Chaos And Ruin: Violent Things Part 3

"I bet it was dirty business."

"Which involves?"

"Your p.e.n.i.s. And paddles. Maybe a hard-core dominatrix called Madame Payne. And probably a lot of sweat."

"I think you're confusing my s.e.x life with yours."

"Are you calling Zeth a hard-core dominatrix?"

"Not within earshot."

I laugh, not pus.h.i.+ng him any further. One of these days he'll tell me. Or maybe he won't. Maybe there's always going to be a side to Michael I don't know. I doubt he tells Zeth anything either.

We drive in comfortable silence up the winding roads that lead to the house; when we pull up outside, the place is dark, not a single light on inside. I can already hear the rhythmic thwack, thwack, thwack that tells me my antsy other half is out the back, indulging in his favorite pastime while I'm not around. I sigh, leaning across the car to give Michael a swift kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for bringing me home."

"No problem. Have a good night, Ms. Romera."

I wish he would call me Sloane. No matter how many times I tell him, it never seems to stick. Instead of letting myself inside the house, I skirt around the side, heading for the woods out back. He's there, s.h.i.+rtless and sweating, a gas lamp burning at his feet, as he brings up the ax in his hands and swings it down onto the block of wood in front of him.

I don't even have an open fire. Zeth just likes. .h.i.tting things with axes.

"There she is," he rumbles. I've been silent as a mouse, but of course he knows I'm behind him. He rests the ax head on the ground, angling his head toward me. I'm a hopeless case. No matter how many times I see this man partially undressed, I can't help but stare at him. He's so perfect. His body is perfection. The sweat-slicked muscles in his back s.h.i.+ft ever so slightly as he leans his weight to one side, waiting for me to reach him. If I were capable of controlling myself around him, I would maybe kiss him lightly on the mouth in greeting and ask him what he's been doing all day. The embarra.s.sing thing is that I'm not capable of controlling myself around him, though. I find myself slowly licking the groove in between his shoulder blades, my tongue exploding with the taste of the salt in his sweat, my hands itching to touch him as he rocks his head back and groans.

"I liked your text message," I whisper.

"Thought you might." Zeth spins around grabs hold of me before I have a chance to say anything else. I like being tall, but I also love the way Zeth makes me feel small when he takes hold of me. Small and protected. Completely overpowered. Giving myself over to him, so that he knows he has dominion over me, wasn't an easy task, but when he grabs hold of me like this and makes me feel like I'm his, now I feel complete. He wraps his strong arms around me and growls into the curve of skin where my neck meets my collarbone.

"You smell like sin," he whispers.

"Mmm?"

"You want me. I can f.u.c.king smell it on you." He nips me with his teeth, hard enough to make me gasp.

"Maybe I do."

"You want me to f.u.c.k you, angry girl? 'Cause I'm not opposed to the idea. And neither is my d.i.c.k." His hot breath sends searing vibrations shooting through my body. The sound I make in the back of my throat is loud and embarra.s.sing, but it seems to spur Zeth on. His hands work their way underneath my sweater, his fingers skating over the skin of my belly, up, up, up until he reaches the swell of my breast.

"You have to say it, Sloane. I want to hear you tell me how badly you want me."

"I do want you. I need you. I need you inside me. Please..."

Zeth traces the line of my jaw with his free hand, and then he tilts my head back with his thumb, so that I'm looking up into his dark, fierce eyes. "Are you going to do what I tell you to?" he asks. "Because I need you to be a good girl for me, Sloane."

He brushes his thumb over my bottom lip, staring at my mouth. He constantly surprises me with what dark, s.e.xual things run through his head. I can never guess what he's thinking. If he were another guy, I'd a.s.sume he was thinking about me wrapping my mouth around his c.o.c.k right now, but it's never that simple with Zeth. He's complicated in his desires. A small frown flickers across that savagely beautiful face of his. Pain rockets through me as he pinches and rolls my nipple through the thin lace of my bra.

"You haven't answered me, Sloane. Are you going to do what I tell you?"

"Yes. Yes, I'll do what you tell me." Two days. We haven't slept with each other in two days, and it's just too long. I've been wanting him, needing him, fantasizing about him every moment I haven't been focused on saving someone's life. And I'm betting he's been focused on all the things he wants to do to me too, especially while he's been smas.h.i.+ng his fist into things.

