Snare: Road Kill MC (A Novel) (21 page)

Sara

Snare lays me down on the bed. A bed I now share with him. We find time for each other, and I couldn't be happier.

Nightmares plague me, but his warm body cradles me back to sleep each night.

Right now, there's no fear. No guilt—I don't have time for shame because Snare is between my legs, taking my panties off with his teeth.

“Rarrr,” he growls, the sound muffled by my thighs. Snare's eyes roll to meet mine, and our gazes meet down the length of my now-naked body.

“I like this,” he says, squeezing the flesh of my thighs. “You were too skinny before, Sara.”

I smirk. “I'm not skinny now.”

His fingertips walk up my torso and cup my breast, so full now in his hand. “I'm in the ʻmore than a handful is not a wasteʼ group.” His smile is crooked, his scar shadowed by moonlight that makes wedge-shaped dark slashes across our naked bodies.

I nod. “Yeah, boob man all the way.”

“
Your
tits,” Snare says, softly landing on me and proving how much he likes my boobs, sucking and laving my nipple until it aches and pulses, threading to my sex like an invisible string of erotic tension. Each pull, each suck, causes moisture to ready me for Snare's equipment.

I won't even try to persuade myself otherwise. Snare's cock is monster-sized. There's something about being filled that completely that owns every part of me.

“Sara, look at me.” Snare cradles my face, requiring—commanding—complete eye contact.

I gaze up at him, his swelling erection parting my wet folds perfectly as his hot flesh sinks between my slit, dipping that first bit inside. Some trick of the moonlight slants inside the window, the second floor oriented just perfectly for it to make its way to Snare's face.

His eyes glow silver, all the blue lost to the light of the moon.

“I love you.” He pushes in deeper, and my body resists his size, tightening around him automatically. Snare dips his forehead to mine. “So tight, God—don't want to hurt you.”

“You won't. I'm not a virgin anymore, you know.”

He laughs, and another thick inch sinks inside me. “Yes, I'm aware,” he says, his voice thick with sarcasm.

I smile back, widening my legs, and more of him slides into more of me. I writhe, moving my hips side to side to help, and Snare groans.

“Sara, I'll go—give me some time to adjust to this awesome pussy you have.”

I laugh and lift my hips, and I know defiance is in my face.

I'll make the pace—Snare will have to keep up.

“Demon,” he whispers and plows the rest of him into me.

I throw my head back and yell softly, my back arching off the bed as his cock pins me beneath him, throbbing inside of me while my pussy clamps around him, begging for him to let go deep inside me.

Snare doesn't. He drags his length outside of me then plunges back in. We moan together.

“God,” he says, his voice shaky.

“Yeah,” I say in a pant and shove my hips forward, my pussy eating his dick all the way to the root. I'm spread and open, and Snare pins my wrists over my head and beats himself deep inside, thrusting over and over again.

“I'm gonna go,” he whispers, and at the last second, he releases my wrists, slapping the bed beside my shoulders and arching his back as he thrusts like he'll move through my body, and I clutch the muscles of his tight ass, holding us together as my own release pulses through me in great, rippling waves of pleasure.

“Sara!” Snare says in a hoarse whisper as we're locked together in ecstasy.

It lasts forever. It's over too quick.

*

Snare

I don't sleep that hot.

Spend way too much time loving Sara as she sleeps. With my eyes, with my hands, everything.

Fucking her is never enough. I did it tonight, like I've done it almost every night since Riker took her and I got her back.

When I'm not trotting after her like a lovesick puppy, I'm spending time with Jaylin.

She hasn't called me Dad yet. Sometimes I'm still Mr. Snare, but mostly I've broken her of that habit. Snyder Locklear doesn't hold the same appeal. Never liked my real first name. The only thing Riker ever did for me was give me a nickname I could use.

I was good at getting out of traps.

Snare.

When he'd cut my face, he'd said,
Get outta this, boy
while Sara had cowered behind me.

I look at her face, every centimeter covered in the bluish white of the moonlight that streams through the window. It whitewashes everything, making her face look like it's carved from marble.

It would've been her face scarred that night.

I run a finger down her temple, the skin of her face like silk, and a breath shudders out of me. I'd protect her again.

I'd do it again.

Sometimes we're given someone so special, we know that it's our job to protect them against all comers.

Riker was the first.

He won't be the last.

I cup her face gently with my hand, and Sara makes a soft noise of distress. I pull her in against my body and spoon her nakedness. Happy for the curves she's gained since she gave up the fucking strip detail and started to eat and cook like a normal chick. A chick that doesn't have to do every fucking thing on her own.

She has me now.

And the future she wanted.

