Page 47 of Roped

I blink, trying to focus, trying to tell him. “But I don’t think you understand. I’m so close.”

“Come for me.”

I’m rocking against him, humping his sculpted stomach, but I try to stop myself. “I can’t. You’re b-bleeding.”

“So?”

“So I just stabbed you. I can’t… move against you. It’s going to hurt.”

“Yeah, it will,” he growls as he starts to help me move. As his hands on my ass start to pull me up and push me down, as if I’m a doll, making me go crazy, and all I can do is moan as I move. “And it’ll hurt so fuckin’ good that with every breath I take, not only for weeks to come but for the rest of my life, I’ll remember this too. You, writhin’ on my bleedin’ body. So shut the fuck up and grind against me until you come like the good girl I know you are.”

“God, you’re… you’re psychotic.”

His chest shudders and his mouth opens on the side of my jaw. “Ain’t never seen you fall apart from this close; thought about it a million times, though, since the first time I saw you touch yourself for me. And after that, every time you did, thought I’d lose my mind if I didn’t get to touch you one day soon. Never had you in my arms either, never thought I would, let alone while you’re like this. Ready to break for me, all hot and moanin’ and Christ, so fuckin’ beautiful like a doll. My pretty. Slutty. Fuckdoll.” He punctuates all those words with a hard squeeze of my ass. “Mine to tease; mine to play with. So, darlin’, if this makes me psychotic, so be it.”

God, he shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have called me darlin’ on top of everything else. I’m shaking now. I have to come. I have to. I’m mindless with the need, this crazy lust for him. But still, I try one more time. I try to be good rather than a selfish slut who just wants to hump his bleeding body. “I’m not a… slut.”

I think he chuckles, but I can’t be sure. I know he’s amused, though, as he tells me, “Nice try, Princess. But we both know you are and you like it. You like bein’ my slut. My plaything, my doll. Ain’t that right?”

Okay, that’s it. I give up. I tell the truth: “Y-yes.”

“Good girl,” he mutters, spanking me again, and I jerk, moaning. “Now, you’re gonna ride me until you come. Until my fuckin’ blood soaks your princess pussy and your sweet cum soaks my monster body.”

I want to tell him he’s not a monster. Not because of his scars and not because of all the things he’s done. I want to tell him a thousand other things, but I can’t. All I can do is obey his commands. Be his good girl and ride his stomach as he nuzzles his nose in the side of my neck, smells my hair, and breathes into my skin.

I feel him all hot and hard between my thighs, breathing and growling, pawing at my body, a beast but not. He’s so big, his body a force of nature, his stomach ridged and thick with muscles. I feel his blood soaking my thighs, soaking my panties, getting beyond the fabric, touching the very core of me. And God, please, when I look myself in the mirror later tonight, I hope I see the streaks of it on my skin, my pussy. I hope I get to rub it in, make him a part of me. And that’s how I come and give him what he wanted. With the thoughts of his blood seeping into my skin. With him breathing so close to me, smelling my skin and me, humping his wounded stomach.

When I’m able to gather my breath, my thoughts, I whisper, “Thank you.”

He goes still.

But I keep going. “For telling me. Your secret. For telling me I didn’t make it up. It wasn’t all in my head. It wasn’t a lie. Our connection.”

I want to keep riding this high, flying across the cloudless sky in my head, when he winds his arms around my body and plasters our fronts together. In sort of a hug. My own arms go around his neck as I burrow into his body, blood and all. Then, flexing his arms around me, he says in a voice that sounds like a lullaby, “Just because I haven’t hurt you yet, don’t mean I won’t.” I stiffen in his arms, but his hold, as always, is tight and he keeps going, rubbing his face in my hair. “So I want you to stay put, you understand? I want you to keep your head down and stay safe. Don’t wander off; don’t put yourself in danger. Don’t make me fuckin’ come after you, yeah? Don’t make me do things I don’t wanna do. Don’t make me hurt you more than I have to. ’Cause I’ll choose my family over anythin’ else.”

My bones are all cold now. My skin clammy and chilled. What does he mean by that? Why does he have to hurt me? What does he…

He squeezes me to himself again. “Nod if you understand.”

Scared, I do.

And he flexes his grip around me again, hugging me hard as he mutters, “Good girl.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Quiet Mustang

SILAS JAMES IS the chief of the Black Rock Sheriff’s Department and is firmly in the Grayson camp. Has been for years. Mostly because Mars’s endorsement has been a key factor in him winning reelection. In return, James has proved to be a good ally to have in the police force. Especially when along with tending cattle and breaking horses, you’re also in the business of teaching your enemies lessons for vying for your land. He also happens to be one of the very few who know about Rawhide Redemption and is involved in the operation of it.

Standing in a corner of Mars’s office with my arms folded across my chest and my back leaning against the wall, I watch James as he sits at the desk opposite to Mars and gives him a brief regarding what he was able to find on the Andersons. Apparently, the meeting didn’t go as planned. As in, the Andersons are proving to be a lot more determined than Marsden would’ve liked. From what the sheriff says, Joshua Anderson has been seen at a restaurant with Hank Turner, which never bodes well: our enemies colluding. On top of that, he’s been asking questions about us, trying to talk to our ranch hands. They’ll never talk, but again, such aggressiveness in regard to our land usually means trouble. So now, Mars is going to go the alternate route and run them out of town, so to speak.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Arsen entering the office and taking up space beside me. I don’t say a word, but he knows I’m judging him for being late. So he mutters, “Couldn’t sleep.”

Wordlessly, I shift on my feet.

“You’d know that if you spent eight years behind bars,” he adds.

Keeping my eyes on the proceedings before me, I respond. “That ain’t why you can’t sleep.”