Zeth leans forward and bites my lower lip, hard, still pinching my nipple. I suck in a sharp breath, letting the bright sensation of pain cascade through me. He stops biting me, but runs his tongue over my lip instead, tasting me in that highly s.e.xual way he has. The way he licks at my mouth is the same way he licks at my c.l.i.toris when he first goes down on me-slow and drawn out. His eyes are locked onto mine, burning and intense, and I can't help the strangled noise that comes out of me.

"f.u.c.k, Zeth."

He instantly stops what he's doing, removing himself from me, taking a step back. My nipple throbs with the ache that he's left behind, begging for more of the same. There was a time when I would have s.h.i.+ed away from the strange urge to let him own me, to let him have complete power over me, but not anymore. Now, I crave it in the same way my body craves oxygen.

No one else knows this side of me. My friends, my family my work colleagues...everyone knows the strong, resilient, commanding Sloane. They would never imagine me to be like this with anyone. But being strong, resilient and commanding at all times is exhausting, especially when I feel like I'm making things up as I go along most days. Zeth takes the pressure of being me of my shoulders when he owns me like this. He gives me permission to be vulnerable.

The night air teases at the loose strands of hair that have fallen out of my ponytail, as I stand completely still. Zeth stalks around me, looking me up and down with hungry eyes. I can see the goose b.u.mps on his shoulders, and I know it's not because it's cold. It's because he's turned on and he's thinking about what he's going to do to me.

He circles me once, twice, and I resist the urge to reach out and touch him. My hands stay by my sides, though it takes everything I've got to hold back. He stops behind me, close enough that I can feel his hot breath on the back of my neck. "Take your clothes off for me, Sloane. I want to watch."

My breathing stutters out of me in one long, broken sigh. Zeth circles me one last time before he takes a seat on the tree stump he was using as a base to chop the wood on. Even though he's only five feet away, he still doesn't feel close enough. I want his hands on my body again. I want to feel him growing more and more impatient as he teases his fingers across my burning skin. I know I won't get any of that until I've done what he wants me to do, though.

I start with my sweater. It's warm enough in Seattle right now to not need a coat. I don't have anything on under the sweater, either, so when I slowly, carefully lift it over my head, I'm left standing there in nothing but my bra.

Zeth's eyelids lower a little, looking heavy as he watches me. The power of his gaze on my skin is enough to put fire in my veins. I love the way he looks at me. Love the way his eyes travel over my body like he's imagining consuming me in the most erotic ways possible.

I kick off my shoes, not caring that the gra.s.s is slightly damp on my bare feet. My jeans are next. I don't even attempt to make a show out of it. I'd end up tripping over my own pants, and besides, trying to put on a striptease for him would look p.o.r.ny and fake. That's not what he wants. He just wants to see me. I can't tear my eyes off him as he watches my hands move over my body, removing my clothes one piece at a time. He looks fascinated by the process. I'm not even mildly embarra.s.sed as I slip out of my bra and panties. I feel liberated. I feel alive. My body aches for him as he considers me, lit only by the soft glow of the gas lamp that sits on the ground between us.

"You're so f.u.c.king perfect," he whispers. "Come here."

I go to him, and he opens his legs so I can stand between them. Carefully, reverently, he raises his right hand and strokes his fingers across my stomach, coming to rest on my hip. His hands aren't soft. They've been used to fight his whole life. He's built so many things for the gym and for the house in the last few months, and he's chopped about three truckloads of wood just for fun. They're calloused and rough, but the way he uses them to touch me is so very gentle.

With him still sitting down, he has to look up at me as he touches me. His left hand moves up my body, palming the heavy swell of my breast, one at a time; he straightens so that he can take the nipple he was pinching a moment ago into his mouth. He may have been staring at my lips not to long ago, but now it's my turn to stare. His lips are incredible. Full and expressive and biteable. I'm already wet, but watching him lick and suck at me while his strong, demanding hands work their way over every part of my skin makes my body go wild.

I can't touch him. I know I can't, not yet, but I want to so badly, it's killing me.

"Your body was made for me, Sloane," he groans. "Turn around."

I know better than to disobey. I'm still a girl, though. I still have my body hang-ups, and my a.s.s is one of them. No one could ever accuse me of not having one, that's for sure. With anyone else, I'd undoubtedly be self-conscious, but my brain is too crowded to even comprehend that right now. I just want to feel him touching me, enjoying me, exploring me. The way he wors.h.i.+ps my body, from the very first time we slept together, has always made me feel like I am perfect.

