Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(7)
Even drug lords and corrupt bankers may have someone who loves them.
I’m running back into the bedroom to get a belt for Peter’s jeans when he walks in, his expression pitch black.
“What happened?” Dropping the backpack on the bed, I rush toward him. “Do we have to—”
He catches my face between his callused palms and slants his lips across mine in a hard, violently hungry kiss. We didn’t make love after the encounter in the kitchen—I passed out early from jet lag and Peter considerately let me sleep—and I can taste the pent-up lust in this kiss, the dark fire that always burns between us.
Backing me up against the bed, Peter tears off my clothes, then his own, and then, with no preliminaries, he thrusts into me, stretching me with his thickness, battering me with his hard heat. I cry out at the shock of it, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. His eyes glitter fiercely as he stretches my arms above my head, his hands shackling my wrists, and I realize it’s something more than lust driving him today, something savage and desperate.
My body’s response is swift and sudden, like oil catching fire. One minute, I’m gritting my teeth at the merciless force of his thrusts, and the next, I’m hurtling over the edge and screaming as I splinter in brutal ecstasy. There’s no relief in this orgasm, only a lessening of impossible tension, but even that doesn’t last. The second peak, as violent as the first, comes right on its heels, and I cry out at the agonizing spasms, the pleasure ripping me apart as he drives into me, over and over again, riding me through the climax and beyond.
I don’t know how long Peter fucks me like that, but by the time he comes, spurting burning-hot seed inside me, my throat is raw from screaming and I’ve lost count of how many orgasms he’s wrung from my battered body. The hard muscles of his chest gleam with sweat as he withdraws from me, and I lie there panting, too dazed and exhausted to move.
He leaves, then returns a few moments later with a wet towel, which he uses to pat at the wetness between my legs. “Sara…” His voice is rough, thick with emotion as he leans over me to brush a lock of hair off my sweat-dampened forehead. “Ptichka, I—”
A hard knock on the door jolts us both.
“Peter.” It’s Yan, his voice as sharp as earlier this morning. “You need to hear this. Now.”
Swearing under his breath, Peter jumps off the bed, finds his discarded jeans in the pile of clothes on the floor, and pulls them on without bothering with underwear. The look he gives me over his shoulder is fierce, almost angry, but he doesn’t say anything as he strides out of the room.
I sit up, wincing at the soreness between my thighs, and force myself to get up and take another quick rinse before getting dressed again.
I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m getting an awful premonition.
7
Peter
It’s a testament to the seriousness of the situation that there isn’t a suggestive smirk in sight as I stalk into the kitchen barefoot and shirtless, the smell of sex clinging to me like some primal cologne.
“It’s bad,” Yan says with no preamble as I approach. “A drunk driver T-boned her at an intersection, and the car rolled three times before landing on its roof. She has over a dozen broken bones and is hemorrhaging internally. They just took her in for a second surgery, but it’s not looking good. Given her age and the extent of her injuries, they don’t think she’s going to make it.”
Every word he speaks stabs deep into my gut. “What about Sara’s father?” I ask, my mind spinning. “Is he—”
“He’s holding himself together so far, but his blood pressure is dangerously high.” Anton’s dark gaze is grave. “They tried to send him home to get some rest, but he refuses to go. Some of their friends are there with him, but there’s only so much help they can provide.”
“Right.” I stare at my teammates, and in their eyes, I see the bleak knowledge of what I’m going to have to do.
The patter of light footsteps on the stairs captures my attention, and I turn to see Sara hurrying down the steps, her heart-shaped face pale with worry.
“What’s going on?” Her sock-clad feet slide on the kitchen tiles as she skids to a stop in front of us. Her hazel gaze jumps from me to my teammates and back. “Did something happen?”
“Give us a minute,” I tell the guys, and they immediately disperse, the twins going upstairs while Anton heads toward the closet by the door.
“Do you want me to prep the chopper?” he asks in Russian as he passes me, and I nod, keeping my gaze on Sara, who’s looking more anxious by the second.
“What happened?” she asks again, coming up to me, and I know I can’t delay it any longer. Reaching over, I clasp her delicate hand between my palms and, as gently as I can, convey what I just learned.
Her face lacks all semblance of color by the time I’m done, and her fingers are ice cold in my grip. Her eyes are still dry, but I know it’s the shock that’s keeping her from falling apart. My songbird was just dealt a devastating blow, and if I don’t act now, she’ll never recover from it.
I will lose her.
I know it.
I feel it.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but I say evenly, “I saw you packing earlier. Are you ready to go?”