Rogue (Dead Man's Ink, #2)(13)
“I—”
“You need to think about it. And that’s okay. But know this. If you want to be with me, everything will change for you. No more college. No more middle class existence. I’ll make you feel like you were sleeping before, like you have no idea how you lived such a placid, quiet existence without me.” His voice deepens, sending thrills through me. “I’ll f*ck you raw, Soph. I’ll make you forget what it was like to be with any other man. I’ll ride you so hard, you won’t remember your own name. I’ll be the only thing tethering you to this earth. My sheets will be soaked with your come every single damn night for the rest of your sublime existence. This I promise you.”
I feel like I’m seconds away from passing out. Holy. Fucking. Shit. No one… no one has ever spoken to me like that before in my entire life. And the crazy thing is that I know it’s true. I know he means every single word, and more importantly he can deliver. I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to say in return to that. Rebel’s still holding his hand out to me, waiting for me to do something.
He did the same thing in the hallway at his father’s place, asking me to accept him, but I was saved from making any sort of decision by the blood-curdling scream that came from Louis James Aubertin II’s kitchen at the time.
There’s no one screaming now, though. I take a deep breath, trying to think of something appropriate to say while at the same time assessing what I even want anymore. I draw a total blank. “You realize that’s impossible, right?” I whisper. “That a girl can’t soak sheets with her come.”
Rebel lowers his hand. His eyes shine, some sort of mischevious mirth hidden there, just behind the sharpness of his gaze. “You think the female ejaculation is a myth?”
“Isn’t it?”
He starts laughing, deep in the back of his throat. It’s a wicked, dangerous sound. “Oh, boy. Sounds to me like you’ve never come properly before, Soph. And that’s a crying shame.” The laughter dies on his lips, transforming his expression into one of deadly seriousness. “If you let me, I’ll be more than happy to rectify the situation.”
He fixes me with those ice-blue eyes of his, so disturbingly beautiful, and I feel like I’m about to squirm out of my own damn skin. I could barely look into them when we first met, and that hasn’t really changed. And now, with him talking about female ejaculation, I’m finding it hard to think straight. “You shouldn’t be making bold threats like that, you jerk,” I inform him. “You could not deliver on that.”
He grins. “How little you know me.”
Rebel sleeps some more. I find myself watching him, panic coursing through my veins. Three weeks. I can’t believe I’ve only been gone for three weeks. I feel my throat tightening shut when I realize I’ve missed my mom’s birthday. It just slipped me by without notice. Usually Sloane and I will take her out for a girls’ day, usually coffee and breakfast in the morning, followed by a spa session, mani-pedis and massages all round. It’s been our staple celebrating for the past five years.
The ridiculous thing is that neither my sister or my mother are the kinds of people to enjoy spa days. Sloane was always too focused on her studies and then on her internship, and my mom still thinks every last cent that comes into the house should be squirreled away, banked, invested or donated to the church.
Mom’s birthdays are usually awkward affairs.
And this year, instead of getting my toenails trimmed like a prize Pomeranian, I was f*cking Rebel in a hallway. Literally. My mom was probably crying hysterically from the moment she woke up to the moment she went to sleep.
“Hey. Hey, what’s up?” Rebel reaches up slowly and trails blood-stained fingertips across the line of my jaw. His touch sends violent shivers chasing through my body. I don’t even want to mention where the sensation settles, growing and growing with an increasing sense of urgency. I take his hand and place it back on his chest.
“I’m fine. Just still…y’know. Dealing.”
“Yeah. Dealing’s pretty shitty.” He looks down at himself—he’s such a mess—and I want to laugh at how insufficient the statement is. I don’t think my body remembers how to laugh anymore, though. Screaming or total, terror-filled silence seem to be the only two functions my vocal chords are capable of.
“Your guys all saw me last night,” I say, trying to keep my eyes off Rebel’s bare chest. I’m morbidly fascinated by the angry red stitches that trail across his stomach and disappear over his side, toward his back. His blood has dried and cracked, turned so dark it’s almost black; it creates bizarre patterns all over the tightly packed muscle of his chest and stomach. “I say guys,” I continue, “but there were two women there, too. An older, really tall woman, and a younger one with pink hair.”
Rebel nods. “Yeah. Fee. Josephine. She’s the tall one. She was one of the first club members. And the one with the pink hair…” He shakes his head ruefully. “That one is the bane of my f*cking life. The rest of the crew are guys, though. Did any of them look like they were going to lynch you?” he asks.
“They looked stunned actually. Seems like you did a really good job of keeping me a secret.”
Rebel purses his lips—god, I want to bite them. I can still remember how amazing they felt all over my body—and then he blinks up at the ceiling, like he’s weighing up what he wants to tell me. Eventually, he says, “They’re good guys. The Widow Makers isn’t like any other club, though, Soph. Everyone has a story here. There isn’t a single person here who joined because they think breaking the law is fun. We have a lot of vets here. Like me. Like Cade. After the corps chews you up and spits you out, you kinda feel like…like you’ve lost your family. Unless they’re ex-military too, your blood and bone relatives will never understand what you’ve been through. The bond you build with the other guys in your unit…they’re never just guys by the end. Even the guys you hate, the ones who drive you insane, the ones you wanna kill half the time—they’re your brothers too.” He laughs. “I mean, most brothers want to strangle each other half the time anyway, right? But if someone f*cks with them…” Shaking his head, Rebel sighs. “Someone tries to f*ck with them and it’s game on. Brothers will defend each other ‘til the death.