Heading into Last Meal, she thought back to what Rhage had told Bitty about the people here, his wonderful, purposely laughable, verbally scribbled caricatures of the very real blessings this family had.
Then she pictured him and Bitty leaning over the engine of his car, him taking the time to explain all kinds of things to her, not one bit of this-is-just-for-boys tinting anything, his face open, his eyes kind.
He had been amazing with the girl—
“Mary mine,” came a whisper in her ear.
As she jumped and turned to Rhage, she didn’t think for a second.
She put her arms around him, pulled him down …
… and kissed the ever-loving crap out of him.
Okay, yeah, WOWOWOWOWOWOWOW.
As Mary licked her way into Rhage’s mouth, his mind went blank in the best possible way—especially when he reached for her and brought her body close to his, curling his greater height and weight around her. His shellan’s lips were soft and warm, and her tongue slipped and slid against his, and her breasts, even though her coat, seemed to be brushing naked against his chest.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she said into his mouth.
He resumed the kissing while he eyed the staircase. Yeah, so steep, so long—and their bedroom? Shit, it was like, five hundred miles away. More like five thousand.
“C’mere,” he groaned.
He ended up shuffling her backward, his hands desperate to get under those clothes of hers—but he couldn’t risk that kind of contact. He felt her bare skin? He was liable to take her right there on the mosaic floor.
The pantry was located just off the kitchen and it was about as luxurious and comfortable as a laundry room—with the tragic lack of a washer or dryer that you could put the female you were in love with on and have her at hip height with her thighs spread wide. There were, however, two benes: One, there was a lock on the inside, as if Darius had known what kind of alternate spice might get thrown around among the cans of peaches and jars of pickles; and two, there was a shallow counter four feet above the floor with a good two and a half feet of surface depth that went all the way around the room.
Ostensibly, the thing was there to accommodate the banks of drawers that were under the stacks of shelves.
At the moment? It was the closest thing to Maytag Rhage could get.
“Oh, God, I need you,” Mary said as he slammed the door shut, manually turned the dead bolt, and popped her up off the floor.
As she grabbed the bottom of his muscle shirt and yanked it over his head, the thing got caught on his nose, nearly shearing his nostrils off. But like he gave a fuck? And then her shaking hands were clawing at the zipper on his leathers.
“I need you in me, hurry—I need you.”
“Oh, fuck, Mary, you have me—” The second her hand came into contact with his cock, he arched back and shouted something. Her name? Something about the Scribe Virgin? F-bomb? Again, who the fuck cared. “Let me get you—”
Next thing he knew, she was off the shelf, at his hips, and pushing him back until he slammed into the opposite side of things so hard cans of soup bounced down and rolled across the floor like they feared for their lives.
“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaary—”
That mouth of hers sucked his erection in deep, and though the warm, wet hold and suction were out-of-this-world erotic, what was even hotter? The sense that she was so fucking desperate for him, she couldn’t wait for him to get his pants down and hers off.
She was so damn hungry and greedy to have him she didn’t want to waste time.
She had to have him.
The bonded male inside of Rhage howled in satisfaction, and the beast surged in a good way under his skin—and oh, yeah, he orgasmed.
God, did he fucking orgasm. And as Mary milked him until he sagged, and then sat back and licked her lips, he felt some part of himself return—a part that had been gone for a while, but that he hadn’t really been aware of missing.
She still wanted him. Still needed him. And there was something about that connection that filled him out in a way he’d been previously deflated.
And it was time to return the favor. With a growl, he launched himself at her, taking her down to the hardwood, kissing her and tasting himself as he tore off her slacks, shoved his leathers to mid-thigh, and got her to straddle him while he rolled over onto his back.
Mary sat down hard on his cock and both of them cried out. Then she leaned forward, propped her hands next to his head, and began pumping her pelvis, his erection going in and out of her sex, their bodies slapping together, Rhage’s eyes latching onto her as she stared back at him with a combination of fierce determination and utter adoration.
She still had her coat on. The thing was flapping around her, and though he would have loved to see her breasts and her neck, her stomach, her sex, he was too caught up to be any kind of coordinated with his hands and his thoughts.
It was just really fucking awesome to be wanted like this. Ridden like this. Taken like this.
They came at the same time, their hips racking and thrashing, until he somehow ended up rolling her over and mounting her from on top. Thank fuck for that jacket of hers and the cushioning it offered, as it turned out. Grabbing onto one of her ankles, he cranked her leg to her shoulders and went in deep, hingeing his pelvis freely as he banged her across the bare floor of the pantry until they got crammed in the corner. With a growl, he arched up, held on to the lip of the counter, and got even more leverage.
And the sex just kept going.
And going.
And going …
THIRTY-FIVE
As dawn threatened in the East, and the peachy light cast by that unrelenting fireball in the heavens gathered into a thin line at the horizon, Zypher stood by the burned-out shell of a car in one of Caldwell’s back alleys.
All around him, the Band of Bastards had gathered, their bodies tense and twitchy, their weapons holstered, but their hands at the ready.
Balthazar spoke up. “This was his last coordinate.”
Yes, Zypher thought, they all knew that. Indeed, they had started here at nightfall the evening before, after Xcor had not returned to their new headquarters—which now had to be abandoned. Clearly, their leader had been injured severely in a fight, whether it was here or at some other locale, and one could only assume that he and his phone had been taken into custody either by the Lessening Society or the Black Dagger Brotherhood.
Aye, there was a possibility that he had been wounded and had dragged himself unto some discreet cover for a period of time, only to expire either of natural causes or from sun exposure, his phone going up in smoke with him or being stolen from out of his dead hand—but considering the foes they were facing, it was unwise to rely on such a premise.
Better to assume capture. Torture. And possible information exchange.
“He would not want a memorial,” Zypher blurted.
“Aye,” somebody agreed. “And he must have entered the Fade in quite a lather.”
There was a grumble of laughter—but Zypher wondered if their leader, or any of them, would be granted access to that heavenly sanctuary. For their ill deeds, surely they would be turned away? Sent unto Dhund, the Omega’s evil playground of eternity?
Either way, as they stood around, he decided that the alley seemed a proper place for this gathering of mourning, the remnants of the old car a fitting grave marker, the lack of specifics an appropriate closing to Xcor’s life. After all, although Zypher had worked with the male against the lessers for centuries, he could not say that he had e’er truly known his fellow fighter.
Well … that was not entirely true. He had been well-versed in their leader’s cruelty and calculation, both in the war camp and then later, as they had been travelers with temporary housing, and later still, when they had settled in their castle fortification in the Old Country.
And there had been that one private moment, after Xcor had stabbed Throe—and punished himself for it.
“What do we do now?” Balthazar asked.