Zeth runs his hands up over the curve of my a.s.s and then over my hips, taking hold of me so he can pull me back toward him. I feel his mouth, hot and insistent pressing into the skin of my lower back, and then even hotter when he uses his tongue. He travels down, licking and biting at my b.u.t.t cheek, making me squirm.

"Open your legs, Sloane." His voice is thick with l.u.s.t, low and demanding. I open my legs, only slightly mortified that he's about to discover what he's done to me. His fingers trail painfully slowly up the inside of my thigh, until he eventually reaches the junction between my legs. He hovers just to the side of my p.u.s.s.y, knowing that it's driving me absolutely insane to have him so close to touching me, and yet refraining. I'm panting, and my legs feel weak. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d knows exactly what he's doing to me, and I could wring his neck for it, but I'm also enjoying it. Enjoying it way, way too much. This is part of our game. I can't react. I can't just jump him. If I do, he'll torture me until I can't bear it anymore. Sometimes that can be fun, but right now I need him so badly. My body needs to feel like it's complete.

I hold my breath, careful not to move as he bites at me some more, on my hips, my a.s.s, my thigh. The biting gets progressively harder, until I can barely stand anymore. It hurts, yes, but it also feels incredible. Zeth laughs mercilessly under his breath as my own kicks up a notch. Eventually he guides his fingers backward between my legs, sweeping them over my slick p.u.s.s.y, making my whole body lock up. His fingers...his fingers there...

I can barely form a coherent thought.

"My G.o.d, Sloane," he sighs. "Look at you. You're ready for me, aren't you?"

I look back at him over my shoulder, my heart burning in my chest when I see the awe on his face. He looks almost stunned. I nod, feeling my cheeks burn that little bit hotter. "I need to wrap myself around you," I whisper. "I need you inside me. I need you to hold onto me so tight I can't breathe. I don't want to know where you end and I start anymore."

Zeth makes a guttural, s.e.xual noise that sends chills through my body. It's thrilling. "Lay down on the gra.s.s, Sloane." His tone is soft, but it brooks no argument. I know there'll be h.e.l.l to pay if I object.

The gra.s.s is cold and tickles my skin, but my whole body is hypersensitive right now. It feels incredible. Zeth stands up, towering over me, every muscle in his body tensed. The tattoos, the black sweeping ink he's worn for as long as I've known him, look stark against his skin in the half-light. The fleur de lis over his right pec rises and falls quickly along with his chest as he fights to control his breathing.

"Open your legs for me," he commands.

I open them, my nipples hardening to painful buds as he drops to his knees. "You're so wet for me, angry girl. That's all for me. Now I'm going to claim it." He drops to his knees and immediately falls between my legs, groaning as he licks at my p.u.s.s.y, licking me clean. Just as he said he would, he claims every single last drop of my moisture between my legs, replacing it with his saliva. My body reacts explosively. He is so good with his tongue. I feel like I'm going to pa.s.s out as he teases his mouth over me time and time again, slowly licking at first and then sucking, speeding up until I'm shamelessly rocking my hips against his face, begging him to let me come. It's not until he slides his fingers inside me that I really lose it. I hitch my legs up, crus.h.i.+ng my thighs around his head, barely aware of my surroundings as he f.u.c.ks me with his fingers and his tongue.

When I come, I scream silently, unable to even make a sound. The intensity of the o.r.g.a.s.m rips through me, my back arching off the ground as Zeth continues, regardless of the fact that my entire body is close to breaking point.

The sensation becomes too much. "Stop, stop, stop, f.u.c.k, please, stop," I pant.

Zeth carefully withdraws his fingers, but he doesn't remove his mouth. His movements become less demanding, though. When he runs his tongue over me, gently circling the swollen bundle of nerve endings there, it feels more affectionate than anything else. He's not trying to bring me to another o.r.g.a.s.m-I doubt I could take that right now. It's more like he's soothing me, and it feels wonderful.

When he does finally pull back, sitting on his heels, he takes his fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean. "It's f.u.c.king criminal how good you taste," he says.

I twist onto my side, wanting to hide, mortification catching up with me at last, but he takes hold of my hip and pushes me so that I'm on my back again. With one hand on either side of my head, he braces himself over me, staring own into my eyes. "Don't you f.u.c.king hide from me. Don't you f.u.c.king dare," he whispers. "You're amazing."

