Zane (Inked Brotherhood Book 3) (17 page)

The other pictures are harder to figure out. It’s a boy and a girl, holding hands. I’m pretty sure the boy is Zane, but he’s young and skinny, his hair closely cropped, his gaze wide and dark. I lean closer, studying him. Hard to reconcile that fragile boy with the strong man he is today, but the tilt of his eyes gives him away. The girl is taller than him, obviously older by a few years. She’s smiling.

In the next photo it’s them again, only this time the girl has her arms around the young Zane, and this time he’s smiling, too. Something tells me this must be his sister.

I hear a noise from somewhere inside the apartment and freeze. I wouldn’t want Zane catching me staring at his things, so I pad out of the bedroom. The divine smell of coffee leads me to the kitchen, and I stand at the door, peering inside.

The kitchen window faces east, and sunlight illuminates a patch on the floor, bathing the room in golden light. The cupboards are old-fashioned, white with curling handles, the table round and small, littered with dirty glasses and mugs.

Zane is sitting with his back to me, reading something on a tablet at the table. He’s only dressed in a pair of khaki shorts, his back bare and beautiful, his ribcage flaring from narrow hips into those broad shoulders.

Well, bare in a manner of speaking. Most of his skin is covered in vibrant color and bold lines.

Oh my.
Another dragon, a black serpentine monster covering his back, clawing at his ribs. Its long tongue and curling horns mesh with colorful flowers and insects that spill onto his arms and wrap around them in those striking sleeves I noticed on him from the start.

My naked feet are silent as I stalk closer, examining the designs. Then I really see them for the first time.

The scars.

I mean, I’ve touched them briefly, though in the moment, I barely felt them. Burn scars, Zane said. White round shapes, scattered all over his broad back, barely visible among the swirls of color. One of them is the dragon’s eye, the other a pearl held in wicked claws. So many burns. Some are clustered together, like fairy circles.

Something else catches my eye, and I bend closer. Artfully hidden in the swirling tattoos of spiders and red flowers, I see long, thin scars, as if done by a knife.

“What the hell?” Zane twists around and grabs me, hauling me back, so I smash into the table edge. “Dakota?”

Ow.
I rub my hip where it collided with the table and prop my ass on the edge. “Sorry.”

He pushes his tablet away. A muscle twitches in his jaw. His mouth is pressed in a thin line.

This is a guy who doesn’t like surprises, I remember. Who likes being in control, because it keeps his demons at bay. I think again of the scars and his space-out moments and realize again how very little I know about his past—or his present.

“I read about your tattoo.” He observes me under lowered lashes, his dark eyes sharp and intent.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The Death’s Head Hawkmoth, or deathmoth for short. Like your group. It’s supposed to bring bad luck and death. Why the hell did you choose it?”

I say nothing.

He leans closer, his eyes narrowed to slits. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s just a tattoo,” I mutter. “Why do you have spiders and dragons all over you?”

He shrugs. “Good luck charms. They protect me.”

“And my deathmoth protects me from death.”

“Seriously?”

“Sort of sympathetic magic, you see? Wear death on your skin, and death can’t touch you.”

And I don’t know why I’m telling him this, only that I should stop, right now.

His dark brows draw together. “Had any close encounters with death lately?”

“No.” And that’s the truth. It wasn’t lately. It was a long time ago. I see his shoulders relax. “Why so interested in my back all of a sudden?”

“I spent a good part of the night looking at your back.”

Warmth seeps into my cheeks. “Is that so? Why?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Bad dreams?
I want to ask.

But then his hand lands on my leg, above the knee, and slides upward. His palm is warm and callused, and it feels good, so good I forget my question.

That’s when I remember one small detail and try to slap his hand away. “Wait.”

His palm presses inside my thigh. His lips lift in a grin. “What?”

“It’s just that, I couldn’t find…” My panties. He’s holding them in his other hand. My panties and my bra. “Zane…”

“Uh-uh. The first rule in this apartment is no underwear.” He winks, the silver hoops in his brow glinting.

“What are you talking about? Did your other roommates go around without underwear?”

“You’re a guest, not a roommate. For guests, the rules are different.”

