret for three years? Hell yeah, he will, but I think he’d be more pissed if he found out about it from someone else….
Cilla’s words slammed through his mind, striking at his heart and soul.
She was right. Too fucking right. It was time to come clean.
Sucking in a breath of dust, scented with scrub brush and rusting metal, Patriot threw his head back, closed his eyes, and slowly let the breath out.
He was terrified. Not once in his life—even on the battlefields in the sands—had he been as scared as he was when he realized Roger’s plans for Cilla. As soon as he saw the implements in Roger’s truck, grotesque visions of Cilla tied to a table, covered in bruises, cuts…bleeding, screaming, tears pouring from her eyes pummeled him. In his visions she was scared, horrified, begging for him to come and save her—then cursing him for putting her in danger in the first place.
It was his fault she was Roger’s target, because he couldn’t man up enough to be honest with Stallion about what went down with him and Jaime. He’d been so caught up in putting it off, protecting his own interests, and keeping Jaime under some semblance of control that he completely missed what all of that was doing to Cilla.
No. He hadn’t missed it, he’d dismissed it. Dismissed her. He put his own pride above what he was attempting to build with Cilla, and it had all come tumbling down at Cool Hands. And right now, he was wallowing in the muck of his own misery. Misery of his own making.
And he was done. Cilla was worth more than his half-assed efforts. No, he wasn’t a good man, was barely a man at all after all he’d done in the name of Uncle Sam, but he’d be damned if he let the one good thing he ever knew in his life to slip through his fingers. Cilla was his. Would always be his. He just had to prove to her that he was hers—forever.
He would do whatever it took to show Cilla how much he loved her, that he was worthy of her. But first….
Outside the shed, Patriot dialed Stallion’s number, put his phone to his ear, then sacked the fuck up and laid it all out. Every. Last. Truth.
He just hoped that by the time Stallion was done cutting his balls from his body, there was enough blood left to write Cilla’s name beside his corpse.
EIGHTEEN
Pissed, humiliated, and definitely done with the evening, Cilla hurried away from the booth toward the bathrooms. She wanted to go to her car and drive home, but she’d had too much to drink, and she was feeling woozy. Once she got to the bathroom, she’d order an Uber, wash her face with cold water, then go wait outside. What she would not do is?—
Suddenly, she was moving, but she stumbled past the bathrooms on the right, and was dragged through a door on the left at the end of the hall.
Thrust through the doorway into what looked like a dark office, Cilla stumbled on her heels and just barely righted herself before the door slammed and, with a yelp, she was thrown to the top of the desk. A large body pinned her to the surface as she struggled, dragging in gulps of air. But she recognized the scent, the frame, the man.
“Patriot—” she couldn’t finish as the air was knocked out of her when he slammed his mouth down on hers. His large hands were suddenly everywhere, holding her down, gripping her hips, and tugging her clothes from her body. In a matter of moments, she was breathless and nearly naked in a dark office on someone’s desk, but by the glimpse she could catch of Patriot’s face in the scant light from under the office door, she could see that he was a hair’s breadth from devouring his prey.
Her.
“You’re mine, Cilla, and I am going to fucking claim you,” he growled, and then he was ripping her panties from her body, and pulling her ass over the lip of the desk so she was hanging in the air, at his mercy. She didn’t hear him unzip his jeans, but he must have, because in the next breath she was impaled on his fat cock.
She cried out at the thick invasion, shock and rampaging need lighting her up inside.
“Yes, fuck. So goddamn tight—you feel so fucking good, baby. Mine! Mine, Cilla!” he spit, his voice guttural. More animal than man, he bit down on her shoulder, driving pain and pleasure through her until she couldn’t keep her sounds down. She mewled, groaning as he shifted, making her fall back flat on the desk. His hands on her hips held her in place as he pounded into her, grunting with each hard, powerful thrust. He drove her to the edge and back, harder and deeper he thrust until she had no idea how she could draw breath ever again. He was inside her, part of her, a living, breathing explosion of sensation she wouldn’t survive intact. He leaned over her, taking her mouth once again, swallowing her shriek as her orgasm rushed her, claiming her, filling her with blistering pleasure, then hollowing her out. But Patriot immediately filled it again, driving her toward the brink, moving, forcing his cock deeper and deeper, the base of his dick sliding against her swollen clit. A keening wail escaped her chest as he bit down on the neck, groaning as her pussy clenched around his pistoning cock.
Her second orgasm built, drawing all her strength, siphoning every nerve ending to her pussy where it filled her channel, making everything more sensitive. Her pussy fluttered, and she lifted her hips to meet each thrust, his heavy balls slapping against her twitching asshole. Everything was bright, swirling colors blinding, her heart racing, her blood rushing to the surface of her skin. She was too hot, her body was overheating, her legs where they were wrapped around his waist were shaking from the effort of holding on to him as he set a maddening pace.
“Fuck, yeah, that’s it, baby, squeeze my cock, baby. Milk it, take my cum baby, take all of it, it all belongs to you—shit, fuck!” He jerked, grunting, his hips moving faster in an uneven rhythm. “I’m coming—fuuuuuck!” He thrust two, three, four more times, then bottomed out, and groaned long, low, and deep. She could feel his cock thicken, then jerk inside her, emptying itself while filling her to the brim, triggering another release that made her back bow off the desk and a scream loose from her throat.
The shrill call of her cellphone jolted her awake, jerking her away from the back office and the sturdy desk, away from the unadulterated bliss of her orgasm, away from the strong, warm arms of the man she loved—and into reality.
Choking back a sob of frustration, Cilla slammed her hand down on her bedside table, blindly searching for her cell. It rang again. Finally locating it shoved up against her stack of smutty paperbacks, she snatched it and answered it.
“This better be life and death, woman, because I was in the middle of the best dream!” A dream of what should have been but never would be, because Patriot was a lying, cheating asshole, who ghosted women he claimed to care about.
Are you sure about that? There was that voice of reason again, the same voice that kept her dangling on with starry-eyed hope, like a fool. Sooner or later, that voice would finally figure out the truth.
What is the truth?
