Huntsman, p.19
Huntsman, page 19
As if the same thought claims her mind, she shifts backward until her pussy slides over my dick. The groan that escapes me is pained, greedy. Sweat dots her chest and throat, and unable to resist the lure of it, I swipe my hand over her slickened skin and lick the perspiration from my palm.
She mimics me, gliding her hand up the middle of my chest, up my throat, until she’s squeezing my jaw. Lowering over me, she whispers against my mouth.
“You gonna put that dick in me, Malachi?”
It’s an invitation. A challenge. And I’m more than ready to answer both.
“Eshe.” I call her name even though her lust-bright eyes are fixed on me. Her breath ghosts over my lips, and my stomach cramps for another taste of her even though I just had my fill. “I’ve never fucked without a condom, little queen,” I murmur, and it shouldn’t be possible, but her eyes gleam brighter with a fierce light.
One that says she likes what she just heard. What did she say before? She claimed me as hers. And though she doesn’t speak, her snarled mine echoes in my head. I’ve never brought anyone to my places before. Hotel rooms, alleys, bathrooms—but never where I lay my head, so there’s no reason to have condoms stashed here. And I don’t have one on me. But even if I did …
Call me a stupid muthafucka, but I don’t want nothing separating her pussy from me. I’m already wearing her on my skin, and I want all of her. No barriers. At least not physically.
Her hand shoots out, circles my throat again as I did to her earlier. And her grip isn’t loose. It’s firm, threatening, constricting my air, and I can feel every pump of blood through my veins.
“Know who you’re fucking,” she softly warns, her overbright gaze roaming my face. After several seconds, she slides that hand to the nape of my neck. “Get inside me. Now.”
Anticipation surges, and a hot band loops around my lower back, pulling tight. Gliding my dick through her saturated folds, I get good and wet. My cockhead nudges her clit, and she bares her teeth at me, hissing.
Fuck.
Reaching behind my neck, I grasp her wrist and bring her hand to my mouth—her hand with the missing pinkie finger. Her eyes flare, and she tries to jerk her arm back, but my hold on her hand tightens.
I lower my head and brush my lips over the smooth patch of skin …
And drive inside her.
Her lips part on a silent scream, her head tipping back. I grind my teeth against the back draft of ecstasy that blasts through me.
Holy shit.
This pussy is fucking fire.
I still, all my muscles locking. I’m dying inside her.
Or being born again.
She’s so goddamn tight. So wet. So blistering hot.
I try to ask her if she’s good, tell her how fucking amazing she feels. But the clasp her pussy has on my cock is the same one lassoing my throat, my voice. I can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t do anything but fucking feel.
And if I thought her silken, muscled clasp on my fingers was pure pleasure, wrapped around my dick, it’s euphoric. Her sex quivers around me, and it’s like tiny kisses over my flesh, sending electrical spasms down my legs, to the soles of my feet, and then back up.
“This pussy,” I grind out. “Goddamn.”
Releasing her hand, I study her face for any hint of discomfort. I spy lust in her hazel eyes, in the skin pulled taut over her cheekbones, in the parting of her swollen lips. But no distress. No pain.
Thank. Fuck.
I inhale a breath and wait … wait for her to move. To take me. Fuck me.
She spreads a hand around the base of my throat and flattens another on my chest. Eyes not leaving mine, she rises up, easing off my dick, and it practically screams in protest. Yeah, this pussy is that perfect, that … comforting. When only my cockhead remains inside her, I restrain myself from impatiently thrusting upward, stretching her, branding her. I want to mold her, break her in so only my dick will satisfy her. Only with me will she feel whole, complete.
And maybe I’m fucking projecting.
Eshe sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and drops down my length, plunging me back inside her, and my mind and body damn near shatter with the exquisite pleasure. With her eyes at half-mast, she rides me, taking me over and over. Just like I wanted, like I needed. It requires every bit of restraint not to take over, to sublimate my urge to ram into her until I’m spinning into orgasm. But more than an orgasm, I need her to take me there. I hunger for her lead, her control, because in her hands, I’ve never felt … safer.
