Clubwhore (Devil's Renegade MC #1), page 12
“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.
There’s something about his hands—the same hands that hurt me—touching me and pleasing me that’s more rewarding than being touched in any way by any other man.
He hoists my leg over his hip—opening me up. The movement causes me to shiver in anticipation when the cool air tickles the inferno between my thighs. My mouth is parted, my eyes are closed and I can feel his lips closing in on mine. When they touch, something ignites inside me and I can’t hold back.
I struggle to free my hand that is trapped between our bodies, but he doesn’t allow it. I want to grab the back of his head and force him to kiss me harder. I want my hands free so I can roll him to his back and straddle his waist. But I can’t. I’m forced to lie here, completely immobile, and move at the pace he sets.
Torturously slow, he simultaneously slides his tongue between one set of lips and his finger between the other. He kisses me with a soft, lazy passion a man as large as him shouldn’t be capable of. I can taste a hint of whiskey on his breath and it’s so heady, my head swims.
His long, thick finger pumps slowly inside me. On each thrust, his palm roughly massages my lower cheeks—mixing the sensation of both pleasure and pain into a delicious, orgasm-building concoction.
He’s the only man that’s ever brought me to orgasm by simply fingering me. But then again, he doesn’t have your average-sized hands. Every time he pushes inside me, I feel him graze that sweet spot he seems to find every time he touches me. Then I get the twist of pain, all while he makes love to my mouth—kissing me as if we’re intimate lovers.
The slow build is infuriating, yet I don’t want to ever hit my peak. I want to continue to feel what I’m feeling for as long as I possibly can, even though the anticipation of what it will be like is killing me. I choose to not overthink the moment and just let the tsunami of emotions crash through me. I feel the full impact of them all—pleasure, pain, sadness, anger, guilt, shame, peace…
Then it happens. My whole body clenches with each wave of ecstasy that pulses through me. He doesn’t move faster, or thrust harder—he keeps his pace, milking every last ounce of each sensation from me. It’s euphoric, liberating and completely consuming. I can feel it in every fiber of my being.
Pulling his lips from mine, Bryce looks down at me. His green eyes are smoldering—burning with an intensity I’ve never experienced from him before. But as always, the fog fades and I’m no longer the weak, vulnerable girl who needs him. I’m just Delilah.
“I need a cigarette.” My confession shatters the moment and his eyes soften as he gives me a lazy smile. I feel like I can breathe a little easier now that the connection isn’t so powerful.
He doesn’t speak as he unfolds my leg from around him and stands. Grabbing my pack of smokes from the dresser, he lights one and ambles back over—a little too cocky for a guy who didn’t even get off.
“Glad to see you in a better mood,” he says, all throaty and sexy like as he hands me the cigarette. I smile up at him, stretching and rolling to my back before taking my first drag. It’s perfect.
“Why were you trying to cut yourself?” I cut my eyes at him, surprised by his question. He looks back at me from his seated position on the edge of the bed. He’s expecting an answer, and to be honest, he’s more than deserving of one—even if I don’t want to give it to him.
“It was stupid.” I shrug, focusing on the swirl of smoke above me.
“That’s not good enough.”
I take a couple more long drags, hoping the nicotine will give me the courage to say something that will pacify him. “I’m not really sure myself. I just know the pain makes me feel better.”
“You do that often?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ve tried it before but it never works. I end up causing myself more pain, which leads to even more self-loathing.”
He sits silent, waiting patiently for me to continue. I’m not ready to tell him everything. I’m not sure if I ever will be. But he wants more and talking to him isn’t as uncomfortable as I thought it would be.
“I’ve always had this…need for something,” I start, trying to understand it myself as I attempt to explain it to him. “It’s like a hunger. But even though I eat, I’m never fully satisfied. I haven’t lost it like this in a really long time. I think it just finally caught up to me.”
“So if cutting don’t work, what does?” In hopes of distracting him, I smirk.
“Having an officer of the Devil’s Renegades spank me. That seems to do the trick.” He’s not amused. There’s not even a hint of a smile on his face. Frowning, I let out a breath. “I deal with it, okay?”
He pauses for a minute, narrowing his eyes on me as if he’s trying to read my mind. Good luck with that. “Okay.” What? Can it really be that easy? “But I need you to make me a promise.” Well, that’s a loaded request. It could mean anything. I knew this wasn’t gonna be that easy. Hoping he’ll drop it, I nod my head in agreement.
“Promise me you won’t hurt yourself anymore. If it gets to be too much, you’ll call me.”
“That’s two promises,” I quip, but the joke is on me. He’s very serious. And he wants my word. So I give it to him. But it doesn’t count. Unbeknownst to him, I’m crossing my toes. Surely that excuses me of the lie. And if it doesn’t…well, he can just spank me again.
CHAPTER 14
I wasn’t sure why Bryce left in such a hurry. I was actually a little wounded that he didn’t try to fuck me while I was lying there all vulnerable and half naked. I mean, he could’ve had it. All he had to do was ask. But he didn’t. I gave him my toe-crossing promise, he gave me a smile, then left.
That was two days ago.
