Debauched (Undone Book 3) (15 page)

“She told Layla you had to work,” Michael says.

“Nope.” I shake my head.

Leo cocks a brow. “So you’ll be there?”

Now I have an excuse to go to The Whisky tonight and confront her, which suits me just fine. I’ve been thinking about her all day and I want to see her. Besides lying, even by omission, doesn’t sit well with me and she will explain herself. “We will be.”

I slip into the back of the bar about fifteen minutes before her set is ending. I don’t know what I expect to find, but what I see stops me dead in my tracks. She looks right out of a forties nightclub with a current, edgy vibe mixed in.

I lean against the back wall and soak her in. My cock turns to granite at the very sight of her. Up there on the stage she looks exotic and mysterious, with her black hair, smoky eyes and lips slicked with crimson. She’s wearing a red dress that’s painted on, has a square neckline, three-quarter sleeves, and ends at her knees.

I figured she had a good voice if she was hired to sing, but she’s even better than I expected. It’s full and rich and the low rasp of it shoots straight through me. She’s singing “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls. About not wanting the world to see her, and it’s so authentic, so true to what I know she’s feeling, I tumble deeper into infatuation.

The song ends, and there’s whistles and claps. She smiles, turns to her band, and the melody to a song I don’t recognize comes on and she starts to sing. I watch her, captivated, until she finally leaves the stage.

When she walks off, a guy in skinny jeans, a tight T-shirt and shaggy hair, not dissimilar to the one she brought to the engagement party saunters up to her. I bristle, my instincts going on high alert. I know this guy is her type. I can picture him with a guitar in hand, full of rocker boy angst, spouting bad song lyrics to express emotions he doesn’t actually feel.

I don’t like it.

Possession thrums in my blood, hot, thick and irrational. I straighten from my position against the wall.

The guy puts his hand on her hip, and squeezes, giving her a long once over.

I grit my teeth.
She’s mine.
The words pound in my head, over and over again.

Christ. I’m fucking jealous. I
never
get jealous. Jealousy is for weak-minded, insecure men. With clenched hands, I fight back the base, foreign emotion.

She beams up at him and it’s like a punch in the gut. Just as I’m about to fly off the handle and do some sort of crazy, caveman shit, she swivels, pushes his hand away, and shakes her head.

Where is this coming from? I saw her with another guy at the engagement party and didn’t view it as anything but a minor annoyance.

He grabs her wrist, but to my relief, she shakes her head again, pulls away and walks down a hallway.

I spring forward, following quickly as not to lose her.

Okay, I’m running to catch up to her.

As she’s about to disappear through double doors, I call out, “Ruby!”

She whips around and surprise widens her features. “Chad. What are you doing here?”

I take her hand, pull her into a deserted corridor, push her up against the wall, and claim her mouth. She tenses for a fraction of a second then melds into me.

Our mouths fuse.

My tongue slides against hers.

I grip her hips, the hips that guy dared to touch, and tug her closer.

My head slants, deepening the kiss.

She throws her arms around me, pressing her body full against my length.

Every time I touch her I’ve been slow, careful and calculated. Holding myself back not to overwhelm her, but I can’t do that right now. It’s imperative she understand how much I fucking want her even though I can’t sink into her hot cunt yet.

The kiss turns hotter. Wetter and more desperate.

With one hand planted on those hips that belong to me, I wrap the other around her throat and squeeze. My mouth is possessive, claiming and demanding, and she responds to me just like she’s meant to, with needy urgency.

Our breathing turns fast, the air humid.

And when I can stand it no more, I rip away and as she pants against my skin, I whisper in her ear, “If we weren’t taking this slow, there’s not a thing in this world that would stop me from shredding your panties and fucking you against this wall.”

She jerks and whimpers, rubbing her hips against my cock.

I nip my teeth along her jaw, and thrust against her, hard. Letting her get a taste of the full force of my hunger for her. “You’re mine. I’m going to own every inch of your body and mind.”

She moans and clutches my shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of my shirt.

“Do you want that, Ruby?” I have to know.

Another needy whimper. “Yes.”

I lift my head to look at her. Her lipstick is smeared, and I’m sure it covers me as well as her. I swipe my thumb over her lower lip. “I’ve marked you.”

Like a good little submissive girl her pupils dilate, and she sucks in a breath at the words.

I slide my fingers over the nape of her neck and ask, “Why did you tell Layla I was working and we couldn’t go to dinner?”

Her body tightens and her expression immediately turns guilty. Emotions pass over her features before she straightens her shoulders. “I didn’t want to go.”

“Why?”

She swallows. “I’m not ready to be around them.”

“Why?”

“They're all so…” She waves her hand. “You know.”

“Kinky?”

She nods. “You won’t go past second base and I feel like an eighth grader.”

