The Rising, page 2
part #1 of Unlawful Men Book 4 Series
“I’m trembling in my fucking boots, Black,” Otto grumbles, earning a smack from my mother and undoubtedly a plead not to goad me.
“Okay, I think it’s bedtime.” James directs me toward the villa. “We’ll have our m-m-meeting tomorrow.” I’m shoved through the door where I find my wife, my fucking wife, the woman who is supposed to love me unconditionally, looking at me like she’s about to slap some conditions on me. I scowl. Or I try to. And then my eyes drop to her tummy. And I smile. I can’t help it. But I quickly remember . . .
We’re not talking.
“I hate you,” I hiss, jabbing a finger in her face. Her gorgeous, lovely face. “I hate you so fucking much.” I may be steaming, but I see her shoulders drop, all fight leaving her. She’s calm. I’m plastered. And as if to prove exactly how plastered, I start rocking back on my heels, forcing James to catch me.
“Can I have a cuddle?” I ask, pouting. “Please?” I ignore the chuckles behind me and open my arms, walking to her, my efforts to remain in a relatively straight line quite feeble. “I don’t want to fight.”
“You always say that after we’ve had a fight, but you seem quite set on fighting while we’re fighting.”
“What am I supposed to do, baby? Hide everything from you?” I take her chin and lift her face to mine, closing one eye to focus. Perhaps I should hide it all. Leave her here, go back to Miami, deal with it all, and come back. Hopefully in one piece. I feel like I’ve been tossed back to the beginning of this shitshow and have to sit through the entire crappy performance all over again. Except this time, I have no fucking popcorn. Or any fucking leads. And my wife’s fucking pregnant. Fuck my life. I rest my hands on her shoulders and she exhales heavily, taking my wrists.
“I don’t want you to hide anything from me,” she says.
“Then I won’t.” Bullshit, Black.
“How’s this happened?”
I squint, thinking hard, like I might find the answer. Of course I won’t fucking find the answer, and in this moment, actually, I don’t want to. I just want to go to bed and cuddle her to death. Fuck the men. We’ll meet in the morning.
I turn, ready to instruct them all to fuck off, with the exception of my mother, of course, but find everyone has gone. “Where did they go?”
“Home, I expect.” Rose snakes an arm around my waist, and I start walking us to the bedroom. Leaning on her. Just a little. “Everyone’s been looking for you for hours.”
“I was on the beach getting drunk.”
“No shit.”
“No, really, I was.” I dip and push my mouth into her hair, just before we reach the bed, and she releases me. I fall onto the mattress. Room spin finds me immediately. “I’m rea”—hiccup—“. . . lly drunk.”
“You’re really fucking annoying, that’s what you are.” She unfastens my trousers and I look down on what I expect is a lopsided grin. Oh, yeah? I had hoped but didn’t want to assu—
“Forget it, Black,” she mutters, yanking my trousers down my legs and casting them aside before starting on my shirt.
“Did you say no to me?” I seize her wrist and still her, looking at her for an answer. The right answer. “I’m a mafia boss, baby.”
“I know,” she purrs, dropping her lips to mine and kissing me softly. I sigh happily, opening up to her. “But tonight, you’re not a hard one.” She pushes into my soft dick as she bites my lip. “And this moll is too tired after stressing out over where her mafia husband had disappeared to.”
I scowl. “I was on the beach.”
“Yes, but I thought you’d left for Miami.”
I snort. “Without James and Brad?”
“And Otto and Ringo and Goldie.”
“Otto can fuck off.” I slam my head onto the pillow. “He’s banished.”
“Tell your mother that.”
“I will.” I grab Rose and yank her onto the bed, wrapping every arm and leg around her. Or try to.
“Still hate me?” she whispers, kissing my forearm where it’s curled around her neck.
“Always, baby,” I murmur. “And forever.”
Fuck. Me. To. Hell.
“No, no, no,” I mumble, rolling over, trying desperately to find a cool spot on my pillow.
“Yes, yes, yes,” a sweet, feminine voice sings back.
