Seven Sons

Eight

Twenty minutes later, we are in Dornan’s room at the clubhouse. I know he has a home, but his wife is probably there. That poor woman. After my humiliating strip-search, he whisked me away, up here, away from the curious eyes of his sons and fellow club mates. I am equal parts relieved and annoyed. Relieved that I didn’t have to put on a show in front of so many suspicious guys, or dance with my bandaged tattoo on full show. Annoyed because I can’t breathe properly in this room, large as it is, since the windows all have metal bars on them and I am unmistakably trapped. Alone. With him.

My scars are hidden nicely by Elliot’s handiwork, but if someone knew what they were looking for, if they studied my skin long enough, they would find them.

“You understand why I had to have my boys search you before you could come in here, right?”

I stretch out on his bed, resting on my elbows and attempting to look unperplexed. “Of course. You don’t want some crazy bitch coming in here.”

“Or a cop,” he says, looking at me sidelong through his thick eyelashes. Christ, his voice is so deep, I can feel everything he is saying rumble through me like a freight train.

“When am I going to dance?” I ask him. I’m not enjoying being cooped up in a room alone with him, and I’m craving fresh air.

He smiles menacingly, and my stomach drops as I remember I don’t have my phone anymore. That idiot smashed it right after his brother finger-fucked me. Shit.

“You’re not going to dance,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, acting a little disappointed. “You want me to waitress or something instead? Because I could show you my routine–”

He kneels in front of me so that his face is inches from mine. I can smell mint on his breath and some kind of aftershave mixed in with his sweat. It’s not offensive, except that it’s his.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you all afternoon,” he says, walking his fingers up my thighs. I smile naughtily at him as he threads a finger inside my panties, searching.

I fidget as he finds my pussy and inserts one finger, then two, then pushes three in. I can’t help it. I moan as he applies the slightest pressure to my clit with the pad of his thumb. I can’t keep looking at him, I need to close my eyes, so I pull his face to mine, our lips crashing together in a kind of frenzy.

He takes his hand away and tugs at my dress, taking it over my head before throwing it to the floor. I wince as he lightly traces the intricate patterns of roses and a phoenix rising from the ashes that now adorns my midsection.

“Need to be inside you, baby girl,” he moans, unbuttoning his jeans and letting his hardness rise to full size. I have a chance to study it more closely. Yup. No wonder my ass is so sore. His cock is huge.

He doesn’t even bother taking my panties off, just pushes them to the side with rough, crazed hands. I am equal parts thrilled and terrified that I have had this effect on him in the space of a few short hours. I think briefly of my makeover and mentally high-five myself for getting everything completely right.

He pushes me down on the bed, hovering his cock between my thighs.

“You’re mine now,” he says, thrusting inside me with enough force to make me cry out. He immediately starts pumping in and out, hard and fast, and my brain does battle with my body. So many conflicting emotions are vying for my attention, I am completely and utterly overwhelmed.

Ohhhh.

I open my eyes to see him above me and am immediately a scared, bleeding fifteen-year-old girl again.

No. Don’t think about that. Pretend he’s someone else. Remember why you’re here.

And that delicious knowledge of my deceit stirs something carnal in my belly, a snaking kind of desire that coils around me and squeezes tightly. Yes. Better.

I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, the thrill of my treachery almost enough to make me orgasm on its own.

“That feels so good,” I moan, and he smirks because he thinks he is fucking me, when I am the one fucking him.

He is a skilled lover. I don’t have anyone to compare him to, other than my high-school sweetheart from Nebraska, but as he carries me to the brink of climax on a white-hot wave of pleasure and lies, I cannot help but scream.

Afterwards, we lie together, catching our breath. I look at him out of the corner of my eye to see him staring back.

“Where’ve you been my whole life, baby?” he asks, running his hands over my breasts and between my legs. His touch is everywhere, all over me, marking me as his, a possession that has been claimed.

I smile coyly. “In high school, probably,” I giggle.

“Hey, now,” he replies playfully. “Don’t tell me I gotta prove to you that age doesn’t matter?”

“I think you just did,” I breathe.

We lie there in silence for a few blessed moments. It gives me time to think. Time to plan.

Dornan’s voice strikes that silence, shattering my moment of refuge.

“I just have one question for you, baby girl.”

One question. Sounds easy. I turn to face him and nod in anticipation.

“Your ex. What was his name?”

It’s one teeny, tiny white lie. “Michael,” I say, my fake backstory flashing before my fake blue eyes. “Michael Trevine.”

He nods. “He’ll never hurt you again. Why won’t he hurt you again?”

I smile dreamily, imagining the look on his face when they put him in orange overalls and slam his jail cell shut forever. Maybe they’ll give him the death penalty.

They should.

“Because,” I say playfully, tracing his lips with my finger, “I’m yours?”

He just fucking laughs. “What have I done to deserve you?” he breathes.

Now I am the one who laughs.