Lords of Wrath: Chapter 4

Tristian pulls the Porsche into a dark parking lot. I recognize it immediately when I look across the street and see the bar I went to with Killian a while back. It was inadvertently the cause for so much of this mess, my spilling the secret of my virginity to Sutton—the Countess—over what had seemed like a private, comforting moment.

It seems a little too on the nose, and for a time, I worry he’s pulling a prank on me.

Or worse.

“See that red G-Wagen over there?” He points to a boxy-looking Mercedes SUV across the way. “That shit is getting lit.”

I blink at the vehicle parked in the lot’s corner, at a diagonal angle. It takes up two spots. “Aren’t those super expensive?”

He reaches across me, forearm flexing beneath his sleeve as he opens the glove compartment and pulls out two pairs of black gloves. He hands me one. “Starting price? A hundred-and-fifty grand. But knowing Perez, it’s probably fully loaded. He just got it last week.”

Perez is the Count who kidnapped me, tied me to a bed in some rundown house, and then threatened to rape me. Even almost a week later, I’m still afflicted by the memory of his hands on me. Anger churns in my chest as I look at his obnoxious car, simmering with the injustice that guys like him get away with it, every damn time.

“And you want to set it on fire?” I ask, remembering the last time I’d vandalized someone’s car. That time had been Perez, too. Rath had slashed three of the tires on his sports car, and then saved the last for me. I guess this is what happens when a guy like Perez gets his tires slashed. He just buys something new.

Disgusting.

Tristian’s laugh is low and tinged with darkness. “Oh, no, sweetheart.” Leaning over, he noses into my neck, planting a sucking kiss into the skin there. “We’re going to set it on fire.”

When he pulls back, he reaches for the edge of his stocking cap and rolls it down, revealing a full ski mask. My heart hammers at the way he looks here, nothing but the blue of his eyes giving away the reality of the man beneath the mask and dark clothes.

Heart hammering, I remain still as he moves to do the same to mine, tugging it carefully down my head.

This is real. We’re really doing this.

“Last chance to back out,” he says, hand resting on the door handle.

But I shake my head, adjusting the mask. “No. I want that fucker to pay.”

There’s a spark of something malicious and delighted in his eyes. “That’s my Lady,” he says, chucking me gently on the chin.

It’s dark in the parking lot, illuminated only briefly by the soft, interior light of his opened trunk. Tristian grabs the gasoline but hands me the lighter fluid, snatching a box of matches before closing it all up. We wait a moment in the dark, taking in the energy of the surrounding air. The music coming from the bar is muffled and muted, but still somehow settles frantically in my bones. Two cars pass by, and then Tristian jerks his head, not sparing me a look as he strides toward our target. I follow him across the street, ducking behind an old minivan and crouching when he does, steadied by the weight of the touch he reaches back to pat my thigh with.

Voices echo off the pavement, coming closer to the car than I’m comfortable with. If we get caught back here, dressed as we are, holding gasoline and accelerant? We’re definitely fucked. The footsteps sound ridiculously loud—close. Tristian grabs my hand and raises his eyebrow, giving me a chance to back out.

Again, I shake my head.

My knees ache and my feet start to cramp, but finally the footsteps fade, and then disappear altogether. We wait another full minute before Tristian stands and scans the lot. “It’s clear,” he says, pulling me off the ground.

His motions are fluid and purposeful, not unlike a cat, as he strolls to the SUV. He unscrews the gas can along the way, only glancing back once to ensure I’m following. With smooth, almost mindless movements, he circles the car, leaving a splashing trail behind him. The air fills with the heavy scent of gasoline, thick and suffocating. Tristian makes this look effortless, as if it’s something he’s even done before. For a moment, I get this weird, inexplicable flash of pride. I know it’s just another way they’ve got my hindbrain all twisted up with their mind games, but the thought strikes me that the Lords are better than the Counts. It’s deranged and oddly possessive, but so strong that I shiver.

I might be theirs, but in some deep, fundamental way, they also feel like mine.

Mine to know.

Mine to injure.

Mine to beat.

Inspiration tickles at the back of my brain, and without thinking, I climb on the bumper and shuck off my glove. Carefully, I douse it with the accelerant and then look at the hood, pristine and shiny. I take some time to trace out the design, but I have a good reference strapped right to my wrist. I don’t stop when Tristian places a hand on my hip.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“You’ll see.”