I still and scowl. Pout. Roll my eyes. I’m never going to live this down. Only twice in my life have I been drunk beyond drunk. It’s not me. I’m vulnerable under the influence. At risk. But the truth is, if I hadn’t drunk last night, I would have headed straight to the hangar, got on my plane back to Miami, and . . .
And blown the whole fucking city up.
It was a terrible idea. Worse than getting so drunk I feel like a few grenades have gone off in my skull.
My face squished in the pillow, I listen as the sound of her bare feet padding the floor gets closer. Her face appears, looking all too fucking smug. “You’re dribbling,” she whispers, leaning in and licking my lips. Naturally, everything inside lights up like fireworks and my blood starts pounding instead of my head. She smells so good. Tastes incredible. Feels like heaven. I find it in myself to push my hands into the covers and roll to my back, grabbing her wrist as I do and yanking her on top of me. But just as I’m moving in for a kiss to get us started, to get what I know is going to be a challenging day off to the best start, I detect a wave of worry fly across her face.
I withdraw. “What’s up?”
Her cheeks balloon, her hand slaps across her mouth, and she flies up from the bed, dashing across the bedroom. She doesn’t bother shutting the door—time is obviously of the essence—and a second later, the retching starts. I pout. “You okay, baby?” I call, dragging myself up, my hangover back with a vengeance. Self-inflicted, mind, so I’ll keep my gob shut. I make it to the door just as she brings up last night’s dinner, her body jacking, her arms braced on the seat.
“Fine,” she heaves, jolting again, bringing up dessert.
I wince, crouching behind her and rubbing her back, tucking some stray strands of hair into her hair tie. “It’s definitely a girl,” I say, pulling some tissue from the holder and passing it to her.
She inhales heavily and exhales even more so, dropping to her arse and slumping back into me, exhausted. I shuffle back until I find a wall, taking Rose with me, and settle against it, holding her between my legs, my arms wrapped around her chest. “How do you know?”
“Because only a woman could be this difficult.” I lean in and have a nibble of her ear as she chuckles weakly, snuggling into me anywhere she can. This is my Rose. Peaceful. “Feel any better?”
“Not really,” she whispers. “You?”
“Not really,” I admit, sighing into her hair. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know what happens from here. Returning to Miami was always on the cards, but we both—and by both, I mean James and I—felt a fuck load better about it with The Bear dead. Trying to sort business while ensuring Rose and Beau were safe was too fucking stressful. I don’t want to return to that. Dodging bombs, looking over my shoulder, arguing constantly with my wife.
Problem is, I don’t appear to have a choice in the matter, and Rose doesn’t react all too well when choices are taken away from us.
“What happens now?” she asks, and it’s hesitant.
Now, we go back to Miami and fix the fucking problem. Simple. But simple isn’t going to be easy, not on my health, and definitely not on my marriage. “Now,” I say, moving my hands to her belly, “you will do what you’re told and concentrate on this.”
Her hands land on mine, circling. “While you go back to war,” she whispers, the statement almost accepting. But what choice does she have? What choice do any of us have? His contact last night wasn’t just a courtesy call to let us know we’d failed to eliminate our biggest enemy. It was a warning.
And the mystery is reignited.
“Come on,” I say, encouraging her up. I sling an arm around her and walk us to the kitchen, placing her on a chair and collecting some of that green shit from the fridge she’s drinking a lot of lately. James got her onto it, and now I’m pretty sure she must be pissing the stuff. I pour some into a glass and pass it to her, setting the jug down and glancing around, listening. Something’s different. “Where’s the kid?”
“He stayed at your mother’s.” She takes a sip, her eyebrows high. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking I would hate for Daniel to see me drunk. She would be right.
“What are you doing today?” I ask.
“While you plot death?”
I give her a tired look and get myself some water, popping a few painkillers. “Rose, baby, I don’t want you stressing out.”
“Oh, Danny, please.” Her glass hits the table a little heavily, but I’m not concerned about having any breakables hauled at me. She’s too exhausted and can hardly hold herself up, let alone find the strength to chuck things around with any kind of force. This sickness is dragging out, but Doc’s happy, and if Doc’s happy, I’m happy. “Are you telling me not to worry about you?” she asks.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.” I get some pastries from the cupboard and load them onto a platter with some butter and jam. “Your worry is wasted because it’s all going to be fine.” I set everything on the table and take a seat beside her.
