Clubwhore (Devil's Renegade MC #1)(22)

“I brought you something.” Well, shit. How am I supposed to avoid him if he brings me presents?

He pulls what looks like a tube of lotion out of his pocket. It takes me a second, but I finally catch on to what he’s suggesting. “Oh,” I say, letting out an embarrassed snort of laughter. I shake my head. “I already took care of it. Thanks, though.” To show that my thanks is genuine, I meet his eyes. His brow is furrowed and he looks a little…put off. But in true Mr. Igotmyshittogether fashion, he recovers quickly.

“You feeling all right?”

“I’m good.” It’s the honest truth. But I’d be great if he left.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.” My rapid response is so amusing to him, he smiles. I look away once again. I can feel sadness forming in my gut and behind my eyes. I don’t need him to poke fun at me or find me amusing. What I need is to get angry. But I guess I used all that up earlier.

“Hey,” he soothes, taking a step toward me then stopping. I’m thankful for the distance. I bite my lip, trying like hell not to focus on the burning behind my eyes. Don’t you cry. You do not fucking cry! “Talk to me, Delilah.”

I turn my back completely to him—struggling to light my cigarette with my shaky fingers. Pulling in a couple deep drags, I try to relax, but it’s impossible with him in the room. I can smell him…

“I need to know what you’re feeling.” He sounds pained. For some reason, hearing the distress in his voice saddens me further.

“It’s not funny,” I say, losing the battle with my tears. They’ve yet to spill over, but they’re teetering on the edge. “I may be fucked up, but I’m still human.” I don’t have to look to know he’s right behind me. I can feel him. He’s so warm. So inviting. I don’t know if I want to hide in my closet, or curl myself in his arms.

“You’re right.” He’s so close, his breath tickles my hair when he speaks. “There’s nothing funny about what happened. I apologize if I hurt your feelings. I just wasn’t expecting you to be so distant. I thought you’d want to talk.”

“Well, I don’t.” I stand taller, finding a little courage with his apology. “I just want you to go. I want to forget anything happened. And I want you to forget it too.”

“Can’t do that, babe.” We’re back to babe, which tells me we’ve moved past the dominant and submissive role play shit. It’s reassuring enough for me to turn and face him. His face is impassive, his eyes still sparkling green, but giving nothing away.

“Look,” I say, pulling in a deep breath as I drop my half-smoked cigarette into my full cup of coffee. I don’t know the source of my bravery, but I’m thankful for it. “I’m not your submissive. What happened, happened. But it’s over. We’re over.” I motion between the two of us with my finger.

“I’m not a dominant.” His deadpan admission nearly floors me. My eyebrows rise in disbelief, as I stare back at his emotionless face. “I don’t get off on controlling women. There’s no pleasure for me in hurting women, either. Like I told you before, I know what you need. Just because I give it to you doesn’t mean I expect you to kneel at my feet.”

Somewhere in my mind I have a response. I just can’t find it. Instead, I keep opening and closing my mouth like an idiot. What do I say to that anyway? He’s not offended, but I can tell something about my words bother him—I don’t give a damn how well he tries to conceal it.

“I put my hands on you earlier. I hurt you. I’m the type of man who follows through on my actions. That means, it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re okay both physically and emotionally. Does that make sense to you?”

I nod, dumbfounded, because I have no clue what else to do.

“An answer, Delilah.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now turn around, pull up your shirt and let me look at you.” Blood rushes to my cheeks at his demand. A fucking hurricane of emotions is happening inside me right now. I’m shocked, nervous, embarrassed and so turned on, I’m tempted to dry hump his leg. But the one thing I don’t want to do is exactly what he asked. It seems almost too intimate and I don’t like it.

“I want to talk,” I blurt out—willing to say anything to distract him, even if it’s a lie.

“No, you don’t. You’re just embarrassed.” He’s calling me out on my bullshit, and I can sense some energy crackling around him. He looks calm and collected, almost bored. But I can tell it’s just a front. His face is relaxed, but his body is tight and fighting to keep his control. I don’t think he wants to hurt me, but I believe I’ve pinched a nerve.

