“I was property, not a person,” I whisper. The truth of the why burns at my heart. Sniffling and calming myself down, I force myself to meet his eyes. Gaining my emotional strength back, I let the tears staining my cheeks dry where they are, and I bring my hands up to his wrist. With one swift motion, I yank his hand away from my chest. He’s done protesting. Now he’s just some fucked up mix of sad and angry, but the fight has gone out of him. For now. I don’t know what to do with sad and defeated. It’s not something I’ve seen often.
“No reason to be a rat,” he spits, some of the fire returning. I like his fire, as much as it hurts. It’s familiar, and even when it’s painful, I appreciate a little familiarity. But that word… rat. It hurts in a way I don’t want to admit. In both my father’s and Ryan’s worlds, the worst thing you can be is a rat. There are a few offenses that will automatically get you a bullet to your throat. Killing a Made Man, raping a kid, and being a rat. I can’t be a rat.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it? You’ve got a big fucking mouth, don’t you?”
“No,” I say more forcefully now. “I thought I was helping my brother. I just trusted the wrong person.”
“Don’t you see now? That’s why this can’t happen,” he says. His shoulders vibrate with irritation as he seethes the words. And there it is—it doesn’t matter if he wants me or not. The patch owns him. “I don’t like being told what to do, baby. So here’s what’s going to happen—I’m going to fuck you out of my system.”
He moves in, his lips back on mine, and every sense of reason flies out the window once again. He’s a bastard, but maybe if I let this happen, he’ll be out of my system, too. We can’t keep going on like this.
Pulling at clothes, discarding shoes, and yanking off socks, we’re a hurried mess of limbs as we strip one another down to our underwear. His hands wander over every inch of my skin he can touch. Pulling me away from the wall, he walks me backward to his bed. His left side is free of tattoos, but his right shoulder and chest, down nearly to his elbow on both his chest and his back, is a large piece of artwork. It looks like a mass of chains and painted steel—some sort of armor. Beneath the beautifully intricate piece is a falcon with its wings spread along his right side, spanning from beneath his pec down to his hip bone.
The back of my legs hit on the sharp edge of the frame, propelling me onto the mattress. He crawls on top of me, covering my body with his own. This could be good—us, together, despite it all. I bring his face down to mine, kissing him gently. But he won’t have any of that, turning the kiss rough and forceful despite my silent pleas.
We’re still in our underwear, but I’m so ready for him to take his off. Reaching down, I feel that they’re boxers. I didn’t catch sight of them in the hurried undressing. I slide my thumb in between the waistband and his skin and draw them downward, but a strong, masculine hand reaches up, stopping me.
Pulling his torso up, creating a gulf between us, he says, “Turn over, baby.” So caught up in the moment, I don’t ask any questions. I turn over and push my torso off the mattress and pull my hair over the front of my shoulder to give him access to my bra. Instead of unclasping my brand new black bra—that I bought especially for an occasion such as this—he places his hand on my back and pushes me down onto all fours. The linen sheets are rough on my skin and thinned out from age and abuse. They smell of cigarettes, weed, and body odor—none of which are especially pleasant—but it’s the lingering smell of a fruity perfume that makes my stomach roll. From behind me, I can hear something rip and then a quiet rustling. Two calloused knuckles graze along the side of my butt cheek, bringing the fabric of my matching black boy shorts away from my body. They pull the fabric to the side.
Realization dawns on me what he’s about to do, and I squeeze my eyes shut in anticipation. I’ve never had sex like this before. Not that I’ve had much sex, but it’s never been like this. The nerves return, and my muscles tense. He places his knees between my legs, slowly spreading me farther apart. His left hand sneaks between my legs, dipping inside of my boy shorts and along my slit. I bite my lip, barely controlling the moan. His touches are so soft, and so few, that every little contact is like a compact little fire spreading across my skin. A strong hand comes down on my back, pushing my face sideways into the mattress—forcing me to breathe in the stale perfume from the last slut he’s taken in here—as he guides himself to my entrance.