I say the only thing I can think of that seems appropriate in this moment. The words come out nervously, barely audible. "I love you, Zeth. G.o.d, I love you so much."

I can see the light from the gas lamp reflected in those deep brown, soulful, angry, wounded eyes of his. He told me that he loved me a while ago, and it's been enough. He's said it a couple of times since, but not very often. Most women would be freaked out by that fact, but I know how hard it was for him to admit it to me in the first place. He's a thing of chaos, a thing of destruction. Chaos and ruin were the only things he knew for so long. It's taking him time to move past that. Pressing his forehead against mine, he closes his eyes and nods slowly.

"Thank you," he whispers.

Again, this might not be what a girl wants to hear when she tells a guy she's in love with him, but the emotion on his face is clear. His thank you is filled with relief. Filled with love. Filled with so much hope and grat.i.tude and sincerity that it takes my breath away all over again.

He says it like me loving him is the most precious gift anyone has ever given to him.

Chapter Five.

Mason I wake up to crying. Of course I do. Every night, it's the same.

Covered in my own sweat, I charge blindly from my bedroom out into the hallway and into the room down the hall, my heart hammering in my chest.

Millie's on the floor already, her tiny body bowed so badly it looks like her spine is about to break. I stop myself from grabbing her up and holding her to me. Instead, I lace my fingers around the back of my head and press my face in the chipped paintwork of the wall beside me, trying not to scream through my clenched teeth.

f.u.c.k. This is so f.u.c.king f.u.c.ked. Mil's heels begin to kick against the bare floorboards as the seizure worsens. Her eyes are rolled back into her head, her jaw clenched tight as he body spasms over and over again. I want to smash my fist into the wall. I feel f.u.c.king useless. There's nothing I can do to help her until the fitting stops, so I just have to stand here and wait like an evil son of a b.i.t.c.h while my six-year-old sister goes through this again. Again.

I sink down into a crouch, covering my mouth with my hands, just watching her, waiting for the moment, the very instant she stills so I can go to her. The seizure lasts for two more minutes, which is a long f.u.c.king time. I'm lifting her into my arms, cradling her to me as soon as it's done. She starts crying, tiny little breathless sobs, her small hands curling into my t-s.h.i.+rt, and I feel warmth spreading over my legs as she p.i.s.ses herself.

f.u.c.k.

"I'm-I'm sss-sorry, Mase. I'm ss-sorry."

"Oh, G.o.d." I feel like my heart's being ripped up through my chest and out through my f.u.c.king mouth. Holding her closer to me, I stand up and carry her into the bathroom. "Don't be sorry, little mouse. Don't worry about a thing. Here, c'mon, hop into the bath real quick. We'll get you cleaned up and then you can go back to sleep, okay?"

This is our nightly ritual. I wish we had a f.u.c.king shower; it takes the bath so long to fill with the water barely dribbling out and the pipes thunk, thunk, thunking away, and poor Millie standing in her p.i.s.s-soaked PJs, looking like she's about to cry some more. She rubs at her eyes, tired and sore from fitting, and all I want to do is pick her up and walk out of this s.h.i.+thole. Take her somewhere clean and f.u.c.king nice. Have enough money to get her on the books with a proper f.u.c.king doctor, who will look at her as an individual and not just another kid living below the poverty line who can't be helped.

I jam the plug into the plughole and collapse onto the cracked tiles, and then I pull my sister's tiny form into me, not caring about the pee. I hold onto her until there's enough water in the tub for her to wash without her freezing her a.s.s off.

Winter was bad. Going through this on a nightly basis with the place so frigid we could see our breath hanging in the air was seriously something I never want to go through again. I've promised myself, f.u.c.king promised, that next winter me and little Millie will be in a place that at least has f.u.c.king heating.

I don't care if I have to sell the car; I'll carry her three miles to school every morning if I have to. I don't care that I have to wear s.h.i.+tty clothes, covered in grease and dirt from work, and I don't care if we don't have a TV. I don't give a s.h.i.+t about drinking with my friends, or going to the f.u.c.king movies. All I want is for Millie to be safe and clean and happy. There has to be a f.u.c.king way to make that happen. I refuse to let her down the same way our mother did.

I'm not perfect at this, but I'm trying so f.u.c.king hard. The last thing I ever expected as a twenty-three-year-old was to be taking care of my little sister. She's quiet as I bathe her. She's always quiet, like she's afraid to f.u.c.king speak or move or do something wrong. She's all skinny arms and skinny legs; she's gonna be tall like me eventually, but right now she's just a skinny, underfed kid who needs proper parents, and all she's got is me.