I shake my head, hard, as if I can physically dislodge that thought. That ridiculous, dangerous thought. Grunting, I focus on my Eshe, on that silken grasp of her pussy, on the flex of her thighs, the slight tremble of her stomach, the fierce pleasure hardening her face. I lower my gaze to where we connect, fascinated, fucking enraptured by the sight of my flesh shuttling in and out of her … Watching her flesh welcoming me … seeing my length covered in the wetness I’m eliciting from her body … it shoves me toward the edge, and I’m grabbing onto the shreds of my control, my sanity.
Eshe falls forward, her hands slapping against my shoulders, staring down at me. Her mouth works, and seconds later, a flash of silver appears on her lips. A razor. That’s what she went to the bathroom for.
My body clenches with anticipation, with hunger. I know what’s coming, and fuck, I crave it.
She bends her head over my chest, and it heaves up and down with my heavy breaths. The edge of the razor touches my skin but doesn’t pierce it. And she doesn’t move to cut me.
I know what she wants. And with my body strung as tight as a bow, my fucking bones damn near crying out for that dark sting, that bite, I surrender.
“Do it,” I snap. When she still doesn’t move, I growl. “Give it to me. Please.”
A low hum rumbles out of her, and in the next second, that sweet, hot pain sings through me. She cut me just under my collarbone. And before I can suck in a breath, she slices me again, right under the first.
I can’t contain my groan, don’t even try. She’s ripped me bare and shredded my pride. Fuck pride. I want more.
“More. More, goddammit.”
With another of those hums, she swipes the razor over my nipple, reopening the wound from days ago. Pleasure-pain so hot, so bright, it nearly consumes me, tears through me, and I arch into it. I clench my teeth to imprison the hoarse cry scrambling up my throat. She’s slicing me and steadily fucking me, gloving me in that slick, searing heat. It’s enough to break me, send me careening into insanity. And I’d welcome it.
Eshe plucks the razor from her lips and covers the seeping cut, sucking on it, rolling her tongue over it.
“Fuck.” I grab her hips and, unable to stop myself, slam up into her.
Her chuckle vibrates against my chest, and she lifts her head, mouth stained with my blood. Leaning forward, she kisses me, sharing my very essence with me, and I lick every drop from her lips and tongue. This is primal, maybe even sacrilegious.
And I fucking love it.
She straightens, then falls forward, curling her fingers around the wooden headboard and bowing her smaller frame over mine. With a feral snarl, she rides me, bruising our bodies as they crash together.
The room fills with the sounds of our wet skin smacking, the softer but equally erotic suction of her sex releasing and accepting me. Of her moans and my grunts. Our bodies are in combat, and neither of us is retreating. We’re both racing, battling, straining …
I reach up, tweak a large, distended nipple, then stroke lower, not stopping until I sweep a firm, tight circle around her clit. One. Two. Three swipes. Then I pinch it.
“Oh fuck.” Eshe screams, throwing her head back. The tendons in her neck stand out in sharp relief; her thighs tremble around my hips.
And she breaks.
Her pussy clamps down on my dick, rippling, milking. I stare at her face, taking in the mask of lust twisting it, reveling in that pleasure that seems edged in pain. It’s the same sensation that barrels through me. Her sex is so tight, my cock is no doubt marked and branded. And yet, I still fuck through those grasping muscles, burying myself inside her until I can’t hold out. Not anymore.
On a low roar, I nut, and it seems endless. Stream after stream of cum shoots in this pussy. We rock and grind against each other, giving and taking every measure of our release. Finally, we slow, moving in an almost-gentle glide instead of the furious pounding of flesh to flesh.
On a sigh, she tumbles to the mattress, sprawling beside me, and silence permeates the room. But it’s not awkward, not heavy with tension. For once, a … peace settles over me, and while a frisson of fear whispers through me, the contentment, the … wholeness overwhelms it. Overwhelms me. A lethargy seeps into my muscles, weighing them down, and my body slowly sinks into the mattress.
