Without Mercy, page 26
part #4 of Running with the Devil Series
She moaned at his handling of her, but it didn’t distract her as she slid her free hand between his thighs, to his sack, running her fingers up the seam of it, wrapping her hand around his balls, gently, but firmly. He let loose a series of guttural growls as he opened his legs wider to give her better access. He bucked and clutched her ass when she moved her lips from his cock and brought his balls into her mouth, sucking on them one at a time. His other hand fisted her hair as she stroked his cock and sucked his balls. Then he pulled her away abruptly, her teeth grazing his balls. He almost lost it then, his fingers grasping her hair, his other hand holding her neck, keeping her apart from him until he got himself back under control.
When she tried to touch him, he growled at her. “Don’t.” She stilled. She opened her eyes to his, watching him, waiting for him. The combination of uncertainty and desire on her face drove Anto mad with lust. He grabbed her waist and rolled her onto her belly, pulling her ass up to him. Then he licked her in a single savage motion, from the crack of her ass to her clit, then back again, and again until she was moaning under him. His hands gripped her hips and he shoved his face into her. His whiskers chafed the her ass, his tongue fucked her vagina. She bucked under him, her chest on the mattress and her arms by her thighs, her hands clutching at the bedding. He gripped her tighter, pushed himself deeper.
“Fuck,” she whimpered
Anto brought his head up. “You want it?” and she cried out from his abandonment of her.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“God, please, yes!”
And he gave it to her, sucking her, tonguing her, then pulling away as she started to stiffen, forcing her away from the edge.
“Please,” she moaned.
“Please what, Marisol?”
“Please, Anto.” He almost lost it, her tone, helpless, pleading, promising him anything. He pulled himself to his knees and plunged into her. Fast and hard. His heart was thudding out of his chest, and his groans seemed disembodied. Animal, feral as he slammed into her, over and over again. Then he shifted to his side and drew one of her legs up, resting her foot on his thigh, giving her access to her pussy. She brought her fingers to her clit. Massaging herself rapidly. He held her tightly to him with one arm, the other a pillow for her head as he wrapped his hand around to pull at her breasts, pinch her nipples. He was losing his breath, it came out harsh and in gulps.
And Marisol, crying his name over and over again, before she stiffened in his arms, her pussy tightening around his engorged cock. He yelled out, a guttural war cry that seemed to explode from his very soul. Then he came, his orgasm shuddered through him, pain mixed with pleasure as he erupted. Like a fucking grenade. He was numb, lost in his pleasure and hers. Then the fall as one last explosion tore through him. His cock slid from her and he dropped onto his back on the bed, his breath still seizing in his throat. He glanced over at Marisol. Her chest rising and falling, eyes closed, head bent up, exposing her neck. Her nipples were still hard, her firm breasts perched on her chest, bobbing with her breathing.
He lay for a minute, then rolled over on his side and pulled her towards him, facing him. He kissed her, slowly, passionately, desperately. And she kissed him back, over and over again, her hands capturing his face, stroking it, nuzzling it. Eventually their hands stilled, they lay together, wrapped in the bedding. Anto wanted to speak, wasn’t sure what to say. Was uncertain of what her answers might be, uncertain how he would react. He sighed as he let her go and sat up. He felt the palm of her hand press into his back.
Finally he said, “If he asks you, will you go?”
“If I go, will you let me come back?”
Hurt lanced through him and he had to create some space between them. He got up off the bed and strode to his dresser, yanked open a drawer and pulled out a pair of underwear. “Why go at all?” he said back to her as he pulled the underwear on. Hollowness bloomed inside him as he turned. She was sitting up now, her legs bent to one side, small, helpless. She dropped her eyes when his met hers.
“How can I be with you Anto and never see my family again?” she whispered.
“They are not mutually exclusive.” He didn’t like the ugly turn his voice had taken. He tried to soften it. “Yes, there’s a divide between what I do and what your father does. I’m certain we’re not the first to have this type of challenge.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do Anto. I’m sorry.”
