Kings of Chaos (Dirty Broken Savages #1)(66)

All through it, Priest doesn’t say anything. He stares down at me, watching, waiting. His face is twisted into a slightly different version of his usual neutral mask, but I can tell he’s focused on this. His breathing is as harsh as mine, and his bright blue eyes burn like they’re lit from within.

I choke out his name when he hits that spot inside me just right, and he lingers there, slamming his fingers into it again and again. Until I can’t form words at all anymore. I writhe and buck, my body moving on pure instinct.

His hand tightens just that bit more on my throat, cutting off my air enough that darkness edges my vision as my orgasm hits me hard. It rolls through me and over me like a truck slamming into me at a hundred miles an hour, and I can’t even scream.

All I can do is shake myself apart as pleasure ravages my body, leaving me limp and gasping.

It takes a few long minutes for me to come down from the shock of that high, and of our encounter. My pussy feels a little sore from how roughly he handled it, and when he releases me, it’s like I can still feel the phantom touch of his fingers at my neck.

Priest backs off, letting me go and standing up. He leaves me sprawled on the couch, still trying to catch my breath.

His features are back to that perfect expressionless mask once again, and he looks down at me with cool eyes. All trace of anger or passion or whatever I saw in them completely gone.

I half expect him to turn around and walk out, or spit some threat at me, but instead he just takes a breath and keeps looking.

A few seconds pass before he speaks.

“You want to know why I went after you? Why I saved you?” He lets the question linger on the air for a moment, then shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

I don’t say anything back to that. Just watch him.

“You don’t mean anything to me,” he adds. “You’re not—”

Priest breaks off that sentence harshly, like he’s snapping it in half abruptly.

I can think of plenty of ways he might have ended it, but as I gaze up at his angular features, a sudden realization shoots through me. He wasn’t going to insult me, to say I’m not worth it or something. He would probably have just finished his sentence if that were the case.

I sit up, pinning him with my stare.

“I’m not who?” I ask.

The stone-faced man looks away, and I can see the muscles in his jaw tense.

So I’m right, then. There is someone. Or was someone.

Someone he maybe loved or who at least meant a lot to him. Someone he lost? It explains a lot about him when I really think about it.

He’s not just a heartless asshole or a cold, callous motherfucker. He’s broken just like I am. All the way to his bones. Down to his soul. In a way that can’t be healed or fixed.

I stand up, letting my shirt fall back down around my thighs, and he looks at me again. I hold that inscrutable blue gaze and get right up into his personal space.

Without kissing him or touching him in any other way, I spit on my hand, then reach down his pants and touch his cock. It’s warm, but soft. Even after he just fucked me with his fingers on the couch after watching me touch myself on the piano, he’s not hard.

His cock is completely limp, and when I wrap my fingers around it and stroke it, it doesn’t respond immediately the way most guys’ would.

Priest narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t shove me away. Doesn’t tell me to fuck off.

I keep stroking him, twisting my hand a little, really working at it, and after a bit, he starts to get hard. I can feel his cock growing against my palm, the heat rising as blood rushes downward.

His features tighten a little as his cock stiffens. His breath catches, and then, all at once, his shaft goes soft again.

Something passes over his face, although I can’t read the expression. He’s still breathing a little harder than usual, and his Adam’s apple shifts up and down as he swallows, but other than that, he doesn’t move at all.

I release him and step back. There’s a slight ache in my chest, as if some part of me is connected to some part of him, a wire stretching taut between us. I can’t help but feel as if somehow that small moment was more intimate than anything that came before it.

It’s like that sometimes, when broken people reveal their broken parts. Like finding some little bit of connection that you usually don’t let the rest of the world see.

But I’ve seen it in Priest now—I’ve felt it. And I understand him better because of it.

“There’s nothing wrong with being broken,” I tell him quietly. He blinks, his long lashes sweeping down over his bright blue eyes and then back up again. “Some things aren’t meant to be whole. And some things don’t need to be fixed.”

Taking another step away, I turn and slip out of the room.





28





ASH





SIN AND SALVATION IS HOPPING, like it usually is. The music is loud, and the people are loose. There are bodies grinding on the dance floor, hands wandering, and the air is thick with the feeling of anticipation and arousal.

It’s my element, and usually I’m right there in the mix. Tonight, I’m working, so I wander over to the bar, watching as Celia, the bartender who also manages the bar, makes drinks for a giggling couple with her usual flair.

They pay and hurry off to find a corner, and I step up, taking their place.