Chapter Fourteen
Slamming the door behind him, Razor swung the backpack he’d been carrying clear across the room. It crashed against the painting Edge had given him for his last birthday. It was one of his favorites. The artist had captured an unguarded moment between Razor and his brothers, and somehow put into each their smiling faces a reflection of each of their personalities.
Right now it could burn in Hellfire for all he cared.
He roared in fury, his skin prickling with the need to shift. To kill something, to run and forget about everything and everyone for a few hours.
He snarled.
Not everyone, just one person. This thing with Sasha was getting messy. No, not getting. It already was messy. All because of his feelings and shit.
But could he really have stopped them? There had always been some sort of…fireball in his chest that had started the moment he’d first met her. It had grown into a jumbled mess of all the stuff he felt for her. And now after having been inside her, it felt ready to explode. It all had to mean something, he was sure of it. He just didn’t know what. And that, the not knowing, not having the particulars of something that felt momentous, was fucking torture.
Yanking off his boots, he threw them carelessly to the side. They wouldn’t stay there long. As soon as this anger receded, his obsessive cleanliness would force him to go back and take care of the mess.
What the fuck had happened back at that parking garage? Had he been high? What had made him think he would ever be good enough for Sasha? She’d dismissed him so easily afterwards. Letting him know all it had been to her was a let’s-get-this-out-of-our-system screw, and yeah, it burned.
He had no problem with meaningless sex. He’d had it enough times not to get butt-hurt when it was flipped around on him. That she had fucked him didn’t mean she owed him anything. And if he had been sure Sasha had simply been using him for sex, he wouldn’t be upset. It would suck, sure, but he would deal with it.
What he couldn’t deal with was what she wasn’t admitting to. And that was the reason for his foul mood. There had been so much desire and trust and pleasure coming from her, it had been difficult to breathe at moments. He had almost felt unworthy of it.
Razor had never been much for dominant and submissive type sex. Sure, he liked to top in bed, but he was also happy to let his partner have all the power.
The dynamics with Sasha had felt completely different, though. It hadn’t been a case of, “Meh, she wants me to call the shots, cool, I’ll play along,” but more like, “Yes, being in control with her feels so damn right.”
He couldn’t explain it, didn’t want to. It had all felt right and glorious.
While he’d been inside her, her emotions had been open to him, and he wondered if she’d even realized it. One thing was sure: she had lied when she had told him that nothing had changed. Because everything had changed.
With the need to do something other than pace, Razor pulled out the small pouch of Blood Root leaves from his jean pocket. Sitting on the kitchen table, he began to roll a thick joint, stuffing it full of finely grated leaves. There was no way a normal-sized blunt would do tonight. He’d been smoking so much that he was running low, and he’d only just stocked up last week.
As he prepared his smoke, images of being inside Sasha replayed in his mind. His cock was already growing hard again. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Growling in irritation, he finished the sealing, then quickly lit it and puffed it to life. He closed his eyes as the first wave of smoke hit his throat.
His tongue had been everywhere. His teeth had sunk into her soft nape…his come on her skin.
Goddess, I marked her. The realization of what he’d done hit him straight in the face. His eyes snapped open. Fuck, he’d left his scent on her and pretty much slapped a warning sign to other men to stay away. Razor hadn’t even known he could do that, for fuck’s sake.
But there was no denying it. When he had straightened out his clothes and hopped on his bike, even with all the turmoil going on inside in his head, his scent had been unmistakable on her, lingering just beneath her own base scent. What was he supposed to do now?
Nothing. You’re supposed to do nothing. She told you she doesn’t want you. Deal with it.
Shooting out of his chair, he resumed his pacing. He smoked and paced until the blunt was almost out.
After taking one last, long drag, he strode to the bathroom, tossed the blunt in the sink, and removed his clothes. He turned the shower on and stepped in.
Twenty minutes later, the scents of Sasha and sex were sliding down the drain, and he was dressed in black jeans, a dark green T-shirt, and his boots. Grabbing his backpack, he fished out his wallet and keys, then strapped on his sabers and rifle and stomped out of the house.