The future I want for us both.

I finally fall asleep, curled around Sara, no longer pursued by Riker's violence.

Held by chains of love.

THE END

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***Read on for a sample of another Marata Eros work ....

***Club Alpha
is a STANDALONE, DARK PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANTIC SUSPENSE and contains scenes of graphic violence.
May contain triggers.***

CLUB ALPHA

A novel

New York Times
Bestselling author

MARATA EROS

All Rights are Reserved.

Copyright © 2014-15 Marata Eros

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Cover art:
Willsin Rowe

“
Would you pay fifty million for your soul mate?”

Francisco “Paco” Castillo is a bilingual billionaire with unconventional ideas about love, sex and possession. He believes there is no other half to make him whole. Paco dreams of experimenting with a dangerous reality not of his own making. Club Alpha owner, Zaire Sebastian, can make Paco's vision a reality—for a price.

Greta Dahlem is an extreme sports executive whose ambition masks a terrible secret. When her mentor Gia Township, sponsors her as a player in Club Alpha, Greta's unsure she can survive the inherent risk of the game Zaire weaves. But in her heart, Greta yearns for a man who will complete her, and erase the brutal tragedy of two years ago.

As the fantasy progresses, Greta comes to realize she is the loose string in a plot of murder and deception that begins to unravel. Without knowing who to trust, Greta must decide between two men. When the three are thrown together, the lines of reality and fantasy blur.

Is there any way for her to know what is real?

Greta

Completion.

That's what it is to graduate with honors, and finally go after what I'll
be
in this life.

Marketing. International travel, stretching the bounds of the four languages I've mastered. Perfection.

Hot guys.

My eyebrows flick up.
Speaking of which
.

I track a handsome specimen right now.

A man moves across the room lithely, coming to stand at the exact opposite of the huge bar. His crystal tumbler full of amber liquid catches the light. His coloring suggests he’s Latino or some exotic Spanish mix. At six feet two-ish, he’s built to move, dance— and do other stuff.

My lips curl at the
other stuff
part of my internal monologue. I'm
so
wanting to find out what the sex fuss is all about. By all accounts, it's pretty life altering. It's beyond time.

My studies are through—it's Greta Time now.

His gaze locks with mine, and he smiles. A deep dimple winks at his cheek, and a cleft bisects a chiseled, square jaw.

Beautiful green eyes with thick black lashes rim the windows of his soul.

He pauses, and I say
yes
with my eyes.

Please approach me.

My breath catches like a trapped bird in my throat
.

What a beautiful man.

My hand grips the smooth curved wood of the high-end bar I find myself in; the other holds a low ball of peach schnapps.

I take a sip, grimace slightly, and set down the drink.

People flow between us as we stare across the room, and I lose him momentarily as the moving scenery of bodies blocks my line of sight.

I crane my neck, swinging my head side to side, searching. I remind myself that I'm not here to meet a man. I'm here to meet my fellow graduates and celebrate our graduation from the most prestigious university in Washington state.

Someone sits down beside me but it's not
him
. I look around the other man.

Tall, dark and handsome has vanished.

I take another absent-minded sip then knock back the rest of my sweet drink. Disappointment burns alongside the alcohol inside my stomach.
Where'd he go?
I restrain myself from pouting.

I stand. Against my better judgement, I'm brazenly determined to seek him out, then a wave of dizziness hits me.

My hand flies out to the bar and latches on. Frantically, I look toward the entrance, hoping my friends will arrive. Though I'm known for being frighteningly punctual, none of them share that trait.

I lift my fingertips from the polished surface and touch my forehead. My hand comes away clammy and shaking.

Alarm sweeps through my system.
What's wrong with me?

I forget the man with the deep-green eyes—and my drink and friends—as another wave of dizziness follows the first.

I stagger backward toward my seat, my knees hit the stool, and I sit down abruptly.

“Miss?” a low voice murmurs from my elbow.

I turn my head, but my neck feels loose, as though it’s made of rubber.

A man's face wobbles in front of me, his features coming together and shattering in the field of my vision.

“Are you well?”

Well?
No
. I shake my head, and streamers of color flow across my eyes. I groan, feeling nauseated as the dizziness grows.

I feel pressure at my elbow then a grip. I'm walking?

“Is she—” a deep melodic baritone voice inquires.

“I have her.” Curt. Final.

“Okay?”

“Fine,” says the disembodied voice at my side.

I'm gliding. My head tips back against a warm chest.

Everything fades to black.

*

Paco

Standing at the edge of the bar. I sip the sparkling cider.

My bodyguard, Robert Tallinn, remains by the exit while eyeing the entrance.

