I quoted the Bible to him the first time we slept together. The second time, was in a church. The fourth time is here, at my fancy Catholic wedding.
One of Reba’s oft-repeated quotes floats to the forefront of my mind: So put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you. Have nothing to do with sexual immorality, impurity, lust, and evil desires. Don’t be greedy, for a greedy person is an idolater, worshipping the things of this world.
And oh. Oh, how I want to be an idolater, worshipping Grainger and everything about him that I hate so damn much.
He shoves the white layers of my dress up, like too much frosting on a cake, cursing as he does so. When he finds the lingerie underneath, he stills and lifts his eyes to mine. He moves his tattooed hands to his belt and undoes it, freeing his cock as I wrap my legs around his waist. Grainger pushes the lacy scrap of my panties aside and drives into me like he’s on a mission.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt.
My arms wrap his neck as he presses his face to the side of my neck, brushing stubble against the softness of my throat.
“You forgot to shave,” I whisper, which is such a bizarre thing to notice or say in a moment like that.
Even though my dress is splattered with blood, and crimson is leaking underneath the door, it doesn’t matter. Grainger fucks me hard into the side of the table, denting the wall as the sound of gunshots and screaming echoes from inside the chapel.
“How many times did you fuck that mafia brat?” he whispers back, licking the side of my neck as his familiar black pepper and vanilla scent surrounds me in a cloud, simultaneously soothing me and waking me up all at the same time. That’s me and Grainger right there, a dichotomous mix of opposing things. Dare I say … love-hate? “How many, huh?” he growls, ripping the panties clean off me.
He pumps his hips hard into me, and I revel in the hot, full feeling of his cock inside of me. I’ve missed this so much. I’ve missed him so much, even if I could hardly allow myself to admit it. The logical part of me, the bit that knows I’m about to die, tries to push back, tells me to run, to take this opportunity to shoot Grainger and use that trapdoor in the chapel before it’s too late.
The thing is, this pull between us is so strong, so irresistible, a dessert that I never should’ve sampled. He’s too old for me. He’s too wrong for me. He’s an asshole. And yet I want him in a way that I’ve never wanted anything else. Tainted me filthy, this bitch.
“Shut the fuck up,” I murmur, pressing my mouth to his so hard that his lip rings dig into my skin. He surprises me by kissing me back with such passion, such fervor. This right here feels like a marriage, like a dirty communion under god’s watchful eye. I’m a heathen, a hedonistic lush, a dirty biker girl with questionable morals and blood under her fingernails.
Grainger cups my ass cheeks in his hands, squeezing hard and rutting me like an animal. The friction of his pelvis against my clit does all sorts of right things for me. Besides, it’s been months since I’ve had satisfaction whatsoever. It doesn’t take long for me to feel the orgasm creeping up on me like an animal in the night.
“I missed you so much,” Grainger grates out through gritted teeth as I dig my fingers into his rust-red hair and yank on one of his lip rings with my teeth. “I hate you so much.”
Something clicks in my head then, another memory of that night, a moment where he said such a similar thing and yet meant the exact opposite. Because that’s us, right? Opposing things. Antitheses. Dichotomies. “I’ve always hated you, Gidge.”
“I hate you, too,” I breathe back as he fucks me hard and makes me come, my body wrapping his and squeezing like she never wants to let go. The exquisite silken flutter of my muscles milks Grainger into coming, too, spilling his hot seed inside of me as we clutch at each other like drowning people searching for a life raft.
With our pelvises still pressed together, sweating all over each other, we look at one another.
His face … it’s impossible to read.
After a moment, I relax my thighs and Grainger pulls out of me, helping me yank my dress back down and then taking my hand. Not my wrist, not my arm. My hand.
He curls his fingers through mine and pulls me down the hallway, making a right then a left like he knows exactly where he’s going. To be fair, for the club to plan an assault like this, he must. They must’ve canvassed this place for weeks. No, no … for months. They’ve been planning this rescue since I went missing or else it wouldn’t be happening this way, this successfully.
Grainger adjusts his grip to my wrist just before kicking open a door at the end of a short hallway and leading me outside, into the gray glare of a coastal morning. If I take a deep breath, I can smell a hint of salt and sea behind the harsher smells of leather and blood.
Cat is waiting.
Gaz at his side, the club’s treasurer René just behind him. As I watch, another door opens and Crown, Beast, and Sin appear, all of them dressed in blood and frowns.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Crown tells Cat as Grainger pulls me across the grass toward my father.
I have never—never—been so scared in all of my life.
This is it.
One last goodbye fuck with Grainger and then … will Cat torture me? Will he give me to his men to use? My stomach twists as nausea overtakes me and I wobble slightly on my feet. It’s so damn cold out here. Freezing. Glacial.
“There’s my girl,” Cat breathes, stepping forward and cupping my face in his sun-weathered hand. It’s a somewhat affectionate gesture, oddly reminiscent of the way the Don touched me just a half hour earlier.
I am so confused right now. I look up and into his rust-red eyes, his wrinkled face, his grizzled beard. Who the hell is this man and what has he done with my father?
I’m not stupid enough to question him right then. Instead, I do my best to focus past the burn of Grainger’s fingers pressing into my wrist, my mind spinning, the world tilting around me.
“Shoulda known if anyone could survive this shit, it’d be you.” Cat looks me over from head to toe, studying the bloodied wedding dress with interest. “They force you into a marriage with some old bastard?”
What the actual fuck is going on right now?
I blink a few times to clear my head as Grainger finally—unfortunately—releases me. My eyes slide to his and our gazes meet. I can’t tell what his motives are, what Cat’s motives are. This is all just … it’s a lot, especially after three months of living in this viper’s den.
“No, the boy …” I start as Sin approaches me, his blue faux hawk spattered with blood, a set of keys in his hand. I’m reminded as I look at him that I fucked him to get access to his keys once before, that just minutes before I took off with Grey, he was inside of me, pressing my bare cheeks to the exterior walls of the cabin.
“They were marrying you off to the boy?” Cat says, throwing a glance in Crown’s direction. “The hell they playin’ at?” It’s a rhetorical question, not meant to be answered in the here and now. “Well, shit, guess we better load up before they bring in the big guns.”
“Should I take her in the Escalade?” Sin queries, flicking his silver eyes my direction. They slide from my face down to my chest, and then he frowns, his semi-crooked mouth reminding me why I always thought he was so damn cute.