Anto stared at her hard, then turned his back. “Don’t be a rabbit, Marisol.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath, then movement as she got up from the bed, gathered her clothes and walked to the bathroom. The slight bang of the door jarred him and his eyes burned. He punched the wall with his fist.
Chapter Forty-Five
Mari stood under the stream of water and let it soothe her hurt. Why didn’t he say the one thing that might have changed her mind? Might, she thought as she soaped and rinsed herself. Stepping out of the shower, she thought about her family with a lump in her throat. They made her crazy, but they loved her. She knew that they would drop everything to come to her aid, even if they did it like a herd of stampeding buffalo. Anto saved her life, gave her his regard, treated her like a woman, desired her. But did he love her? Would he be with her forever or would he tire of her?
She was frustrated with herself. She loved him but kept trying to convince herself that maybe she was wrong. Because how could she know for sure? They met a week ago. There seemed so many things about him that ran counter to who she was. Loathe to admit it, but she was a romantic. She wanted to be married in a beautiful white dress, in a church, surrounded by friends and family. She wanted babies to raise and a couple of dogs to go running with. She wanted peace, freedom to paint, solitude to think, space to breathe. And her mate, she needed to trust him, trust that she was his one and only, that he’d always come home to her. She wanted him to bring her flowers, take her out for romantic candlelit dinners, hold hands in public. She wanted to hear him tell her she was beautiful, stunning, perfect. She wanted to be safe and grow old with him. She wanted freedom and happiness. She wanted love.
She pulled her clothes on and ran a comb through her short, black hair. Anto offered her none of this and yet she was drawn to him in a way she couldn’t reconcile. Now he was angry at her and hurt because she didn’t know if she could choose him. But truly, what right did he have to ask her? She was not from his world and he wouldn’t fit into hers. She would be the one making the sacrifices if she wanted to be with him.
She rested her forehead against the door as her hand curled around the handle. What did she have to sacrifice? An uninteresting job, barely-there friends, a small condo with not enough space or light to free the artist inside her. A family that would not hear her when she told them the truth about Anto. A family that would revolt against any attempt at a relationship. A father who might go to unthinkable lengths to keep them apart. She shook her head. She was channelling Shakespeare now, his classic theme of love gained and lost. Or was that Milton?
She opened the door and then lost her breath as her eyes landed on Anto. Gone were the T-shirt, the jeans and the running shoes. He was wearing an expensive suit, well-tailored and perfectly fitted. It gave him an air of royalty as it hung elegantly on his strong, well-defined body. At the cabin, his clothes told of his wildness, his passion, his savageness, but now, he was commanding, in-control, coldly dominating. She felt small and diminished in his presence, grateful that he would choose to be with her, selfish for wanting more than he offered.
She couldn’t move. His gaze froze her as butterflies warred in her belly. She wanted him, crazy, madly, passionately. She wanted to marry him, wanted his children, wanted his love. But he didn’t offer it, didn’t make a move toward her and she couldn’t make her lips move, couldn’t force any words out. She was that insecure girl again. The one before Anto came along. The one not trusting herself enough to trust others. Not believing anyone could want her.
“We should go,” he said finally. “It’s time.”
She nodded and stepped up to him. Say something Anto, she screamed at him in silence. Say anything to help me believe.
Chapter Forty-Six
While Marisol showered, Anto turned all the possibilities over in his mind. It led him to his decision, the grown-up, mature decision that he would kick himself in the balls for later. But in the meantime, the wise asshole in his head said that they both needed space to explore the truth of their feelings. To make sure it wasn’t just the sex that was calling to them. Although, in all fairness, sex was better with Marisol than any other woman he’d ever been with because she turned him on in and out of the sack. She was the first woman to ever do that. He thought about the past week as he dressed. Their run together, her willingness to follow him into the river, her desire for him. And their interplay of words, the way she let him fuck her, her trust in him. His favourite moment, besides all the fucking, was when they were fishing. She understood fishing, the silence, the concentration. She understood companionable solitude. There was no one like her in the world. No one that would understand him better.