As soon as I lift the glove, his hands are on my waist, powerful arms lowering me gently to the ground. Wordlessly, he pulls me out of the range of gasoline on the pavement. “Ready?” he asks, pulling out his matches.

I give a nod, heart hammering as I get my matches out, too. “Yes.”

On the count of three we strike them across the strip of sulfur. The flames spark to life, flickering hectically when we toss them to the ground. His lands on the circle around the base of the car, but mine goes straight for the hood.

I watch, transfixed as the flame zips around the design I created.

Tristian tilts his head, adjusting his grip on the empty gas can. “Is that a…”

“Sure is.”

It’s the outline of a skull, crude but still visible. It’s bizarre, my sudden affinity for the symbol that’s shackled me. The flame flickers higher and higher, casting the lot in a shadowy glow, until the skull is all but consumed by a wall of it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he breathes, eyes reflecting the fire. He watches it for another long beat, but I grab his hand and pull him away.

“Someone will come,” I explain, and it seems to snap him out of it.

We run across the lot, crouching behind cars and scanning the distance for eyes and ears. Luckily, there are none. Tristian throws his trunk open, carelessly tossing the cans in before shucking off his gloves and mask. I follow suit, but can’t deny the adrenaline rippling between us. When he shoves me roughly against the car, the bulge of his erection pressing into my lower belly, I don’t fight. His hand sweeps behind my neck, and then he yanks me forward, crashing our mouths together.

Tristian’s private kisses are always a little different from his public ones. He enjoys being watched—that much I know—and he does his best to give people a show. But when we’re alone like this, he’s always a little greedier. That’s how I know it’s for him.

This kiss is just as greedy, but it’s all the more searing.

He licks into the seam of my mouth like he physically couldn’t take no for an answer. His breaths are hard and quick, and when he surges into me, grinding the hardness of his erection into my hip, all I feel is a liquid-hot spike of need that makes my knees tremble.

When he releases me, it’s only to wedge a hand between my thighs and gruffly ask, “Still sore?” I wouldn’t need the words to know he wants to fuck. The wild, unhinged look in his eyes is enough to broadcast it.

Breathlessly, I lie, “Yes.”

His jaw goes tight and sharp. “Too bad,” he says, letting his hand fall away.

I lick my lips and nervously offer, “I can drive if you want. I’m pretty good under pressure.”

His hair is ruffled from the ski mask, messy in a way I’m not used to seeing on him. The playful look he gives me makes the knot of anxiety in my chest unwind. “Let someone else drive my baby? Not a chance.” He closes the trunk, stalking to the driver’s side and opening the door. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before the fire trucks come.”

Tristian starts the car, not with a rumble but the soft purr of a well-built machine. My body thrums—from the sensation of him against me, from the insanity of starting the fire, from the knowledge that he wants so badly to fuck me—but mostly from the satisfaction of watching Perez’s car engulfed in flames.

People start pouring out of the bar, crowding around to see the fire. Tristian pulls the Porsche out of the parking lot just as Perez is running toward the G-Wagen. The look of apoplectic horror on his face is priceless.

“Fucking asshole,” I mutter. “Should’ve lit him on fire.”

Tristian’s chest bounces with a laugh. “Oh, we’re not done with him yet, sweetheart.” He shoots me a crooked grin. “But yeah, that was fucking satisfying.”

I can still see the bulge in his pants.

We pass two fire trucks and Tristian’s eyes keep darting in the rearview mirror to make sure no one is following us. I’m still jittery with nerves and adrenaline, something I’ve missed since returning to Forsyth and agreeing to be molded into the perfect Lady. Tristian punches the gas, but I’d give anything for him to go faster—to heighten the energy bubbling under my skin, to prolong this sense of being alive.

I don’t think I’m ready to fuck any of them—not willingly. Tristian could make me, just like Killian did. He could pull over somewhere, and I know just how it’d go. He’d look stony and impatient, could give me some line about this just being a part of the job I agreed to. He could take me into his lap and rip my pants off, spread me wide and force his way inside. Perhaps he’d look like Killian had that night he took my virginity, tense and powerful as he fucked into the cradle of my thighs. It wouldn’t even be bad for me. I’d hate it, but I’d like it all the same.