She’s adorable. I meet her gaze and take away her choices in this matter, unsure what the consequences will be. “We’re going to dinner.”

She blinks. “I don’t want to.”

I could let her argue her way out of this, and while I understand her trepidation, letting her prolong the inevitable will only increase her stress. This is where her not being willing to entertain her submissive nature becomes tricky. Because the truth is, if I demand it, she’ll resist but ultimately give in to my desires. The question is if I coax.

I decide to demand and see what she does. “We’re going.”

Her brow furrows. “Why?”

“Because it’s better to get it out of the way so it can stop being weird for you.”

“Is it weird for you?”

“No.”

“How can it not be weird when they’re so…” She gestures with her hand again, unable to bring herself to say the words.

I press my thumb against her pounding pulse. “If we’re fucking or not has nothing to do with dinner.”

Her gaze turns wary.

I know the real reason she doesn’t want to go and in my mind it’s not a good one. Right now, locked away just the two of us, she can pretend my being dominant doesn’t exist, and at dinner she won’t be able to do that. Even under the most normal of circumstances, if you know what you’re looking at, the power dynamics between the couples is clear. On a night where everyone knows, like on Valentine’s or tomorrow at dinner, they aren’t at all shy. Ruby doesn’t want to be confronted with what’s sitting between us, unspoken.

I have no intention of pushing her on that, because she’s not even close to ready, but I’m not going to let her skate out either. The longer she avoids her friends, the more it will grow in her head, and I can’t have that.

I stroke down the curve of her neck. “All that matters is you and me. Nothing more, nothing less. There is no competition between them and us. Michael, Leo and Brandon are going to do what’s right for their girls. I am going to do what’s right for
my
girl, understand?”

A giddy excitement rushes over her face for a split second before it’s gone, hidden away. She nods.

“We’re going to dinner.”

“Okay.” She licks her lips. “Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me?”

Wide blue eyes look up at me and the longing flashes, making them pool liquid for a fraction of second before they become guarded again. “That I’m so far behind where I should be?”

I narrow my eyes and it dawns on me, Ruby, with all her nonconformity, “I don’t want to live a regular life” talk, is a closet perfectionist. An overachiever. Maybe it’s not manifested in her career, but it is there, hidden under the layers of her outer shell. She’s put so much pressure on herself to live, and be a certain way, she can’t remember what it’s like not to compare herself and come up lacking. I’m the first person she’s ever let see this side of her, that she’s ever told the truth to, and she’s waiting for me to reject her at every turn.

“This isn’t a race.” I shift my attention to her mouth and then back to her wide, stunned blue eyes. Words won’t make her believe, but actions will. “I saw that guy touch you.”

Her brow furrows. “What guy?”

That she doesn’t remember fills me with a primal satisfaction I don’t want to think about. “When you got offstage, a guy came up to you and put his hands on your hips.”

“Oh. That.”

“I didn’t like it.” My fingers curl around her neck and squeeze.

A smile lifts the corners of her lips.

I smile back. “Do you like that? Me being jealous?”

“Yes.” She blinks up at me, but this time her expression is sly and coy. Mischievous. “Should I not?”

I laugh, shaking my head.

“What?”

“What are you doing to me, Ruby?”

“What do you mean?” She sounds genuinely confused.

I grin down at her. “You can’t even begin to comprehend the fucked-up thoughts in my head when I saw him touch you.”

“Like what?”

I lean down and kiss her before pulling back to say against her lips, “Possessive things.”

She shivers, tilting her hips into me.

I skim my lips over her jaw. “Like how you’d better not let him touch you again.”

She giggles and the sound is like music to my ears, all her previously coiled tight muscles unwind. “That is possessive.”

“Not that I’d ever say anything so ridiculous.”

“No, never.” Her voice is amused and filled with happiness.

When I get to her earlobe I tug on it with my teeth. She jerks against me. “Don’t pretend it doesn’t flip your switch though.”

Her fingers tighten on my shoulders and she sucks in her breath. “It does.”

“And why do you think that is?” Curious as to what her answer might be.

For the first time since we started this madness she initiates touching me. Her mouth presses against the line of my jaw and then her tongue flutters, sending a spike of electricity over my skin. Then she whispers sweetly, “I want you to want me.”

“I do. More than you know.” I smile against her neck. “Don’t let him touch you again, Ruby.”

“I won’t.”

Of course she won’t. Because she’s a good girl and her body already knows exactly whom it belongs to.

Me.

Ruby

So here I am, at dinner.

I don’t know how I let Chad talk me into this, but I’m fast learning the man is very convincing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I shoot a sideways glance at him. His arm is resting on the back of my chair, and there’s no stress in his body at all. Tonight, he’s wearing a black shirt, a pullover that’s tight across his broad shoulders and flat stomach, and a pair of jeans. His hair is strategically messy, his expression open and easy.