Practically running down the stairs, he locked up his building. The cool night air felt good against his feverish skin as he left. There would be no peace today; that much was obvious. He needed to take his mind off of everything Sasha, and what better way to accomplish that than with a visit to the Night House? He’d force himself to enjoy it if he had to.
At a gateway, he chose his destination and entered the portal.
Forty minutes later, he was sliding into one of the many black leather couches that sat throughout the club, his gaze moving through the room. Night House dancers twirled on poles, twisted from white cloth hanging from the ceiling, jumped and spun as they performed intricate dances on each of the three stages. Behind big glass windows, patrons and employees put on shows from inside private rooms. Kinky, comedy, dramatic, you name it, the Night House had it.
The deep purples and reds of the decor and lighting gave the club a dark and sultry feel, and combined with the fucking, dancing, and all around debauchery going on in every corner of the room, it was perfect to get anyone in an amorous mood.
Anytime now it would work on him, too. He took in the view once…twice.
Yep, any minute now.
Sitting back with a sigh, he had just finished placing his drink order with the tiny pink-haired waitress when Night strolled over to him.
Razor clenched his jaw. Couldn’t he have just one night?
“Why aren’t you sitting on the dais?” Night asked as he motioned to the over-the-top dais setup at the back of the club. It had throne-like chairs and a monster of a bed. His brother had had it made just for the Hellhounds. He hated the thing. Night loved it.
Razor didn’t answer, just continued to look at nothing and everything at the same time.
“You look like you’re murdering someone in your head.” Taking the seat next to him, Night sniffed the air around Razor. “And you smell like sex.”
Great, did I not scrub hard enough? It sure seemed like he had—his skin still felt raw.
He continued to ignore his brother. Maybe Night would go away if Razor pretended he was invisible.
Instead, his brother chuckled. “It didn’t work when you were a pup, and it won’t work now. I’m really hard to ignore.” Night took a sip from his glass, the silver liquid sparkling as he drank. “I’m too good looking,” he added as he put the glass down.
Razor closed his eyes, rubbing at them with the heel of his palm as he pushed back the desire to kick Night’s ass. He sent a small spark through their mental connection, warning the other man of his sour mood.
Undeterred, Night continued. “Was the sex that awful that you had to come mope at my club? Stop it right now before you bring down the atmosphere and make everyone slit their wrists.”
“I’m not moping,” Razor said irritably. He didn’t fucking mope.
Amusement touched Night’s lips. “So, a bad lay, then. Who was it?”
“None of your business. And it wasn’t a bad lay.”
“Ah, so it was the best fuck of your life and now you’re reevaluating your entire existence and how you could have lived with mediocre sex for so long.”
Razor slowly turned and stared at Night. Night, with his stupid smile, stared back. Then they burst out laughing.
Goddess, this was fucked up. He was moping.
“Something like that,” Razor finally said.
“Who is she?”
The waitress chose that moment to bring Razor’s drink, and he couldn’t have been more thankful for the interruption. He wasn’t ready to talk about Sasha. Not that there was anything to tell. She’d fucked him, didn’t want him anymore, end of story.
“Holy Hellfire, Raz, she’s really done a number on you. Plata brew? I hope you plan on staying in your rooms tonight.”
Razor grunted as he reached for the hot-pink drink and threw it back. It burned like fuck going down. Made from the Plata plant native to the land of Goriant in the Underworld, Plata brew didn’t take more than one or two shots to get someone piss-drunk. It wasn’t exactly true for them, though. Their Hellhound metabolism burned through the alcohol too fast for it to affect them that quickly. But it certainly left a nice buzz if they drank enough of the stuff. Which was exactly the plan.
Just as the burn was subsiding and the nice buzz bubbling through his system, he spotted a pretty, dark-haired female walking in his direction. She had cute little pointed ears.
When he took her in, it was easy to guess what her deal was.