My breath hitches when his hand moves upward. “So you steal the underwear off every girl you bring here?”

“I don’t bring girls here,” he whispers, his eyes half-lidded. He licks those dangerously sexy lips. “Just you.”

His hand inches up and up between my legs, and my brain is shutting down. “So you made this rule just for me?”

“Damn right.” He nudges my leg, and his voice goes huskier. “Open up for me.”

He leaves me no option as he pulls his chair closer and places his hands on my thighs, pushing them apart, exposing me. My skirt rides high up, bunching around my legs, and I shiver as the cool air hits me where I’m already hot and aching for him.

His dark eyes hooded, he stares at my exposed core and gives me a wicked smile. He passes his tongue over his lips in a slow slide that makes me catch my breath. God, this boy is sexy as sin.

“Beautiful,” he rasps, his voice smoky with desire, and tingles rush through me, prickling my skin and tightening my nipples to painful points. “Perfect.”

Nobody has done this to me before—stared at me like that. I try to close my legs, but he won’t let me.

“I want to ink an arrow here,” he strokes the inside of my thigh, making me dizzy with want. “Pointing to your sweet pussy with the words ‘eat me.’” He gives me a lazy grin, and I can feel myself clenching just from his voice.

“That’s from Alice,” I gasp as he leans in and blows, making me clench harder. “
Alice in Wonderland.
”

“I’ll show you wonderland,” he mutters.

Pulling my legs over his shoulders, he buries his face between my legs and gives a long, deep lick. His pierced tongue strokes me like a living flame, the barbell dragging along my seam. He plays with my clit, licking and sucking, until I explode in pleasure, delicious spasms shaking me from head to toe.

Holy shit.

He gives me one last, lingering lick that makes me moan helplessly and pulls back. He’s breathing hard, and the lazy grin is back, the one that says he’s enjoying himself and is ready to up the stakes.

Letting my legs down, he stands up, towering over me. Even in my brain’s short-circuited state, I feel my mouth going dry.

Christ, the boy is a god. Must be. Those abs are just divine. Muscles ripple across his chest as he reaches for his fly to undo his shorts. He pushes them down, and whoa. He’s rock hard, and although I’ve seen him once before, somehow his cock looks larger this time as he leans over me.

His hands trap mine against the table top. The controlled power in those corded arms and muscled chest takes my breath away.

“Today we do this my way,” he says and releases me to take out a condom and pull it on.

I want to tell him I’m back on the pill—because I want him to come inside me, I want to feel him one hundred percent. But I can’t speak, too enthralled by his voice, his handsome face, his powerful body. His cock.

Besides, it sounds fair. Anything sounds fair right now, just as long as he doesn’t stop.

And he doesn’t. He presses himself between my legs, stroking me with his thumb until I think I’ll come again, and then he replaces his thumb with his hard-on, pushing into me all the way.

I arch off the table, struggling to swallow a moan and failing. He feels so good. His hands are back on mine, trapping them on either side of my head, and he starts to move, long, steady strokes that make my senses spin.

Wrapping my legs around his slim hips, I lift myself, and the angle changes, catapulting me into such pleasure I want to weep. My body is moving of its own volition, lifting and grinding against him.

So much pleasure. I need… need to hold on to him, kiss him. I struggle to free my hands, but he doesn’t let go. He seems to sense my need, though, and bends his head, finding my lips.

“It’s me,” he whispers, before he plunges his tongue into my mouth. It occurs to me then that we aren’t doing it his way, not really. We’re face-to-face, and he’s kissing the hell out of me. Yet he’s holding me down. He’s in charge. It’s a compromise, I realize, and I bet he knows it, too.

It makes me want to smile, but then he moves again, thrusting deep inside me, bringing on a new onslaught of pleasure that makes my toes curl.

Oh God, dammit.
I can’t… can’t remember what I was thinking.

He licks at my lips, thrusts faster, fastens his mouth back on mine and does something with his hips that sends me tumbling head over heels into a world-shattering orgasm. He stops my cries with his mouth as my body bows off the table. I come again, seizing around his length, my whole body going off like a firework.