Now it’s Sunday and I have shit to do. Just like I’ve done for the past two years, I head toward Baton Rouge. I’m not sure what to expect. This will be the first time I’ve visited without that heaviness in my chest. Well, the first time since Mario left…died…whatever. Anyway, this time I’m hoping to have a decent, normal time with my family. Test the waters and shit… Who knows? We may even hug or play Scrabble. It’s possible.
When I arrive, I’m not surprised to find a yellow notice taped to the door warning that the power will be turned off tomorrow if the past due balance isn’t paid. I yank it free, knock twice, announce myself and receive the usual greeting from my mother—screaming at me to come in and asking why the fuck I always knock.
“Hello, family.” I’m smiling as I walk in. Even the filthiness of the kitchen and the stench of week-old garbage doesn’t get me down. My optimism about today is unwavering.
“What the hell you so happy about?” my mother asks. The question sends her into a coughing fit and I wait patiently for her to die or regain her breath before speaking.
“Nothing, really.” I shrug, joining her in the living room and taking a seat. “How’s your week been?”
“Shitty. Same as last week,” she mumbles, snatching the notice from my fingers.
“I found that on the door.”
“People these days have no sympathy for the disabled.”
“But you’re not disabled, Mama. You could work, you just don’t want to.”
Ever heard of putting your foot in your mouth? Well, if you Google it you’ll find my name in the description of the phrase. Even in a cheery mood, I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut.
“You sassy little bitch. Why you think you better than me? What the fuck do you do for a livin’, huh?”
“She’s a prostitute, Mama.” My brother opens his eyes to look at me. His evil smile tells me he’s hoping to wound me. Unlucky for him, I don’t feel like being wounded today.
“I’m not a prostitute. I’m a bartender.”
“Same shit,” he says with a shrug. Dumbass.
“Whatever.” I turn to my mother, plastering a smile on my face that for once is genuine. “Hey, I was thinking of going out shopping today. I thought maybe me and you could get some lunch.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Delilah.” She looks over the top of her reading glasses at me. “Dr. Phil’s coming on in a minute.”
My smile falters a little, but I force myself to remain positive and try another tactic. “How about after Dr. Phil?”
She heaves out a breath and looks at me annoyed. “What the hell’s the matter with you, huh?” My brow creases in confusion as I shake my head. “Are you on drugs?”
“No, Mama. I just thought it’d be nice to get out of the house a little while.”
“Well,” she says, lighting a cigarette. “That’s what you get for thinkin’. Why don’t you think your ass in there and make me some coffee.”
Like the obedient child I am, I do as I’m told. While it’s brewing, I start my routine of uncluttering the kitchen sink. By the time it’s empty, the coffee is finished and I pause my cleaning to bring her a cup.
“When you mop the floors, don’t put that waxy shit on them again. I nearly fell twice last week. And don’t use bleach either. Your brother don’t like the way it smells. Use that pine stuff.” I stand beside her, next to the table filled with a week’s worth of cigarette butts, glasses and empty food wrappers—feeling just as disposed of as everything else she’s used and thrown to the side.
In this moment, my relationship with my mother is clear. For endless Sundays, I’ve come here, waited on her, cleaned for her, given her money and allowed her to use me as her personal slave. She doesn’t want to be my mother. She doesn’t want to do mother-daughter shit with me most classify as normal. And she sure as hell doesn’t want to play Scrabble. Why did I think this time would be different?
The only thing that’s different about this Sunday is me. I realize it doesn’t matter how I mop her floors, how I wash her clothes or how many endless pots of coffee I make—it will never make her love me more. If she even loves me at all…
I want to leave. I want to turn around and walk out. But I can’t. It’s just not in me—this girl who, caged beast or not, needs her family in her life. So I don’t mop with the cleaner that leaves a waxy film on the floor. I don’t use bleach either, because my brother doesn’t like the way it smells. I use the pine-scented cleaner, and make sure to do a better job this time than I ever have.
****
“Don’t you owe Mama some more money?” Craig asks, glaring down at me. He’s standing so close, I can hear him breathe.
“I don’t owe Mama anything. I give her two hundred a week. Just like I did last week, and every other week I’ve been here.”
“You didn’t give me any money last week,” my mother interjects, eyeing me suspiciously but not giving my brother a second glance. As I suspected, Craig took the money for himself and claimed I didn’t give her anything.
“I gave the money to Craig—”
“You’re a lyin’ bitch too, Delilah. You didn’t give me shit!”
I hold my hands up in defense. “You’re right. I didn’t.” I level him with a look—feeling awfully brave for someone who is fighting a losing battle. “You took it from me.”
White light flashes in my eyes, and I stumble back. My hand flies out in search of something to steady myself. I end up falling on the couch. The pain hurts so much more when my mind doesn’t crave it.
“Stop!” I scream, holding my hands up in front of my face. Panic simmers in my veins. For the first time in years, I’m afraid of my brother. “I’ll give you everything I have!”
“Damn right you will.” Fisting my hair in his hand, he pulls me from the couch and drags me to the kitchen where my duffel sits by the door. He releases me with a shove and I fall hard on my knees. I have to blink a few times to uncloud my vision before I can manage to open the zipper.