“Is that why you got roaring drunk last night, huh?” She accepts the Danish I slide in front of her and has a safe nibble.
“I was letting off some steam.” I point my butter knife at her. “It’s cheaper than smashing vases and bowls.”
Her scowl is half-hearted as she chews slowly, but I see her remorse. She’s a fiery fucker when she wants to be, and I know it’s pretty fucking sick that I love her fire. But she needs it being married to me.
“So what are you doing?” I ask again. Conversation done.
“Beau and I are going shopping, and I wanted to pass by the market and pick up some ingredients for that curry I mentioned, but now—”
“Now, what?”
“Well, now . . .” She tilts her head, her expression expectant. “What are you doing?”
She knows what I’ll be doing. I lick some jam off my fingers and sink my teeth around a croissant, filling my mouth and relaxing back in my chair. Her eyes drop down my bare chest. She pouts. Then leans over and gives my pec a little stroke. I watch her hand work over my flesh, across the small scar below my collarbone. “Feel better?” I ask, looking up at her, my voice low.
Her eyes jump up to mine. Her demure smile is my answer.
I’m up fast, grabbing her from the chair and getting her quickly but gently over my shoulder. Her squeal barely stabs at my brain. “You want to know what I’m doing? I will start by fucking my wife ferociously.” I drop her on the bed, and she immediately starts pulling off the T-shirt and wriggling out of her knickers as I kick my boxers off. I seize my dick and start working myself to full hardness, and Rose watches me, her hands falling to her boobs and massaging. My wife’s a walking sex bomb, but I can’t say I’ve ever found her this sexy. Her boobs a bit bigger, her stomach a little rounder, her arse getting curvier. And the look in her eyes.
The mother of my baby. Keeping my hands off her has always been a challenge. Now it’s plain painful.
I look down at my weeping dick, my teeth clenching, and walk on my knees up the bed, still working my cock. I knock her hand away, smiling when her back arches, and dip, taking her boob in my mouth. Her groan is long and low. My heartbeats are hard and fast. “Oh, yes,” she breathes as I suck her nipple, relinquishing my hold of my dick and walking my fingers up her inside thigh, smiling when she spreads her legs farther.
“You want me to fuck you with my fingers, baby? Or my tongue?” I sink two fingers into her pussy and watch in fascination as her face contorts, her hands flying up to grip the headboard. “Or my big, hard, throbbing cock?”
“Yes,” she whispers, flexing her hips to meet my fingers’ drives. “All of it.”
All morning sickness and hangovers are forgotten. As is—I fucking hope—all thoughts of the sadistic, sick fucker that’s after us. I crawl down her body, shove my tongue past her pulsing, wet lips, and eat her pussy like it’s my last supper.
“Shit, Danny!”
Her constant yells push me on, encourage me, my eyes closing, my mouth ravenous.
And just when she’s about to come, I withdraw, flip her over, and ram my dick into her, fucking her hard, fast, and brutally. My roars and her screams must be heard across the island.
But still, I pump faster, grind harder, trying to pound my previous thought away.
My last supper.
2
ROSE
He’s smashing into me like a madman. I’m fighting to find my breath. He’s taken me violently many times, made me wonder how much more of his power I could sustain, but never have I been in this situation before.
I need him to stop. He’s out of control. Yelling constantly, his fingers clawed into my hips, his flesh slapping against my ass loudly. The soreness between my thighs is raw. My head is ringing. “Danny,” I mumble into the pillow, grappling at the sheets. “Danny, please.”
He pounds on, deranged and oblivious to my discomfort. “Come on, baby,” he bellows, following it up with a bark of pleasure. “Come on!”
“Danny, stop.” I choke over my words, feeling him hitting me deeply, so deep I’m in pain.
“Tell me when, Rose.”
“Danny, I can’t.”
“Come on, baby!”
“Danny, please, stop.” Fuck, this hurts. “Danny,” I mumble, without breath or energy to yell, my body limp, at the mercy of his ruthless taking.
Stop!