It was love. He knew it. He wasn’t a young starry-eyed horny twenty-year-old. He was an older, jaded, horny thirty-three-year-old. That bitch, love, had never crooked her bony finger at him before Marisol. But she was beckoning now, taking up residence in his heart, his head, his cock. Maybe Anto should keep Marisol, marry her, have her babies. He grinned to himself. But only if she truly loved him, only if she wanted to be with him. And neither of them could know for sure until they gained some distance from these last few fucking days. He’d been thinking like a caveman, jealous, possessive, angry. Marisol was his to drag around by the hair, but that was wrong thinking. The choice to leave with her father was not the test. The test was if she would come back.
He knew she was going to leave because he was going to insist on it. While she got her head on straight and missed all the fantastic fucking they could be doing, he was going to find the asshole who tried to kill her and make him, and by extension, Randall Scott, Jackman, Rusya, even Doherty, understand how very hazardous it was to try to hurt Marisol.
As she left the bathroom and saw him, hearing her breath catch, her eyes stroke him, he knew he had to distance himself, just a little. He might be a big, ugly, tattooed fuck, but he wasn’t immune to emotional pain. He hadn’t realized it before Marisol, or maybe the truth was, his emotions had been dead. But they weren’t anymore. They were awake, stabbing in his chest, his belly, mocking him, brutalizing him. When she left with her father, Anto would unleash. He knew it, but he had to keep it inside until then. He didn’t want his anger to be the last thing Marisol remembered.
Rusya was sitting in one of his armchairs as they entered his study. Anto led Marisol to the couch and sat down next to her. Not touching her, but staying close enough that he could smell her sweetness. The silence lingered and then Marisol said, softly, a little shyly, “Mr. Savisin, I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me. For offering me your protection, for opening your home to me and allowing my father to meet with me here. You are a good man and I am very respectful of you.”
Anto marvelled at his woman as Rusya nodded his head. She was perfect. She understood exactly what she needed to say to this dark man. Rusya was not a man to be easily swayed, especially by a woman, but Anto could tell by Rusya’s quiet perusal of her that he returned her respect.
Rusya said, “Marisol, my home will always be open to you. My protection always yours. You need not fear for your safety.”
Anto’s eyes burned. In that moment, he forgot the duplicity of his association with Rusya and he loved them both. One a brother, the other his woman. Life was so fucking fragile and he might have missed this moment if he had not bulldozed his way into both Rusya’s and Marisol’s lives. What could he do not to lose them both?
Then the study door opened and Janice ushered in Andrew Doherty. She withdrew quickly, closing the door behind her. Marisol sucked in her breath as the three of them stood, then not able to contain herself, ran to her father and threw her arms around his chest, sobbing. He hugged her to him tightly, his own eyes squeezed shut as tears leaked from them.
“Marisol, oh my god. Marisol, thank god,” his voice was creaky, like it had rusted from neglect.
“Dad,” Marisol sobbed into his chest. Then she craned her head back and looked into his face. She wiped at his tears as a small relieved laughed slipped out. “Oh god, dad. Thank you for coming to me.”
“Of course I came,” he said gruffly. “My girl was in trouble.”
Rusya cleared his throat and drew their attention to him. Marisol blushed as she took her father’s hand and led him over to Anto and Rusya. “Dad, this is Rusya Savisin. You may have already met.” Andrew nodded, not offering his hand. Neither did Rusya. They both seemed to understand the formalities of meeting one’s adversity. There was no need for pretence.
Andrew said, “We have not met, but we know of each other, do we not, Mr. Savisin?” His voice had a blunt authoritative edge to it and Anto knew Rusya well enough to know that he was exercising an enormous amount of restraint not to respond in kind.