In the midst of our stare down, I decide I can’t hide anything from him. Even if I try, he’ll see right through me. My voice, body language and eyes can’t cooperate with the deceitful part of me—instead they give away the truth.

“What do you want from me, Bryce?” Anger is my best defense, and it comes easier than I anticipated. “Do you want the truth?”

“Always. But first, I want you to calm down.”

“You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my dominant. Remember?”

“Last warning, Delilah. Watch your tone.”

“Or what?” I’ve found his limits, and I’m pushing them. I can’t help it. I don’t deserve for him to be nice to me. So why the fuck is he doing it? Why can’t he just beat me and leave? Why does he have to be so nice?

“I don’t need you to take care of me. That’s not what this is. You gave me something, thank you, now get the fuck out.” I’m daring him to make a move. I was betting on all that controlled rage he was holding in to finally bust loose. Problem is, I don’t think there ever was any rage. And if there was, it’s gone now.

It’s like he’s suddenly realized something. His face softens, his body relaxes and he narrows his eyes slightly as he appraises me—not in anger, but confusion. Meanwhile, I’m battling those fucking tears again because I’ve recently had my own realization.

He finds me worthy.

I’m worth caring for.

I’m worth his time.

I’m worth hurting to a man who doesn’t enjoy hurting women.

Me.

A sob bubbles up my throat and out my mouth before I can stop it. Joining the pity parade are my tears that flow freely down my cheeks. All the while, I’m looking at him as he’s looking at me.

“Don’t,” I cry, pointing my finger at him. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.” Not satisfied with just pointing, I poke my finger in his chest. Of course he doesn’t budge, but he doesn’t get mad either. So I ball my fist up and hit his chest. I wait in anticipation for his reaction that never comes. He just lets me beat the shit out of him.

“Hit me!” I cry, needing it now more than ever. His kindness is too foreign to me. I can’t handle it. I need him to be a bad guy. I need him to be a Mario… or my brother Craig. “Hit me and go!”

Catching my wrists in his hands, he halts my punches that really weren’t doing much good anyway. “Stop it!” he snaps, his tone low but so powerful that I still.

My shoulders heave with every hiccup as I fight to catch my breath. When I’m calmed to the point of only a small gasp every now and then, he relaxes his hold but doesn’t let go.

I feel so lost. I haven’t been like this in years. For the second time today, I find myself at his mercy. He’s the only one who can help me. He’s the only one that knows my secret.

“Please,” I beg, though I’m not sure what for. But I bet I’d feel better if he just knocked me unconscious. “I need it to stop.” At this point, my pride is nonexistent. He can shout my secret to the world, I just need to cage that beast one more time.

“I’m not going to hit you, Delilah.” I whimper at his words. “Hey.” His stern voice gives me hope, and when his grip tightens I let out a breath of relief. My eyes flutter closed as I anticipate the pain that never comes. Instead, I’m pulled to his chest. I start to fight, but he holds me tighter. Surprisingly, I feel better.

With one arm around my waist he lifts my feet off the ground and moves us toward the bed. My face is buried in his chest, and I inhale deep the scent of leather. I’m on top of him when he lies down, then he rolls to his side. When his hand travels down my hip and under my shirt, I let out a gasp.

The feel of his rough, calloused hands against the tender flesh on my cheeks is both soothing and painful. I’m slightly turned on, and the pressure slowly lifts from my chest. But I need more.

“Harder,” I breathe, pleading with my eyes as I stare up at him. His hand kneads my ass a little firmer, and I moan. When it travels lower, barely grazing the lips of my pussy, I thrust my hips against him.

Maybe this is what’s wrong with me—I’m just sexually frustrated. Even though I’ve been having endless sex for days, it has yet to fully satisfy me. I’ve been searching for the same high I get when he takes me…fucks me…claims me. But nobody can measure up.