Holy crap, Batman. Holy shit.
This is unreal, this… I’ve read about girls having orgasms like this, where your mind goes boom, and your body shakes, and it’s like a rollercoaster going off the rails, but I always figured it was just fiction. Aftershocks rush through me, and I writhe as he plunges into me again. He bites on my lower lip, and I feel my eyes roll up in my head.

He releases my lips and bows his head, his arms trembling. A great shudder runs through his frame, and his eyes scrunch shut as he drives into me hard and deep and stills for a long moment.

“Fuck,” he hisses, then, “Dakota, I’m…” His mouth falls open, and he comes hard, his cock jerking inside me, triggering more aftershocks.

Hot damn.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning as he thrusts again, once, twice, his face twisting with pleasure. He buries his face in my neck, breathing heavily, his hips still moving. He sinks his teeth lightly in the juncture between my neck and shoulder, and damn if I don’t I clench around him again so that we both groan.

“Goddamn.” He’s still sprawled over me, still pulsing inside me, his hands still on mine, his lips pressed to my neck. “Holy fucking shit.”

I feel him grin on my skin. The world is perfect right now. His hold on me relaxes, and I lift my arms, lacing them around his neck.

Oh shit
, I have the time to think right before he jerks back, pulling out of me, and takes a stumbling step away. His eyes are wide.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck.”

I want to beat myself upside the head for my carelessness. I promised him. No touching his back during sex. I promised I wouldn’t, and I just did.

“Zane…”

He shakes his head, pulls up his shorts and strides out of the kitchen.

What have I done?

Zane

I can live with most of my memories. Some are okay, and some are real fucking bad, and I have learned to accept them.

Not this one. I can’t deal with this one.

I’ve tried. I’ve jacked off while touching the scars on my back, telling myself I’ll get used to it. I’ve taught myself to connect pain and pleasure by pulling on the piercings in my nipples and in my dick as I come.

Doesn’t work. It’s different when I do it. I trust myself. I don’t trust others. Not when the memories tell me to never let anyone touch me ever again.

That house. That foster house with the creaking boards.
‘Play with me, little boy…’

Pain and fear. Fear that makes my heart jolt in my chest like an animal trying to break free of its cage. Fear that turns my knees to water and muddles my thoughts.

Oh God, I just want to forget.

Zane

Goddammit all to hell.

I lean against the living room wall and try to get my shit together. Hard to do when I think I feel rough hands on my back, when I think I smell burnt flesh, when all I want to do is curl up and howl.

Fuck this shit.
I’m not a kid anymore. Have to get over this. Working on it. Hell, I’ve done things with Dakota I never tried before, things I was sure would send me into la-la-land or rocking in a corner, but I’m okay. I was okay, until she touched my back.

Jesus fucking Christ.
I wipe a hand over my mouth and suck in a deep breath. What am I doing? Having her here, having her stay. Am I out of my damn mind?

I hear soft footsteps, and I straighten, put on my poker face. My chest constricts as she walks out of the kitchen, barefoot, her hair messy, her eyes a bit wide. I scared her again. And I will keep on scaring her if she insists on sticking around.

Maybe after a few days with me she’ll change her mind and go. And I have no right to feel that sting inside when I think about it. She should go, find a sane person to be with.

“Zane?” She’s staring at me, her small hands clutching the hem of her blouse.

Guilt presses on my chest like a stone. Against my better judgment, I reach for her, draw her close. “Sorry.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” she whispers, placing her hands on my chest, and her lashes seem wet.

Shit.
“You shouldn’t be. I’m the one who’s not normal.”

“I like you as you are,” she says, and some of the pressure lifts from my chest.

I nod, but can’t speak, my throat closing up. Why isn’t she running for the hills? How come she’s not scared of me?

“Let me show you your bedroom,” I say.

“My bedroom?” A flash of disappointment goes through her gaze.

We can’t sleep together. If she’s not scared now, she will be then.

I pull her along and open the door. “Here.”

It’s clean and empty, just the narrow bed, the closet and the shelves nailed to the wall. Just as Erin left it, and I feel a pang, remembering how good it was to have someone nearby who didn’t judge me and wasn’t scared of me.