I should get up, go shower, treat my cuts, dress, then go downstairs and clean up the kitchen. Make sure the loft is secure. Do anything but sleep in this bed beside her. I don’t do sleepovers. Have never trusted anyone enough to be that vulnerable and close my eyes around them.
Yet I don’t move.
My mind spins with chaotic thoughts, slamming against my skull again and again. I just experienced the biggest, most soul-stripping orgasm of my life. I should be tired, wiped out. And my body is just that. But not my brain. I have too many questions about this woman who exposes a side of me I’m not sure I like. I for damn sure know I’m comfortable with it. The vulnerable side. The scared side. One question though … One question screams louder than the others.
“Why?”
A beat of silence. Then: “Why what?”
“Why have you been following me? Been watching me? Why me?”
“Simplest answer? I don’t have an answer. At least not one that makes sense. Remember in Twilight when that weird-ass wolf inappropriately imprinted on that baby with the equally weird-ass name?”
Yeah, I don’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. “No.”
“You didn’t miss much. But what I’m saying is the first time I saw you, you imprinted on me. You crawled inside me like poison, changing me, infecting me … killing a part of me. I wasn’t the same person after that. I breathed for another glimpse of you. And it became an all-consuming need, hunger. You call it ‘stalking’; I call it ‘necessary.’ I couldn’t stay away. I can’t now, even though it would no doubt be healthier for us both if I did. But I don’t give a fuck about none of that. Not boundaries, not health, not being appropriate. I can’t lie. Sometimes I hate you for how you’ve become a compulsion for me. Sometimes I wish I had never laid eyes on you. But the truth is from February twenty-second to now, I’d crash out behind you. I have.”
My heart pounds so hard, it bruises my sternum. Something that tastes too close to fear swarms in my chest, coats my tongue. I feel … claimed by her in this moment. And it terrifies me that I like it. That I crave more of it.
“Why did you stay in the shadows? Never approach me?”
She gives a soft chuckle. But there’s no humor in it.
“Sometimes the known is safer, kinder than the unknown. I haven’t been scared often or of much in my life. But you? Even discovering all the details about you down to your favorite food, I still didn’t know you. If I kept my distance, you couldn’t hurt me. Reject me. You could still be mine.”
She shifts, rolls over on her side, and when I turn my head, she meets my gaze, her stacked hands tucked under her cheek.
“I haven’t seen a lot of beauty in my life.” Eshe’s voice is hoarse in the thick silence. Probably from the screaming as she came hard and long. It might make me an asshole, but I don’t give a fuck—pride coasts through me that I’m the cause of that abused throat. “Death. Street wars. Betrayal. Hate. Blood. Violence is our norm, and suffering is our currency. It’s literally what we bank on for survival. It’s what I was born into, and what soul I have thrives on it. I’m not ashamed to admit that. It’s who I am. But it’s not all of me. I am my mother’s daughter. I’m the Mwuaji olori. I’m a sister, a friend. It’s why I can recognize beauty when I see it. Because they humanize me. They remind me darkness only makes the weakest light shine brighter. That without pain, joy is empty and a cardboard caricature.”
She reaches out, swipes a finger through the trickle of blood at my collarbone, and lazily paints my skin with it.
“You’re more than the Huntsman. More than the underworld’s bogeyman. You’re a son, a brother. You’re Malachi Bowden.” I shake my head, hard, but she holds up a hand, halting my damn-near-frantic movement. After I still, she splays her bloodstained fingers wide on my chest, directly over my heart. “Yes, you are. No bomb, bullet, or sick-ass fuck can take that from you. Do you want to know why I called you a beautiful nightmare?” Her fingertip traces my piercing, brushes the cut directly above it. “Because not all nightmares are scary. Some are revelations, some are protectors or warders, and others are messengers. You’re all three. Terrifying, deadly, but still so gotdamn beautiful.”