Though I’ve attended school in the states for many years, I still believe America is the most aggressive country in all the world. I remain vigilant while traveling.

My jet is scheduled to leave for Costa Rica early in the morning, and that is why I partake only of the non-alcoholic beverage in my hand.

Tallinn fought my spontaneous urge to visit the lounge within the elite hotel we're staying in.

Coffee is
grande
in Seattle. Very. I am here to romance the local coffee barons for their money, in exchange for my beans—a perfect trade, in my estimation.

Tallinn hates the lack of protection the hotel offers. I told him it's his job to keep me safe.

His smile was tight at those words.

I raise my glass to him now, and he glowers.

I laugh then take a sip and set my glass on the smooth polished surface of the wooden bar.

That’s when I see her, and my back goes ramrod straight.

The crowd is thick. Beautifully attired people mingle with others they consider to be of equal caliber.

But she stands out like an angel among demons.

Her head is tipped over a pale-amber drink. Her platinum hair is twisted into a loose bun at her nape. The size of the knot tells me its length—but not how it would feel in my hands.

Her graceful neck is bent as she studies nothing at all. She appears to be frozen in time. Waiting.

I stand, drink forgotten, and stare at the most beautiful woman I've ever beheld.

She lifts her face as though she has become instinctively aware of my gaze on her. Eyes like a late-summer sky fall into mine, and my chest grows tight. Light-pink color rises to her fair skin, and I feel myself harden inside my slacks at just a look. The attraction is beyond casual lust.

I feel as though gravity has asserted itself and I am being pulled into her orbit.

I must meet her.

As we continue to stare, people move between us, and another man sits beside her, large enough to block my view.

I set the tumbler at the edge of the bar and begin walking toward her.

I see her searching face for an instant as she appears to swing around the torso of the man who blocks our mutual appraisal.

I understand in a vague way that my approach isn't casual.

Someone steps in front of me.

“Oh, pardon me!” a woman says.

I go around her impatiently.

The angel stands. She appears to look shaken and unwell.

I stop.

The man beside her rises, his back facing me, and takes her elbow. She remains hidden behind him.

I vacillate, thinking of the connection, the electrifying chemistry from a glance. I begin walking again.

I intercept them, and the other man is half-carrying her, his arm locked around her narrow waist.

My eyes are for her, though, as I pose the question to the man, “Is she—”

“I have her,” he says in a closed tone. Final.

“Okay?” I finish my question.

Her cheeks are flushed, and her head has fallen back against his shoulder. The blue eyes I so admired are hidden by closed eyelids. Dark-blond lashes fan against her high cheekbones.

He is clearly with her. I should drop it.

I cannot.

“What is wrong?” My eyes still rove the woman, not giving the man my full attention.

The man turns. “Drunk.”

I look fully at him.

He winks; a deep sense of oddness surrounds the gesture.

Turning, he ushers her out. And I let them go.

Tallinn suddenly appears at my side. “What the fuck was that?”

I shake my head. “I am not sure.”

Tallinn stares after them thoughtfully. After a full minute has elapsed he says, “I didn't like that dude.”

Neither do I.

I stare at the empty space they had just occupied.

*

Greta

Brutal fingers grip my butt cheeks and pry me open. A hoarse cry escapes my cracked lips.

He plunges inside me again.

My muscles instantly tense around the intrusion, though my virginity is long gone.

Slick wetness covers my inner thighs to my knees.

Later I find out it is semen.

Sweat.

And blood.

His thrusting continues.

Silence is the only noise. The screams fill my head because my mouth is gagged.

Panting.

The only break in the quiet is the grunts of their ecstasy.

I'm unceremoniously flipped over onto my back. Four faces with masquerade masks loom above my warped vision.

“No,” I say in muffled agony for the hundredth time, lifting my forearm to cover my battered face.

One of the men hits me, smashing my face into the stained mattress.

Another lands on top of me, stabbing inside my wounded vagina. “Yes,” one of the assailants says as he uses me.

I slide back and forth on the mattress as he pounds into my unwilling body. Another pries my jaws apart, forcing my lips open. He jerks the gag out then thrusts his length inside my mouth.

Vile salty essence fills the space. My chin is jerked back and the hot liquid glides down my throat.

I choke.

He removes himself from my mouth and clamps it shut, pinching my nostrils together.

I have to swallow, or I won’t be able to breathe. My throat convulses, and he releases my jaw.

I scream as I suck precious oxygen, gurgling through his semen. “No!”

The next blow slams my other cheek into the mattress as my hips are lifted and a new man assaults me. His stabbing penis tears and burns where no one has ever been.

I can't live through this,
I think.

But I do.