Out of the Ashes (Sons of Templar MC #3)(23)

My * clenched around him as I reached the peak of my climax. He grunted his own release and I felt him empty into me.

I struggled to regain my grasp on reality, breathing heavily. My legs were still locked around Zane’s hips, my hands clinging to his back. I was worried he was the only thing stopping me from melting into a sex-induced stupor.

His hand was still firm at my neck, the other biting into my ass in a way that I knew would leave a mark.

I opened my eyes slowly, regaining some sense of equilibrium. Zane was staring at me. No, not staring at me, but into me. His gaze seemed to sear my soul, as if he had f*cked me bare, right down to the core of me. He could see everything. His expression was strange. Searching, somehow reverent.

In an instant, as if a switch had flicked, it turned blank. Everything wiped from those eyes and a cold fury returned. He pulled out of me quickly and set me on shaky legs. I felt him seep out of me.

Holy f*ck. No condom.

I didn’t have time to evaluate all of the issues this presented, since a rough voice cut through my thoughts like a blade.

“Get out,” he commanded.

I blinked, trying to right my disheveled clothes.

“What?” I asked weakly. We had just had sex, literally seconds ago. No, it wasn’t sex. It was f*cking. Pure, unadulterated, raw and carnal f*cking. But still. He had just been inside me, his cum was literally dripping down my leg. He couldn’t possibly be kicking me out. We needed to talk about this. Actually, we needed to have some sort of conversation. I didn’t think we’d actually done that since I’d met him. We needed to converse and he needed to emit more than two syllables so I didn’t feel like a dirty slut who just had sex with someone who she hadn’t even heard utter a full sentence.

He regarded my coldly. “You need to f*ckin’ leave. Now,” he bit out, his voice hard and emotionless.

I flinched slightly at the cruel tone and the equally cruel stare. I felt humiliated. Used. Sullied. I didn’t have the strength to conjure up any fury, to yell or argue or call him a misogynistic *. I merely just stared at him a second longer and darted out the door. Then I ran, full on ran across the street and into my house. I really hoped my neighbors didn’t choose now to water their gardens and see the sight, but then again I was too beyond it to care. I just needed to get home.

I slammed the door behind me and sank down to the floor, my head hitting my knees. I didn’t cry. I hadn’t let a man have my tears in sixteen years; I wasn’t about to start now. I also hadn’t had a man hurt me in sixteen years, and I was afraid that I had just opened that door. This time it wasn’t with fists or kicks. It was with cold stares and cutting dismissals. It hurt just the same.





Bull paced his living room, his fists clenched tightly to his sides. He was struggling. Battling actually. This time it wasn’t against the demons that were hell bent on destroying him. No. This time it was against himself. Against her.

Every fiber of his being was urging him to get out of his f*ckin’ hallway and follow her, drag her back in here, apologize, then f*ck her again. Against the wall. Then he’d take her into his bedroom, taste her *, make her come on his mouth, then f*ck her for a third time. His dick clenched at the thought of getting her honey on his tongue. Of sliding into her tight heat again. He put his fist through his wall. Out of anger, frustration. But mostly to distract him. The pain didn’t do much to move his mind away from her, though. Pain was normal. It was his constant companion. A welcome friend.

What was dangerous was not feeling pain. Of feeling her hot tight body underneath his. Tasting her mouth, feeling her moan as he pounded inside her. Having his dick milked by her orgasm. That was dangerous.

“Fuck!” he roared, shaking his head.

He’d f*cked up. Majorly. Christ, he had vowed to himself, after those torturous two hours at the movie theater, he f*ckin’ swore he would do everything to make sure he was never in her presence again. Never close enough to smell the vanilla scent coming off her hair. To feel that spark when their skin met.

He was seriously considering selling his house. He had already spent three nights at the club, trying to get her out of his mind. He’d f*cked the only club bitch he could stomach, the one who knew the deal, knew what to do. That hadn’t even helped. He’d only come visualizing Mia. Usually he did everything humanly possible not to think of golden hair while f*ckin’ a club bitch. That’s why Whit was best. Dark hair, dark eyes. Curvy. Complete opposite. He’d f*cked her the day of the disaster at the movie theater. Hadn’t touched her since; instead, he sought solace in a whisky bottle.

Then within f*ckin’ hours of him getting home, the bitch arrived on his doorstep. With f*ckin’ cake. She was babbling. Nervous. And f*ckin’ irresistible. He had had to lock himself down from dragging her in the moment he opened the door.

And when he had finally lost the battle, hauling her in, finally tasting her mouth, he had expected her to fight him. To rear away in disgust. Hell, he had f*ckin’ hoped for it. But instead she had melted against him, clawed at his f*ckin’ back. The wildcat took every inch of him. Those moments he was inside her, touching her, tasting her. Everything was gone. The memories, the demons. Everything. It was only her.

When they were done he had looked at her. Her eyes had been lazy, a sated dreamy expression on her face. She had been f*ckin’ beautiful. He actually had to catch himself from laying a soft kiss on her swollen lips. From brushing her golden hair out of her face.