He was an experiment to her. The spark of interest in the woman’s eyes spoke of challenge, of a morbid curiosity that he had seen countless times in the eyes of males and females over the years. He guessed that this one had been dared by the friends huddled behind her, giggling.
His gut twisted. Is that what he had been to Sasha? A curiosity? He couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t matter at this point.
Narrowing his eyes on the girl, he showed her with his gaze just what kind of mood he was in. And it wasn’t the playing kind. She paused, but still didn’t walk away.
Brave, was she? They’d see about that. Who was he to deny her a gold star in her Fuck Chart? So he sat back and watched her approach, her hips swaying in an exaggerated manner.
Night spoke up next to him, his voice solemn. “You can’t fuck it out of your system, Razor.” Then almost too quietly, he added, “Trust me, I know.”
But Razor had heard it. Frowning, he turned, but his brother’s eyes were on the young woman moving towards them. How did Night know? As far as Razor knew, his brother had never been in a relationship. At least, not one that had lasted longer than a week. And those could hardly be called relationships. According to Night, he was perfectly content with his choices.
Razor eyed him. Was he, really?
Before he could ask more, the woman slid onto Razor’s lap, her arms going around his neck. “I’m Damina.”
“That’s nice,” Razor said, uninterested in her name. He wasn’t trying to get to know her; this would only be sex. “Take off your dress.”
She blinked a couple times, her body stiffening.
“Um, don’t you want to know stuff about me first?”
“No.”
Her eyes flicked to Night. His brother shrugged. The club owner was the sweet talker, the seducer. She’d probably heard stories, thought all four of them were like that. Razor could be, but not like Night. Certainly not at this very moment.
“Okay,” she said, then stood, attempting a slow seduction when she removed her dress. Once she was completely nude, Razor reached out and gripped her hips, pulling her to him until she was standing between his spread thighs. She had a nice body, very thick. Big breasts, wide hips, nice pussy.
She’s no Sasha, though.
Cursing himself for allowing her to slip through the wall he had tried to erect, he reached around and cupped the girl’s ass, squeezing hard, the way he’d done to Sasha. But unlike his Reaper, who had enjoyed the bite of pain, Damina whimpered and tried to move out of reach.
“Ow, what did you do that for?” she asked testily.
He sat back, arms spreading over the back of the couch. This wasn’t going to work. He should just tell her to leave.
“Forgive my brother, sweetness, he isn’t himself today,” Night cut in, his lazy sprawl drawing the woman’s gaze down his body.
She smiled coquettishly. “Maybe I picked the wrong brother.”
Night lifted a cocky eyebrow. “Maybe?”
Razor’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he fished it out, leaving Night and the woman to their flirting.
Sin’s name flashed on the screen. He looked up and flipped off the nearest camera, knowing his younger brother would see him. The same way he’d probably seen Razor fuck Sasha against his Harley. He slipped the phone back in his pocket as he looked back to his brother and Damina. They were making out, the woman straddling Night’s lap, his brother’s fingers between her thighs. And he didn’t even care. She’d be better off with him, anyway.
As he went back to watching all the dancing, fucking, the naked, half naked, and fully dressed women sauntering through the club, a strange sort of realization dawned on him.
Razor didn’t want anyone here, or anyone else for that matter. He wanted to be with Sasha.
He wasn’t the type to lie to himself, but it looked like he had, anyway, when he’d tried to convince himself he had to get away from her.
Now that she’d made it painfully clear that she would continue to push him away, there was only a deep and confusing ache in the center of his chest. It felt volatile and angry, demanding Razor do something he didn’t know how to interpret. It growled and hungered and grew impatient.
Determination rose as he recalled how much she’d been feeling during sex. No one could fake feelings, he knew from experience. The thing was, he didn’t want to talk Sasha into any relationship. No, he wanted—needed—her to choose him. Not just for sex, but to choose him as her man. To want him just as much as he wanted her.
Fuck, this was so screwed up. More so than before, because now he was intending on playing for keeps.
His phone beeped, alerting him to a new text from Sin.
He sighed and typed a response.
A second later, another beep.
Razor snarled.
