Primal Instinct (19 page)

“That's it, Taylor,” Colt urged in that low rumble she loved so much. “Come for me. Come on my cock.”

Her orgasm spread over her like a crack in a dam, growing and fanning out over her heated skin as the pressure built until finally, with one particularly deep thrust from Colt, it burst over her, flooding her senses with such intense pleasure that she could've drowned in it. She convulsed around him, clenching around his cock.

“Jesus Christ,” he ground out, slamming into her once, twice more before every muscle in his body tensed, the cords in his neck straining against his sweat-slicked skin. He was buried so deep inside her that she felt every throb, every pulse of his cock, as he came.

For several seconds, neither of them moved, their bodies still joined. Slowly, Colt opened his eyes and smiled down at her.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.

Without a word, he slid out of her, eased her farther up onto the bed and kissed her, long and slow and deep, and she ignored the wisp of fear curling its smoky tendrils around her heart.

She'd never survive him, but it was too late. She was a goner.

Ronnie sat on his bed with his computer in his lap, his limp dick in his hand. He'd thought watching would be a good thing, but he'd been wrong. So, so wrong. And even though he'd known it was a possibility, he hadn't truly expected her to fuck the brute again. Not when she was supposed to be keeping herself pure for him.

He stared out the window into the dark, starless night, wondering if it might be better if he just listened, like he had that first night. But he'd listened to Taylor have sex with that brute—Colt—before he'd taken their relationship to the next level. He'd been watching her for days now. Watching her sleep. Watching her eat. Watching her shower. It was a new level of intimacy, and it was that intimacy, that new sense of ownership, that was making watching her in bed with another man so difficult.

At the sound of Taylor's low, throaty moans, he returned his attention to the laptop screen, forcing himself to watch. He felt like a soldier, training for battle. He watched as the brute slammed into Taylor from behind, one hand between her legs, the other fisted in her hair.

“Are you gonna come?” growled Colt as the pace of his thrusts picked up. Taylor practically screamed, panting out a string of curse words. Colt pulled her hair harder, arching her back. “Come for me, gorgeous. God, you're so fucking wet.”

Taylor moaned out Colt's name as her arms started to shake, and then gave out. She collapsed onto the bed, her fists clenched in the sheets as she moaned and gasped.

Ronnie felt as though he were being stabbed in the stomach with a rusty knife, his insides tearing and ripping and spilling open inch by slow, painful inch. With an anguished cry, he slammed the laptop shut and tossed it to the side, not wanting to touch it anymore.

He couldn't live like this. Couldn't live watching the woman he loved savagely taken by a brute who had no business touching what didn't belong to him.

The solution was simple. The brute had to die.

A
few blissfully filthy hours later, Colt lay propped on one elbow in Taylor's bed, watching her as she strode back into her bedroom, fully naked, a bottle of water in each hand. Her hair was a mess, her eye makeup smeared, her lips a deep pink and swollen. A faint love bite was beginning to emerge on the swell of her right breast, and he could see fingertip bruises marking the insides of her thighs, just above each knee.

God damn, but there was a sight he could get used to.

She slid into bed beside him, folding her long legs gracefully under the twisted sheet. With a smile that made him want to bury himself inside her for a fifth time, she handed him a bottle of water and mirrored his posture, facing him propped on one elbow. She clinked her bottle against his, the plastic crinkling quietly.

“What are we toasting?” he asked, twisting the cap off and taking a sip.

Fingers toying with her bottom lip, she took a second before answering. “Amazing sex.”

“I will
always
drink to that.” He took another small sip before setting his bottle on the nightstand. “So…you want to talk about what happened earlier?”

“You mean the part where you went down on me in my kitchen? Or when you fucked me from behind and pulled my hair? Which I
really
liked, by the way. Or when I let you put your—”

“Taylor.” He said her name quietly and laid a hand on her hip. “We don't have to talk about your dad if you don't want to. But I'm here, okay?”

She glanced down, her long eyelashes casting shadows on her cheekbones in the dim room.

He tucked a hand under her chin and gently raised her face. “You can talk to me.”

Her features pulled tight in a heartbreaking wince that he felt like a jab to the ribs. He wrapped his arms around her and settled her against his chest, her cheek pressed against his heart. For several minutes, he simply held her, his hands stroking up and down the smooth skin of her back.

She sighed deeply, her body trembling against him, and he closed his eyes against the overwhelming need to protect her. To take all of her pain, all of her fear, and carry it for her, heavy as it might be.

“He…was abusive when I was growing up, verbally and physically. My mom was usually too high to do anything about it, so I was on my own. I tried so hard, Colt. So hard to be good so that maybe he'd stop hating me. And then after my mom died, it just got worse. He took all of his anger, all of his pain, out on me. According to him, I was unlovable, worthless, useless, a waste. A mistake. I'd get slapped, my ass whipped with a belt, that kind of stuff. Once, he stomped on my foot so hard that he broke two of my toes.”