I shift restlessly in my seat.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes flicking over.

But Tristian isn’t going to do that. He’s going to wait until I’m whole. I might be a possession to him, but Tristian isn’t careless about his things. Just like this car, he prefers me shiny and without flaw. Impeccably kept.

He might want me to do other things, though.

“Yeah. It’s the adrenaline.” I reach out and run my fingers over his neck, bolstered by the quick, surprised look he shoots me. “Thank you for letting me come along.”

His knuckles go white around the gearshift. “Feel better?”

“I shouldn’t,” I say, keeping with the act, “but I really do. Those guys are the worst.” We’re coming up on the highway and I tug at the hair on his neck. “Take the back road back to the house.”

His eyebrow quirks. “What for?”

“Take the back road,” I repeat. “Since you’ve been really good to me the last few days and let me tag along, I thought maybe I could…express my appreciation.”

One of these days, Tristian is going to make me get on my knees for him again. He’s going to want me to swallow him down. He won’t even be mean about it. He’ll probably be doing me a favor by asking me to pleasure him with my mouth instead of taking me the way he wants. The way they all want.

His hand grips the gearshift, and at the last minute, he swerves off the highway ramp and back down to the access road.

“How exactly do you plan on showing your appreciation, Sweet Cherry?” His voice has dropped an octave, but I can hear the pleased anticipation in it, can see the way he shifts restlessly.

I lean over and lick a hot path up his neck, the tip of my tongue sliding over the tightness in his jaw when he hums appreciatively. I slide my hand down his chest, over his hard abs. He inhales sharply, but I keep going, moving my hand down between his legs. I squeeze the rock hard bulge in his pants, wondering, “Did setting that car on fire turn you on?”

“Fuck,” he breathes, head falling back against the seat. “Maybe watching you strike that match did.” I massage his cock, feeling it grow harder under my hand. “Cherry, I’m going to blow my wad if you keep doing that.”

I breathe against his neck. “That’s sort of the point.”

There’s a pause before he lifts his hand from the gearshift, placing it over mine. He pushes it into his hardness. “Yeah? You going to jerk me off?”

“No.”

I watch as his eyebrows climb higher. “I thought you were sore.”

“I am.” I thumb at the button on his pants and lower the zipper, whispering, “But my mouth is fine.”

Tristian’s chest dips with a long exhale, expression collapsing. “Fuck, don’t tease me.”

I reach into his pants, fingertips hesitant until I touch the hot, velvety length of him. But there’s not enough room to wrap my palm around it. “I’m going to need you to lift up.”

“How about I pull over?” he asks, voice low and rushed. “We’re far enough from the bar.”

I wouldn’t be able to do it if I had to look into his eyes. If I had to remember that night in the laundry room. If I had to do what he told me. “Tristian Mercer,” I say, running a finger up his shaft. “Of all people, I’d think you would be into road head.”

A slow grin spreads across his mouth, both of his hands clenched around the steering wheel. It’s a challenge not to ask how many points that might be worth, me going down on him in the car. Eighty points? A hundred? Bitterly, I wonder if he’ll brag about it later over whiskey and a laptop, admiring his new score.

Still, I say, “Let me thank you properly, my Lord.” We’re in the desolate outskirts of town between the South Side and the University. He takes his foot off the gas for a minute and lifts his hips. I shimmy his pants down and his cock bounces free, hard and angrily flushed at the tip.

I’ve started to reconcile the two sides of the Lords. They’re cruel and manipulative, but I’m not blind to how dangerously hot they all are. They might think they’ve taught me subservience and deference, but mostly they’ve taught me I enjoy pushing my sexual boundaries. I like the sense of control it gives me to know just how much they want me. Perhaps I always have—even back in that laundry room. The dampness between my legs is evidence enough.

That doesn’t mean Tristian deserves to get his cock sucked while he drives down the road. But right now, I’m playing a game just as much as he is. He’ll get points. I’ll build equity. One day I’ll burn them all down, just like Perez’s prized car.

“Just don’t kill us, okay?”

He licks his lips. “I’ll do my best.”