“Of course, Mr. Doherty.” He motioned to Anto. “This is the man who is responsible for saving your daughter’s life and keeping her safe. Anto Kharzin. This is the man you owe your thanks to.”
Doherty turned to Anto, his eyes suspicious and curious. “Mr. Kharzin,” he said and inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement.
Marisol stepped beside Anto and wrapped her hands around his arm. “Anto kept me safe, dad.”
“It was my honour to keep you safe,” he said as he glanced at Marisol. To Doherty, he growled, “I do not wish to be thanked. Marisol is important to me. It was for my own selfish purposes.”
“Say your goodbyes, Marisol and let’s go.” Andrew reached for her, but she shrank back, gripping Anto’s arm a little tighter.
“Mr. Doherty,” Rusya said in a cold, hard, flat tone. Andrew turned towards him, anger creasing his rugged features. “I understand your desire to have your daughter back home where you can control her safety, but as you can see, your daughter is safe and unharmed. And in this house willingly.”
“I am, dad,” Marisol reassured him.
“Anto has kept her well and before you leave, before Marisol decides whether to leave with you, there are some things I wish to discuss with you.”
Doherty tried to stare Rusya down but didn’t succeed. Anto had not yet met the man who could. Instead, he shifted his eyes to his daughter. “She doesn’t get to decide. She’ll be leaving with me.”
Marisol unlocked her hands from Anto’s arm and gave her father a hug. “I understand how worried you are, dad. About me and about being here, but please trust me. Please.” She pleaded with him, her voice soft but firm, barely wavering.
“Marisol,” Doherty held her by her arms. “Now that I have you back, I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”
“She’ll be with me in the living room,” Anto assured him as he untangled the two of them. “Close by.” Then he took Marisol’s hand and led her out of the room, closing the door, leaving Doherty to Savisin.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Mari felt giddy, sick and overwhelmed all at once. Her dad, Vancouver’s Chief Constable was meeting privately with Rusya Savisin, Vancouver’s Russian mob boss. About what? About her, about Anto, about Randall Scott? She glanced around. The living room was formally appointed in heavy dark period furniture. Substantial damask drapes were open but yellow from yard lights struggled futilely against the tightly woven sheers. It cast the room in a gloom, matching Anto’s expression. She paced the edges of the walls, studying the art. Some were flawless reproductions and others were originals by current masters. All were tasteful and subtly matched to the room’s disposition.
“Marisol.” Anto pulled her attention to him. She’d been avoiding him, not wanting to talk about what was going to happen next. Needing solace because she knew she would leave with her father. She had to trust that Anto would understand and that he would wait for her while she reunited with her family, while she healed.
He stood a few feet from her, solid, not just in body, but in soul. He reminded her of an ancient standing stone in Ireland. Weathered and beaten, but resilient, commanding and awe-inspiring. Would he crack? Would he accept her decision? She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, dropping them to her sides, trying to stay small but also trying to stand tall. She didn’t know what to do, what to say. Anto filled the silence.
He took two steps and stood in front of her. “You’ll be leaving with him.”
A tremor of despair fused with confusion. He was telling her to go? Her tears spilled over as her throat closed. She couldn’t choke out a reply.
He pulled her into his arms, held her against him. He smelled fresh, masculine, Anto. “Marisol, I don’t want you to go. Half of me refuses to let you walk out. That half would lock you back in that cage in the mountains and force you to stay, but I’m trying to be civilized. You know how hard that is for me.” He kissed the top of her head as he said this. “Which is why I don’t attempt it very often. You know who I am and what I’m about. That won’t change. I’d never intentionally hurt you, but you have to be part of my world. I can never be part of yours.”
Mari craned her neck to see his face. “Why?” she said in a broken voice.
He kissed her lips and led her to the couch, pulling her down on his lap as he sat. She laid her head on his chest, heard the steady beat of his heart. “Because no one walks away from this world. They know too much to be disloyal. It ends in death.”