She paused, taking a deep, steadying breath. He kissed the top of her head and tightened his arms around her, waiting for her to continue.

“If I'd been born a boy, he probably would've taken me under his wing, teaching me to ride and fix bikes, bringing me into the Grim Weavers. But they don't allow women as members, so I was worthless there, too. My mom…fuck, she wore this thing called a property patch on her vest so all the other bikers knew whose property she was. The only reason the other bikers didn't touch me was because of who my dad was, but I'm not sure he would've cared. I think my parents sometimes forgot I even existed, and I liked it that way, because when they forgot about me, they left me alone.

“Once, when I was eight, they disappeared for days, off on a ride somewhere, getting high and shit. I watched cartoons and ate cereal, and no one called me names, and no one hit me. I was sad when they came back. So when I hit high school, I started spending less and less time at home, trying to stay away from him. He was getting more and more violent, and I'd given up trying to be a good kid, especially after my mom OD'd. I just wanted to escape, you know? To not feel so constantly shitty about myself. About my life.”

“Taylor, I'm so sorry.” She'd been on her own in that fucked-up situation, trying to claw her way out of it with no one to look out for her. His mind flashed to Lacey and what her life might've been like had he not been there to protect her, and he shuddered to imagine it. His chest ached, thinking of how alone, how scared, Taylor must've been.

“Thanks.” She stiffened and her voice grew quieter. “When I was fifteen, I had a boyfriend. A guy named Jordan, who was cute and funny. I couldn't understand what he saw in some stupid, white-trash girl, so when he wanted to have sex, even though I wasn't sure, I said yes. I wanted to hang on to him so I wouldn't be so alone, you know? Anyway, I waited for a night when I knew Dad wouldn't be home. But he came home early and found me with Jordan.”

Colt tensed, his heart thudding heavily against his ribs. “What happened?”

“He broke my jaw.”

Colt closed his eyes against the wave of pain and anger slamming into him. “
Motherfucker.
” He pressed his face into her soft hair. “It's probably for the best I didn't know about that earlier tonight, because I would've done a lot worse than punching him in the face.”

She looked up at him, eyes shining and full of emotion. Snuggling tighter into him, she laid her head back down.

“Colt, it…was awful. Not only was it—still, to this day—the most painful experience of my life, but I was terrified. I thought he was going to kill me. He told me that if I wanted to be a slut, he knew several pimps who'd be happy to have me.”

“What did Jordan do?”

“He was a sixteen-year-old boy. He ran out of the house and as far away from me and my fucked-up life as possible.”

He thought back to himself at sixteen, and how he'd done his best to protect Lacey, no matter what. Running had never occurred to him, and it broke his heart and stoked the flames of his protective temper that she hadn't had anyone to lean on. “I'm so, so sorry, Taylor.” He didn't know what else to say. He gave her a second before asking, “So then what happened?”

“The neighbors must've heard me screaming, because they called nine-one-one. The cops came, I went to the hospital, and I was put into foster care. Which, really, was for the best. My two foster brothers were rough around the edges, but so was I. I think in some weird, twisted way, we were good for each other. And if I hadn't met my foster brother Alex, I probably never would've picked up a guitar. I'd always liked music, and I knew I could sing reasonably well, but where the hell was I going to learn an instrument? It wasn't even on my radar. But Alex and I, we hung out, and he taught me. It came really easily to me, and music became my dream. Alex played at bars, open-mic nights, and I'd tag along. We had pretty kick-ass fake IDs.”

She laughed, remembering. “One night, Alex brought me onstage with him, and once I got a taste of that, I was done. Music became this positive force in my life, this creative outlet that I hadn't even realized I'd needed, you know?”

“Where's Alex now?”

“He's a high school teacher in Fresno. Went to college and everything. Like I said, foster care was actually good for us, in the long run.” She looked up at him. “I've never told anyone this shit before, but it feels good. Thank you.”

“Taylor, you can unburden yourself with me. I didn't have it nearly as rough as you growing up, but I get it. My dad left my mom when my sister Lacey and I were just toddlers, and she had some pretty shitty boyfriends. Losers, drug dealers, assholes. She was an alcoholic, and she didn't make good choices, for herself or for her kids. She and I aren't in touch.” He sighed heavily. “My sister's in the process of reconnecting with her, and I…I'm not sure how I feel about it. A part of me wants to keep her firmly in the past, but another part of me is curious, you know?” He paused, shocked that he'd just spilled his guts like a filleted fish. “I guess what I'm trying to say is, you don't need to carry any of this alone.”

“I think if you're curious about your mom, you owe it to yourself to try. If she fucks it up again, then it's on her, not you. And I'm sorry you had to go through that. It sucks when the so-called adults don't have their shit together.” She sighed and then swallowed thickly. “I…I wasn't kidding when I told you that you're the first person who's ever stood up to my dad. Who's ever stood up for me. And it…” She tilted her head up and kissed him with a sweetness that stole his breath. “I don't even have words for how much it means to me.”