I lick my palm and wrap it around his base, gliding up and down. He shudders, but other than the slight buck of his hips, remains still and composed. The second I duck down, his hand rests on the back of my neck, thumb massaging into the muscle.

The tip of his cock is salty and warm on my tongue, and the second my lips close around it, Tristian releases a rough groan, sliding his palm to the back of my head. Gently, he pushes me down. I don’t fight. I know just who I’m dealing with.

I take him in and he releases a loud breath, his palm letting up the pressure in exchange for what can only be described as petting. “So good,” he mutters, voice husky. When I pull back, only to plunge back down, he breathlessly asks, “Did Rath teach you that? Or did I?”

My only response is a low hum that makes his thighs tense and release. I get the sense he’d be fucking up into my mouth if he didn’t need to keep his foot on the gas.

He gives a ragged chuckle. “Who knew you’d go from that shy little virgin to such an eager little cocksucker, hm?”

I don’t let his words faze me, teasing and taunting, licking down the side of his shaft before taking him in again. His hips thrust upward, and then his hand presses down, and down, and down, until the tip of his cock is pushing into the back of my throat. I make an alarmed sound, unable to breathe.

“Sh,” he soothes, pressing his fingertips into my scalp. “You can take it. You know I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Squirming, I try to relax, even though my eyes are filling with tears at the way I’m choking. But true to his word, he lets me up before it can get too much. I gulp in a frantic breath, chest burning, and try to suck my saliva away.

“See? You’re such a good girl for me,” he gasps, petting me again. “Unbutton your pants,” he orders. I do as he wants, nervous but pleased at how he’s responding to me. The car vibrates smoothly underneath us, and he removes his hand to shift gears. “Touch your pussy, sweetheart. Show me how wet you are.”

I’m already warm between my legs and I push my hand down the front of my pants, feeling the slick heat of my inner folds. When my fingers brush against my clit, I release a whimper, and Tristian groans while his foot slips off the gas. I have to pull off his dick to smirk at how flustered he is, but that only annoys him, and he growls, slamming his foot down to accelerate.

I feel the weight of his hand on my head again, but this time I’m prepared, sucking in a big breath before he pushes me down and chokes me on his cock. It wasn’t like this with Rath. Rath likes it slow and deep, and I’ve learned that he needs a rhythm. But when Tristian shoves me down onto his dick, he trembles, his thick length jumping with a surge of pre-cum that tastes salty on my tongue when he finally lets up. Tristian likes it like this, me coming up wildly gasping for air. He lets me bob up and down his shaft long enough to catch my breath, and then he does it again, holding me down as his fingers fist in my hair.

I push a finger in my pussy and move in the same rhythm, grinding against the heel of my palm every time he plunges me down. His cock thickens and expands, his breaths turning erratic and gritty. His foot slips off the accelerator again, this time for a long, extended moment.

His voice comes out reedy and rushed. “You ready for my come, sweetheart?” I try to nod, but it’s hard with so much of him in my mouth, pushed into my throat. His foot slams down and the car lurches forward at the same time his release rips through him. Warm come floods my throat. He groans, fingers pulling at my hair, and I struggle to swallow without choking on it. My vision sparkles at the edges, but before I can panic, he yanks me up, the last of his release painting my tongue.

My mind grows fuzzy, forgetting where we are and what we’re doing. It must be a lack of oxygen, the way warmth spreads through my body and across my limbs. I buck against the heel of my hand, cresting the wave of my orgasm.

“Show me,” he says, practically buzzing with the satisfaction of his release. “I want to taste you, Sweet Cherry. Show me how much you liked it.”

I take a moment to gather my bearings enough to understand what he’s asking for. Pulling back, I remove my hand from my panties and sniffle away the tears, showing him my glistening fingers. Not sparing me a single glance, he takes them into his mouth, hooded eyes trained on the road as he tastes my release.

He hums, tongue looping elegantly around my fingers, and then lets them fall free, sucked clean. “Good girl.” He says it like I’m a dog—like I’m his bitch—but when he finally looks at me, he reaches up to cup my cheek, thumbing away the wetness of my tears. When he kisses me, pushing the taste into my mouth, I feel as sweet as my release.

And as bitter as his.