Page 8 of Queen of Anarchy (Dirty Broken Savages 2)

And it was even better than I could have imagined. We fit together in a way that blew my damn mind, and she rode my cock like she was made for it.

It was hot and intense, and I grip my dick a little bit tighter, almost like I’m trying to imitate the feeling of her pussy around me. It’s not even a close approximation though.

As if my mind isn’t done torturing me, it pulls up memories of the first time I ever made River come, the day I caught her standing in the doorway while another woman sucked my cock. I remember the way she gave Sam snide little instructions, talking about how she could do it better. And then the way she told me exactly how she would do it, describing the way she’d give me head as I stroked myself to a climax that nearly knocked me on my ass.

I think about the way she tasted when I went down on her, sweet but with a bite to her, like a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach. Heady and impossible to ignore.

All of those fucking thoughts and memories crowd my mind, filling my head with images of her sarcastic smile and biting comments. I think about the way her body felt against mine every time we touched. Her ass in my lap, her hands on me. My hands on her.

It’s a weird combination of hot as fuck and maddening to think about her while I jerk off, and I feel my cock pulsing in my grip even as the anger inside my chest burns hotter. I’m even more pissed off than I was before, gritting my teeth and blowing out another cloud of smoke.

I pump my cock harder and faster, hips lifting into the motion. I can feel my heart slamming against my rib cage, and my breathing gets all short and quick while I work myself.

The cigarette dangles from my lips, and I know I’m close. I’m hard as fucking diamond in my own hand, and precum oozes from the tip, sliding down the shaft of my cock and slicking the glide a bit while I jerk off. Just thinking about River is enough to get me going, but I don’t want to come to the thought of her. I don’t want her face, her voice, her pussy to be the thing that sends me over the edge.

Not after what happened tonight.

It feels stupid to say she hasn’t earned that, and even stupider to be gripping my own cock, trying to hold myself back so I don’t spill all over my hand with her in my head.

When have I ever held myself back like this? Never. When there’s an orgasm within reach, I go for it, full steam ahead. But now I don’t want to. It’s almost the same as if I’d called some girl over, trying not to lose myself inside her while thinking about River.

River, River, River.

Just thinking her goddamn name makes the rest of it keep cascading through my mind, and I curse under my breath and let go of my cock, letting out a ragged sigh.

Every time I get close to that peak, there she is. Like she’s waiting for me. Taunting me with the knowledge that I still want her so fucking bad. Even after everything. I hate that. It makes my blood boil, but my cock is still rock hard.

I brace my hands on the bed and breathe in through my noise, the sharp smell of cigarette smoke cutting through the mess in my brain. It’s not enough, though. Every time I close my eyes, I see her, and if I even think about touching my dick again, her face is right there.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, my voice thick with anger and defeat. I may as well give up at this point.

My dick is still hard, jutting up from my open pants like an accusation. But my head is a fucking mess, so there’s no way it’s happening tonight.

Who am I, fucking Priest? This has never been an issue for me.

Not until River showed up and couldn’t be fucked to give a shit.

I growl and stub out my cigarette, tossing the butt into the ashtray on my dresser. I tuck my cock back into my pants, ignoring the neglected throb it gives when I touch it. I’m not coming tonight, clearly.

The hallway is quiet when I open my door, and I walk through the darkness and head down the stairs. It’s quiet down here too, but there’s a light on in the living room, so someone is still up.

Priest is sitting on the couch, with the TV playing at a low volume and River’s goddamn dog curled up on the cushion next to him. The mutt’s head is in his lap, and Priest pets him absently every few seconds, his eyes trained on the TV.

“Why am I not surprised you bonded with the damn dog?” I roll my eyes as I walk into the room.

Priest isn’t at all startled by my voice. He just shrugs and scratches the dog’s ears.

“You were the one who hated it the most in the first place,” I point out.

He glances at me, giving me a once over. It’s like Knox all over again, feeling like he’s seeing through me to things I’d rather not have on display.

But it’s hard when it comes to these guys. We know each other better than we know anyone else. We’ve been through a hell of a lot together. Walked through fire and burned shit down and still came out the other side as a unit. All of it has forged a bond that will never break, and it means that the masks we might wear around other people are pretty much useless around each other.

“He grew on me,” Priest says finally, looking back to the TV.

I settle onto the couch on his other side, giving the dog a look. The furry little animal doesn’t even open his eyes, either asleep or too blissed out on the attention from Priest to bother with me.

“You mean he finally stopped looking at you like he wanted to take a bite out of you,” I say to Priest.

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