“I'm not going to let anything happen to you.” He kissed her, slowly and tenderly, needing to show her, reassure her. Connect with her. Protect and comfort her. He'd never felt like this before, like he could lose himself in someone else.

Granted, he'd never been with anyone as amazing as Taylor before, either. Strong, and smart, and beautiful, and talented.

She propped herself up, facing him once again, a half smile on her pretty lips. “My turn, since we're having show-and-tell.” She traced a hand up his right forearm, and he knew what was coming. “Do you remember that night at the Rainbow when I asked you about your sleeve?”

He nodded, not saying anything, mostly because he was surprised at how much he wanted to tell her.

“You dodged my question, and I let it go.” Her eyes met his, and he felt something cold and hard in his chest soften, like a chunk of ice starting to melt. “Will you tell me now?”

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth before speaking. “It's a memorial tattoo. For all the guys I fought with who didn't make it back. Each feather is for one soldier.”

Her eyes widened slightly and she bit her lip, studying the overlapping feathers. “But there are so many.” Her voice was quiet, full of sadness and respect as she traced the black lines on his arm.

He nodded slowly. “Fifty-eight. Many of them men I was responsible for.”

“Oh, Colt.” She pressed her fingertips against her mouth, her eyes solemn. “Scars hidden in plain view,” she whispered, again tracing her fingers over the ink, and for the first time in years he could breathe without tasting the pain he kept hidden deep inside, because now someone else understood.

“I have real scars, too,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows, deliberately turning his tone flirty and navigating away from the deep waters into which they were quickly headed.

“I noticed that one on your shoulder,” she said.

He nodded and turned his shoulder to her, showing her. “Shrapnel from a bomb blast in Afghanistan.” He pushed down the sheet and pointed to the faint raised red line right where hip met thigh on his right side. “Bullet graze from my first deployment.” Lifting his leg, he showed her the inside of his right ankle, the skin there raised, a mottled pink-and-white. “Second degree burn pulling kids out of a bombed-out school in Iraq.”

As good as it felt to talk, to show his scars, he wasn't ready to reveal his biggest one, the one he carried deep down inside him that was completely invisible and yet caused him the most pain. The truth was that he still had nightmares, still hated talking about the shit that had gone down in the Sandpit, still waged a daily battle against the self-loathing that was always there, simmering just below the surface. It was what the shrink at the VA had called survivor's guilt, a common symptom of PTSD.

She traced her fingers over the scar at his hip. “How many times were you deployed?”

He paused, counting silently in his head. “I was deployed to Afghanistan twice before going to Ranger School. After becoming a Ranger, I did four deployments to Iraq and three to Afghanistan.”

Her blue eyes were sad, and her hand came to rest over his heart. “Holy shit. That's a lot of war, Colt.”

“I know.” He nodded, his head suddenly feeling much heavier.

“I'm sorry.” She squeezed his hip, flexing her fingers into him.

“Don't be. I served my country, and I'd do it again.”

“So why aren't you in the Army anymore?”

“Time for a change, you know?” Ready to turn the subject away from himself, he skimmed a hand over her tattooed ribs. “Your turn. Tell me what they mean.”

She sat up, and he felt blood flow into his apparently insatiable dick at the sight of her breasts bouncing slightly. She swung her feet out from under the sheet and showed him the inside of her right ankle, dotted with tiny music notes. “This was my first one. I think I was…” she paused, biting her lip “…seventeen. For the first time in my life, I'd found something I was good at and that I enjoyed. Making that connection to music…it was lifesaving for me.” She flipped over her right wrist, showing a swirled line of delicate black stars. “I don't remember getting this one. I'm lucky it's pretty. I think I was about nineteen.” She turned her long, slender back to him and gathered her hair up, exposing the nape of her neck and the Egyptian ankh inked there. “I got this one after White Crown's first album was a success. It's the key of life, and with my music career, I knew I'd found mine.” Still with her back to him, she pointed at the gorgeous tattoo covering most of her right shoulder blade, depicting a large feather disintegrating into tiny birds fluttering up to the top of her shoulder. “I got this one after White Crown broke up and I went solo. To me, it represents the freedom I felt striking out on my own.”

“And what about this one?” he asked, skimming his hand over her ribs on her left side. In beautiful, scrolling script were the Fleetwood Mac lyrics, “Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?”

“A reminder.” Pain, sadness, loneliness—all of it flashed in her eyes, and it made him want to take on the world for her.

He'd been about to press her further when his stomach rumbled loudly, reminding both of them that they hadn't eaten dinner. Like a switch had flipped, a smile lit up her face.

“Um…” She twirled a lock of her hair around her finger, playing at being shy, and Goddamn, it was adorable. “Do you want to order pizza and have more sex?”