I carry her back to her room and put her in fresh PJs, and I sit with her until she falls asleep again. The seizures are exhausting for her. She never has problems going back to sleep. Seems that's all she does. The meds they have her on rob her of all her energy, turning a six-year-old little girl into a zombie, sleepwalking through a life that's meant to filled with toy ponies and hair braiding, and I don't f.u.c.king know what else. But not this. Not meds and pain and midnight baths and crying. It f.u.c.king kills me.

I sit with my head in my hands while I run myself a much colder bath so we don't have to fork out for the hot water, and then I lay in the tepid water until it's freezing cold and I'm s.h.i.+vering, my side aching from where that guy at the gym pummelled me.

The alarm clock on my bedside table reads three-forty when I climb back into bed. Three hours. I'm gonna get three hours sleep before I have to get up and drive Millie to school.

That's more than I usually get.

"You're late, a.s.shole."

Mac's bent over a Firebird that must have been brought in last night when I arrive to work. I'm eight minutes late. I don't even bother trying to explain how difficult it is to get a small child up and ready for school, or what a nightmare it is to drive across town in rush hour. Mac doesn't give a s.h.i.+t. All he cares about is that I'm here for work on time, and if I'm not-frequently the case-then he reams me out about it.

"Sorry, Mac."

"Sorry, Mac?" He looks up from the engine block, wrench in hand, face full of grease, and frowns at me. "Sorry, Mac ain't gonna cut it much longer, kid. Sooner or later, I'll be finding someone else to take your place, you hear me?" He points the wrench at me, and I feel like ripping it out of his f.u.c.king hand and smas.h.i.+ng it into his face.

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll work something out." I've been saying the same thing for a while now.

"I don't get it," Mac says, returning to his work. "You should just hire a child minder or some s.h.i.+t to take your kid sister to school. That's what I did with my kids."

"I can't afford a child minder." He knows this well enough. He's the one who pays my meager weekly pay-check. This is just how Mac likes to start the conversation with me. The conversation. The one where he tries to get me running cars for him.

"Well, you know there's always extra work here for you if you need it, Mase. Just say the word."

If it were just me and I wanted to make some extra money, I wouldn't have a problem saying yes to his repeated offer.

But Millie...

If I got busted by the cops, there would be no one to take care of her. Even if I didn't get sent down, Child Protection Services would deem me an unfit guardian and take her away. She'd grow up in the care system, pa.s.sed from pillar to post. Probably get caught up in drugs just like my mother did. I can't do that to her.

"Yeah, man. I'll let you know," I tell Mac, but he and I both know I won't. Mac doesn't like the fact that I work here and I know about all the s.h.i.+t that goes down after dark, and yet I'm not involved. Makes him nervous.

I work my a.s.s off for the rest of the day, fitting out three cars before close of business to try and get back in the boss's good books. I haven't even stopped to eat by the time five o'clock rolls around.

I may not be able to afford a child minder, but I am lucky enough to have a great neighbor who brings Millie home from school with her own kids, and takes care of her until I get home from work. Wanda's a G.o.dsend. Without her, I'd be f.u.c.ked. I shouldn't really take advantage of her kindness. I should head straight home and pick up Mil, but when I walk out of work the very first thing I see is the gym. Blood & Roses. Weird f.u.c.king name for a gym, if you ask me. The shutters are up, the lights still on in the back, and I can hear the familiar sound of guys f.u.c.king up each others' s.h.i.+t.

I was so surprised when that guy didn't hand me my a.s.s the other night. I thought for sure I was dead; he looked like a UFC fighter, for f.u.c.k's sake. And he sure as h.e.l.l didn't look like a nice one. Two nights a week for the past month, I've been picking the lock over there. Only when Wanda could look after Millie late into the evening, which was never for long. But now, maybe I could spend half an hour after work training there every night. Wanda probably wouldn't mind that.

Working out's never been top on my list of priorities, but when my best friend Ben started earning big money in the fighting scene, it got me to thinking. If I can get good, if I can get strong, if I can get an in, I could be earning good money, too.

I shoot Wanda a text to make sure she's okay with the kid for a little while longer, and she replies almost immediately, telling me to bring her some milk on the way home and we'll call it even. And then I'm walking across the road, walking straight into the gym, and walking straight into the guy who could have kicked my a.s.s the other night.