Sin’s reply came quickly.
That got his attention. He got up and moved to a less noisy area, calling his brother back.
“What the fuck is it, Sin?”
Sin laughed. “I guess you’re not just grumpy looking on the camera. What crawled up your ass?”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed with plata juice.”
A pause. “Razor, you and Sasha—”
“Shut it, Sin,” he warned. “You saw and heard it all. No need to have a heart to heart. Now, what about my bike?”
Sin laughed nervously. “Well, after you left the parking garage…”
Five minutes later, he was gunning down the street on his Harley, still unable to believe Sasha had stolen his motherfucking bike. No, actually, he could believe it, he was just fucking shocked.
And hard.
And it wasn’t even because she’d hotwired his bike and then driven off on it. No, it was because, to him and his beast, her actions said, “Come on, Razor. Let’s play.”
Goddess, and now he was chasing her down, accepting the gauntlet she’d thrown down and hoping that he wasn’t making yet another mistake. Because the thoughts that were brewing in his head—of the ways he could punish her for the little stunt—had him nearly coming in his pants.
Speeding up, his hands tightened on the bike, almost wishing it was her throat he was squeezing as he fucked her. Razor cursed and shifted, adjusting his erection. The audacity! The little minx had fucked him and then stolen his bike. His brand new bike, no less. The damn thing had only arrived the previous night, and he’d been too busy to take it for a spin.
In truth, he wasn’t even angry over that. When Sin had finished telling him how she had flipped off the camera/Sin and then proceeded to calmly, and with a smile on her face, steal the blood-red bike, Razor had felt the steam rush out from his ears. While he’d been ready to drink his feelings away, she’d been having a grand ol’ time jacking his bike. But that had only lasted the short walk from the club to his Harley.
After that, as his primal brain decided her actions meant something, and on the heels of the realization that had come to him at the club, a strange sort of calm had washed over his body. He was still annoyed as fuck with her, but now excitement churned in his gut.
Rounding the corner, he spotted the building Sin had tracked his bike to. He pulled into the underground parking garage and his eyes instantly zeroed in on his motorcycle. He looked around. Once. Twice.
Dafuk…
His bike was just sitting there, out in the open. In this unsafe fucking neighborhood just waiting to be stolen. Again.
The brat had parked his property in this poor excuse for a home?
He took two furious steps. Then he stopped abruptly as something nagged at him. He frowned. Sasha lived here? In this shitty-ass complex in the slums. Why? Did she not get paid for her services as a Reaper? This place was a crime waiting to happen.
Then he caught sight of his bike again and he shook off the protective thoughts. He knew damn well that she could take care of herself.
He followed her scent up a flight of stairs and towards the back of the building. His nose in the air, Razor was led to the last door to his right on the top floor. Not hesitating, he knocked and waited for her to open up, completely comfortable with the idea of breaking down the door if she refused to answer.
The sound of several chains being unhooked followed by three deadbolts once again had him frowning. Then the knob turned and he grunted in satisfaction that she’d opened up. Smart girl.
The door swung open, revealing a smiling Sasha. The little imp.
Then Razor’s cock leapt at the sight of her body snug in leggings and a loose, sleeveless shirt. And the faint, but definitely still there, scent of him. Everything else fell away.
She cocked an eyebrow, looking entirely too smug. “Hey, asshole. Lose something?”
“I did. I’m not here for the bike, though. You can keep it.” He leaned against the doorframe, appearing relaxed even though he was ready to pounce. “I think you knew I’d be upset when I found out, and I also think you wanted me to come find you and that I wouldn’t give a shit about the bike.”
Crossing her arms under her breasts, she snorted. Though her throat moved as she swallowed hard. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
He waited. She didn’t slam the door in his face, or tell him to get lost. Or even hit him, for that matter. She just stood there and watched him right back. It was all he needed to move this along. The almost tangible sexual tension between them should have been enough, but Razor needed clearer signals from her from now on. Because he didn’t want to make any more mistakes where Sasha was concerned.
