Clubwhore (Devil's Renegade MC #1)(40)

“I’m going home.” The strength in my voice is pretty impressive. But only to me. He’s as dismissive about my tone as he is my statement.

“No…” He drawls out the word as he leans up, narrowing his eyes on me. They darken and I feel my resolve slipping. “You’re not.” His gaze becomes penetrating, leveling me with a force that’s so demanding, I’m already preparing to nod in agreement to whatever he says. But he doesn’t say anything. He stands.

I feel warmer when he’s in front of me. I can feel the heat of his skin even through his shirt. He stares down at me a moment before taking my hand and leading me to the bathroom. The scent of lavender engulfs me, as the light from several different candles illuminates the room. The tub is filled to the brim with bubbles, and a glass of red wine sits next to it on a small stool. Yeah… I’m not going anywhere tonight.

His dominate act is gone, as if he knew he wouldn’t need it after showing me this. Now his eyes are soft and full of understanding as he looks down at me. “I know this isn’t easy for you. But I can’t let you leave. You need this. We both made a commitment, and we’re going to follow through with it. You’re going to stay, and I’m going to help you.”

My bottom lip quivers and I pull it between my teeth. Why do I always feel so sad around him? I’m so raw…open…exposed. He seems to pull emotions out of me I blocked years ago. Now a lifetime of tears I’ve managed to not shed has done nothing but spill when I’m with him.

“Just take some time to relax. I’ll give you some space for a while.” He doesn’t touch me as he leaves and for some reason it hurts. I wanted so bad to feel his lips on my face, or my body pressed against his chest. I wanted him to hold me and tell me everything was okay. Instead, he gave me space—the one thing I wanted only minutes ago, but now hate the thought of.

This is bad…really bad.

If I can’t stand to be away from him for a few minutes, then how in the hell will I ever make it when he leaves?





I’m crying again. Hell, that’s an understatement. I’m a blubbering fucking mess. Even the hot water, bubbles and wine aren’t enough to hold me together. But I keep sitting…keep drinking…keep hoping that maybe I’ll find a small piece of the old Delilah that refused to shed a tear over anyone. Especially her own, pathetic self.

Dammit, Delilah!! Stop! Grow some friggin’ balls!

Finishing off the glass of wine, I will myself to stop the tears and quit feeling sorry for myself. When I’m finished, I take a deep breath and submerge myself completely in the water—keeping my eyes squeezed shut to fight off the tears. I stay there until my lungs are near exploding before sitting up, taking another breath and sliding beneath the water again. I continue the process until most of the water is out of the tub and on the floor.

I’ve stopped crying, but I still feel like shit. Reaching my hand around the side of the tub, I search blindly for a towel to wipe the soapy water from my eyes. I finally locate it, pressing my face into the thick fluffy cotton. Covering my mouth, I scream into the towel—muffling the noise. It feels good, so I do it again.

A part of me is hoping he’s sitting on that stool next to the bathtub when I open my eyes. But he’s not. I’m alone in the bathroom—just me and my shadow that dances on the wall across from me in the reflection of the candlelight.

Space.

He wants to give me space. I want him to give me space. Or at least I did. But in the midst of my underwater experiment, I came to a decision. I’m going to tell him the truth. I’m going to tell him I love him.

Or that I think I love him.

Or that he’s forcing me to love him.

“Bryce!” I yell at the top of my lungs. I wait a beat, and when I don’t hear his footsteps, I try again. “Bryce!...” This time, I hold it for as long as I can, feeling a sense of relief as I do. Maybe I should scream his name more often.

What sounds like a herd of cattle comes barreling down the hall moments before the door bursts open. I’m smiling when a very panicked, very red-faced Bryce appears. His eyes sweep my entire body and then the room. Finally, he seems to notice my face and the amused look I must be wearing. He lets out a breath and runs his hand over his head.

“Don’t do that shit to me, babe. You scared the fuck outta me.”