She pokes a fingernail into the newly opened wound, and a sliver of delicious, burning pain slashes through me. Her gaze dips to it. Propping herself up on an elbow, she leans over me, drags her tongue over the cut, her low sound of pleasure vibrating over and through me. Her lips close around my nipple and piercing, teeth catching on the metal and tugging, not so gently. Another punch of dull pain reverberates through me, and my hips grind into the dick-hardening sensation.
Eshe wastes no time crawling back on top of me, grinding her pussy over my length, coating it in her juices before sliding down over it. She sucks me deep like a hot, tight mouth, and our groans drench the room. My hands fly to her wide hips, pinning them in a hard, inflexible grip as I fuck her from the bottom. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her head tipping back her on shoulders.
Eshe.
She’s my beautiful nightmare.
And right now, digging so deep inside her I can’t find my way out, I don’t want to wake up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Eshe
Holy shit, being this lazy should be criminal.
Even hidden several feet away in the dark shadows of the woods surrounding the obodo, I still have a clear view of the stark-white marble of the compound and the startling lack of security around the rear of it. Lowering my monocular, I shake my head. Yeah, we’re in the fucking suburbs, and the buildings are located on acres of private property encased by barbwire fences, but I made it through. And not by the gotdamn front gate either—riding my motorcycle down the access road that runs parallel to the property, hiking it in the two miles from there, then climbing the fence in the dead zone where the security cameras don’t reach. And shit, here we are.
Nah, I stand corrected. This kind of laziness should be punishable by death.
Oh right. I smile grimly, tugging the face covering of the hooded black ski mask and storing the monocular in a pocket on the outside of my thigh. It’ll be a lot of death by the time I’m through. Gotta find those silver linings.
I should feel bad about literally bringing war to the steps of the Mwuaji community’s heart. Or what is supposed to be the heart of it. There are innocents here. Soldiers and staff who are just doing their jobs. But then there are those here who are fully culpable in the chaos and destruction that Abena has forced on this family. They’ve cosigned it with either their active participation or their silence and inaction. Now them? I’m not going to feel bad about laying waste to them at all.
I’m minutes from committing the highest form of treason—assassination. And anyone who gets in between me and my target is just collateral damage.
And though a part of me is already mourning the loss of life—the loss of the little pieces of the soul I have left—I’m good on that.
Flipping the release on my holster, I start to hum “Ready or Not” by the Fugees. But the tiny hairs on the back of my neck lift, and in one motion, I whirl around, dropping to my knee, and grabbing my dagger from the sheath on my thigh—
“If you want to die, there are easier ways to go about it. Me, for instance. I’m more than willing to get the job done.”
“Son of a bitch.” Jerking my face covering up to my forehead, I glare at Malachi. Yeah, that’s right. No more Huntsman. That man’s dick has rearranged my insides. We go together, go together. I don’t give a fuck if he won’t let me say his name aloud. His mama named him Malachi; I’ma call him Malachi. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He arches an eyebrow, the only inflection in his expression.
“I should be asking you that, olori.” I don’t miss the stress he places on my title. “What the fuck are you up to?”
He crosses his powerful arms across his wide chest, and gotdamn, I’m trying to focus on anarchy. Coming in here with those guns popping against his black camo shirt is just wrong.
I wave a hand and turn back around, fixing my attention back on the obodo.
Why aren’t you at the hospital with the people you’re supposed to love and protect? The people who need you. Instead, you’re here, hiding. And running scared. Someone coming for you? You don’t give a fuck about that. But coming after your …
I blink, Malachi’s words, the same words that drove me from his bed in the middle of the night, rebounding in my head. He’d been right. An assassin’s sights set on me? I’m good with that. But Penn almost dying and then Sienna being shot and left for dead in a dirty parking deck? And the rest of my Seven—my sisters—possibly getting hurt or worse because of me and my decisions? No. I can’t have that.
Abena started this when she had my mother killed.
It’s up to me to finish it.
“Why ask questions you know the answers to?”
“Shit.” He grips my arm and turns me back around to look at him, mugging me. “This is stupid as fuck. You’re letting your emotions write a check your ass can’t cash. You have to stand down.”