Taking a step closer, which put him right against her body, he reached out and trapped one of her wrists in his hand. Then the other, pulling them both to the small of her back.
She let him.
He leaned in close enough that he could see the tiny slices of silver in her turquoise eyes.
“Let me in, Sasha. Beg me to punish you. We both know that’s why I’m here,” he whispered, the words for her ears only.
Her eyes flared like torches, lust and need fighting for dominance. Even so, her arms tugged at his hold, like she was forcing herself to fight him. Fight this thing between them.
Good fucking luck.
“We both need this, pretty girl.” He squeezed her wrists, not trying to hurt her exactly, but more like a plea. Her gaze flickered over his face, and he could read the indecision. Then an eternity later, she gave a tiny sigh.
“Please,” she said, quietly. He wasted no time.
Kicking the door open all the way, he entered fully, dragging a now protesting Sasha into the living room. Her fight was real, but he knew it was only part of this game—that no longer felt like a game—they were playing. There was no doubt in his mind that the roles they’d both taken up so naturally fit her just fine because the minute he’d manhandled her, her arousal had flared to epic proportions.
“Oh, the mighty Judge thinks he’s going to punish me, huh?” she said, goading him.
Looking around the room, he cataloged everything in her small but efficient apartment before sitting down on a brown ottoman. He pulled her across his lap, on her belly, her ass up in the air.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her leggings, and then he was pulling them over her hips, baring her ass. Her hips jerked.
“Razor, don’t you dare—Fuck!” Her protest ended on a moan as he brought his hand down on her ass. Hard. Repeatedly.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
He didn’t miss a beat, his hand alternating from her right cheek to her left cheek. Slaps, followed by soothing rubs.
She yelped and squirmed even as, he noticed, she now arched into his slaps. He held her down firmer and smiled. Goddess, her skin was already beginning to darken. He was ridiculously happy that he’d tossed his riding gloves on the seat before heading up. The feel of her warming flesh on his bare palm was erotic on a level he couldn’t even describe.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
“Motherfu—” She’d given up yelling at him and was now moaning out curses. The neighbors could probably hear her swearing, and he was more than okay with that.
Razor’s breathing was fast, his dick now painfully hard. He wanted to flip her over and sit her down on his cock, fuck her until they were both sated, which would probably be never. But he wouldn’t. Not fucking her would be part of the punishment. It would be like punishing them both.
“Bad little Reaper,” he growled. She was now undulating on his lap, trying to rub herself on him. He kept his hold on her firm.
Twenty barehanded slaps later, he finally stopped. Panting, and with an erection that would never fade, he took a minute to compose himself as he admired her ass. The temptation to push a finger into her and see just how wet she was almost unbearable.
Unsure how he managed it, he set her panties and leggings back into place, then stood up with Sasha in his arms. She was looking up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. He was pretty sure she was fighting just as hard to stay back.
Steadily, he set her to rights, taking a moment to pet her and whisper into her hair how incredible she had been.
She didn’t say anything, just blinked at him, leaning into his touch. When he was sure she wasn’t going to fall over, he cleared his throat. Not willing to leave without something for himself, Razor leaned down and placed a long kiss on the side of her throat. Her breath hitched as his tongue licked up her clean sweat. The scent of her renewed desire hit him, and he practically whimpered. But before either of them could do what they both so obviously craved, he turned on his heel and left her apartment.
If she had touched him, he wouldn’t have stopped at just sex. His instincts had been screaming at him to mark her body, her entire house for that matter, with his scent so no one would have any doubt as to who she belonged to.
He practically ran out. No, she didn’t belong to him. Probably never would. This had been a big fucking mistake. Again. Sexual attraction didn’t mean she wanted him forever. He was an idiot for even entertaining the idea.
Calling up every last scrap of self-control, he rushed to the parking garage. His fangs were out, his dick was about to burst, and more worrisome, his beast was snarling at him to go back to her.
Razor drove off like his soul was on the line. And maybe it was, who the fuck knew, but he broke every traffic law as he got away from Sasha and the impossible things he wanted from her.