“We need to talk.” Wow. Now I sound like a dominant. Impressive. But he’s still reeling from all the bad thoughts of what could’ve been wrong with me to notice.

“Okay.” I swear I hate that word. What does that even mean? Okay… Hmph.

“Sit.” I point to the stool next to the tub. I like this version of me.

He narrows his eyes in warning. “Watch it,” he says, in his signature spanking voice—that’s what I’m calling it now. But he sits. His knees touch the side of the tub and he’s less than a foot from me—so close…too close. I scoot further back in the tub searching for a little distance and not finding much.

He stares at me expectantly. “Well? What is it?”

Now that he’s here, I’m chickening out. I need a moment to get my shit together, so I try for a distraction. “Will you get me some more wine?”

“No. What did you want to talk about, Delilah?” Sheesh… So rude.

“I have a problem,” I admit, squeezing my eyes shut because it’s better than looking at him. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll lose what little bit of courage I have left.

“What’s your problem, babe?” He’s exasperated. Maybe a little annoyed. But at least he isn’t demanding I look at him.

Just do it!

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Silence.

I might be able to get an idea of what he’s thinking, but my eyes are closed. And that’s how they’ll stay. Unless he—

“Look at me.” Warmth spreads through my belly at his gentle tone. It’s almost a whisper. But he didn’t call me Love like he does when we’re in role play. He didn’t call me babe like he does when we’re not. And he didn’t call me Delilah like he does when he’s angry. He just said “Look at me.” His demand needs to be more specific.

“Who?” I whisper, hoping like hell he calls on the one I want. Although I’m not quite sure which one that is.

“What?”

“Who do you want to look at you?” After a moment, he seems to understand, and I hear him let out a breath.

“Just…look at me.”

I do. He might as well be wearing a mask—that’s just how well he’s hiding whatever it is he’s feeling. “It’s not unusual for you to feel like this,” he explains, almost as if he’s a teacher speaking to a student. Not quite what I was expecting, but… “For the first time, you’re around someone who knows and really appreciates who you are. You’re naturally attracted to me because I give you everything you want.”

“Well…” I quirk an eyebrow at him and he smiles.

“If I were a dominant, and you a submissive, then you’d have some really strong, confusing feelings toward me. I knew after last night when you asked if I was mad at you that it wouldn’t take you long to experience those feelings.”

For a fleeting moment he looks wounded. He tries to recover with a smile, but I can see a hint of sadness in his eyes. It twists my insides. “You don’t love me,” he whispers. “You just love the idea of me.”

Um… I disagree. I mean, everything he says makes sense, but I know my heart. That bastard has been dead for years. When I’m with him, I feel something. But there’s no point in arguing. In his quiet, assured, passive way, he’s dismissed the entire conversation. He’s back to sweet, playful Bryce and I half ass expect him to poke my ribs or nudge my chin like a brother would. Well…not my brother. But you know what I mean. It’s so unsettling I decide I need to get him back into dominant Bryce mode.

Lifting my glass, I lean back in the tub and dangle it at him. “I need more wine, master.” Yep. That did it. His jaw tightens and his eyes flash with anger. “You know,” he says, coming to his full, intimidating height as he stands. “You’re not as smart as you think.”

I feign innocence. “Whatever do you mean?” I’m getting pretty good at my voice alterations. I sounded like a southern belle that time.

“You think you know what buttons of mine to push to get exactly what you want, but you’re forgetting something.”

“Yeah?”

His lips curve into a wicked smile. “Yeah.” His voice darkens, sending chills down my spine and puckering my nipples. “I know exactly what you need. Remember this, Love,” he narrows his eyes. “There are other ways to punish you that don’t involve spanking your cute little ass. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Me to hurt you so you can gain my affection?”

His words hurt. They wound my heart and my soul. The blow is worse than his belt. But my hurt quickly morphs to anger. Damn him for fucking with my emotions. To hell with the repercussions. I do know his buttons, and I plan to press them. Maybe if he does hit me, the force of his strike will be enough to rid me of my ridiculous idea of love, and replace it with hate.