And then I feel him jerk on a choked cough and he collapses onto me, panting, sweating, pushing me into the mattress, his hips grinding, his seed spilling into me, hot and endlessly as he groans into my neck. I lie still, completely dazed. And not for the right reasons. “Get off me,” I say, my throat hoarse, my body not my own. It’s a feeling I never thought I would have again. An empty, hollow, helpless feeling. Nothing. I feel nothing.
“Rose?” He strains my name past his fitful breathes, shifting slightly.
“Get. Off. Me,” I order, my voice brittle. I wince when he slides out of me, leaving his cum trickling down my leg.
“Baby, what’s up?”
I push my hands into the mattress and get off the bed, jarring when he catches my wrist, stopping me from walking away. “Let go, Danny.” I know what he’s expecting here. He’s expecting me to lash out. I’m too numb. Too shocked. He has never violated me. He’s always sought permission in his own fucked-up way. I turn my eyes up to his, and he recoils the moment he sees the emptiness of my expression, dropping his hold. “I told you to stop. You didn’t stop.” I walk away, numb, and lock myself in the bathroom. I immediately turn on the shower and step in, a familiar sense of detachment creeping through me, a shield that’s been broken for years seeming to fix itself. I look down my body. I don’t see my small bump.
I see an object.
I swallow and sink to the floor, dragging a washcloth over, sobbing as I clean myself, scrubbing between my legs. Scrubbing my husband off my body.
Because today he’s not my husband.
Today, he’s just another man who didn’t listen when I told him to stop.
* * *
It’s the only time I can recall when he’s not come after me. I can’t say I’m sorry. Once I’ve got myself together, I leave the bathroom. The bedroom is empty, and I dress in silence, pulling on a long blush skirt and a sleeveless white shirt, knotting the ends. I quickly rough dry my hair, put some sunscreen on my face and arms, and my gold-jeweled sandals on my feet. I grab my cell off the nightstand, my purse off the back of the chair, and a hair tie off the bed. The hair tie that unraveled from my hair while he took me like an animal. I stop and stare at the strewn sheets, then look over my shoulder when I hear the door to the villa slam shut. He’s gone. Can’t face me.
Good. I can’t face him either.
I start pulling my hair up as I head to the kitchen but come to an abrupt stop when I enter and see Danny sitting at the table, dressed in a white shirt and blue chinos, spinning his cell in his grasp. I disturb his deep thoughts and he looks up, the fiddling of his phone stopping. I stare into his icy eyes that are far from cold at the moment. They’re worried. I have no idea what to say to him.
I look away, grabbing my keys off the console by the door and leaving. “Rose,” he calls, coming after me. “Baby, please, don’t walk away from me.”
I keep up my pace, pulling my cell from my purse and dialing Beau to find out how long she’ll be. I don’t even make it to my contacts. I hear wheels on gravel and see her yellow Jeep driving through the villa gates.
“Rose,” Danny breathes, rounding me and putting himself in front of me. I sidestep him and wave to Beau, seeing James in the passenger seat.
As soon as she pulls to a stop, James gets out and I take his place, setting my purse on my lap.
“Morning,” he says, his body still dipped for me to kiss his cheek.
“Let’s go,” I say, unable to appreciate the significance of such a simple moment—a moment when Beau and I can hop in a car and go out for the day without the Vikings guarding us or Danny and James fretting. But is that going to change now?
Beau doesn’t pull away, her eyes on me. “You two still haven’t made up?” she asks, turning her eyes onto Danny. I peek at him too, seeing half the man I know. An unsure man. A lost man.
“Rose,” he murmurs softly, his eyes beseeching.
I return my attention to the road, and Beau finally pulls away. I look in the side mirror, seeing James with his hand on Danny’s shoulder.
“What’s going on?” Beau asks, splitting her attention between me and the road. She knows this is more than an extension of last night’s drama. Of course she does. And because she is my best friend, I want to tell her. And because Danny is my husband and I don’t want her to think bad of him, I don’t want to tell her. I wonder if I’m overreacting. I wonder if I’m being unreasonable. I wonder if I have the right to feel this hollow. Our sex life has always been colorful. It’s always been very physical and sometimes violent. The nature of our relationship has always dictated that. Who Danny is. Who I am. Two people like us coming together was always going to be . . . volatile.
