Page 13 of The Bonds We Break
As I exit, I notice Niro walking around from the rear of the building. I’m guessing he was insurance in case I decided to climb out a window.
“Such a good guard dog, Niro,” I say when he catches up to me.
“Watch your mouth,” he mutters.
It’s the early hours of the morning, perhaps closer to dawn, when we finally pull up outside an old cabin. There is a motorbike outside. It’s close to a fishing lake. But my guess is it can’t be too far away from Asbury Park, where the Iron Outlaws clubhouse is.
“You sure you have what you need?” Niro asks, and King nods.
Bates tosses my two suitcases onto the ground, but I grab my work bag and books. I’ve seen how little these men appreciate knowledge.
King stands next to me as the van drives off, leaving us alone. “Inside, duchess,” he says and heads to the door, leaving both my cases on the ground.
Asshole.
Not that I need men to do anything for me. They rarely have and routinely don’t.
I drag one case, then the other, through the open doorway. When everything is dumped on the ground in the open-plan living space, I shut the door and look around. At best, it could be described as basic. The floors are old wood, with the occasional threadbare rug thrown down in front of a well-worn sofa and chairs. The wood paneled walls are adorned with cheaply framed pictures of motorbikes and pin-up girls. Geez. Everything is wood—a wooden table, wood stacked up at the side of the black cast iron fireplace. I hope he lights it soon because it’s freezing in here.
King steps through the doorway. He’s ditched his leather cut and jacket and stands in a black Henley that hugs his arms. I’ve always been a sucker for thick biceps, veined forearms, wide hands, and fingers that know how to tease elusive orgasms out of my reluctant body.
I swallow. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”
“It was my dad’s.”
“Ah. A time capsule memorial to the deceased.”
King raises an eyebrow. “Or something I only inherited in the last year and haven’t had time to fix up yet. So, keep your cheap psychologist skills to yourself. Bedroom is this way.”
Touché. “Bedroom, as in singular?”
At this King lowers his gaze down my body and back up. “Yup.”
“Great. It’s the classic only-one-bed trope.”
“The what?”
I shake my head. “I’ll take the floor.”
King walks into my space. “You’ll take what I give you and be grateful. That includes half the bed. Now strip. If I’m sleeping with you, you’d better be goddamn naked.”
As I watch his back, I realize I hate that I know anything about this man. I hate that I know how much my brother felt for him. How he’s a man wearing a mantle he’s not yet ready to carry. A man who feels betrayed. That erosion of trust comes with a cost.
And I hate how my body responds to his demands. I’ve spent years trying to find a man who can wake up my dormant enjoyment of sex. Sure, I’ve dated. I’m not a virgin or a nun or any of those dumbass labels they put on women that all revolve around purity culture. Sex is something I find hard to relax into. Orgasms with another person are as elusive as the tooth fairy. On my own, I can get there in under two minutes, but as soon as someone else’s hands touch my body, it’s game over.
I’ve intellectualized it as a mental block from all those times my dad beat me as a child. I’ve numbed myself from those horrors, from that feeling of someone else’s skin against mine. Over the years, I’ve convinced myself that human touch only brings pain. And now I can’t relax enough for someone else’s touch to bring pleasure.
But the way King speaks, his voice so deep it resonates through my sternum, does something to my insides I’m not ready to admit.
Because wouldn’t it be ironic that the one man with the potential to ignite my sexuality and arousal is a man who would kill my brother in a heartbeat?
“You gonna make me call my guy in Mexico, duchess? Or are you going to get your ass in here?” King’s voice carries from the other room.
I eye the door. Part of me wants to run like my life depends on it. Just as quickly I remember mybrother’slife depends on me doing the exact opposite. And with the number of times he’d thrown himself in front of our dad to save me or Mom, I feel like it’s time someone stepped up and saved him.
Maybe with a man like King, I can at least get past my hang-ups. When he called me a good girl earlier, my clit lit up like a firecracker on the Fourth of July. I’ve had those feelings before, but they usually die with a partner somewhere in the getting-naked stage.
It’s hard to explain the need for dubious or consensual non-consent. And this man does not care about my consent, not even a little bit. But that doesn’t mean I can’t consent to this in my mind.
