Shout (The Voice Trilogy Book 3) (12 page)

              “That’s not who you are,” I whisper.

              “You don’t know who I am,” he lashes out and stings me, pacing, wearing a trail across the floor. Anger rolls off his back and I am struck by that fact that I have never seen this man, this anger.

              “Rhys, this isn’t you, please, I’ve never seen you like this. Think about what you are doing.”

              “You don’t know shit about me. You know what I want you to know.” The words cut deep and my spine rattles from the blow. I shudder under the weight of his growing fury and icy cold tone. His face is twisted in pain and anger. He stalks across the room like a rabid beast, unpredictable and volatile.

              “I know that you are better than what she has reduced you to. I know that you don’t want to punish other people for what she has done.” He stops pacing and zeroes in on me.

              “Why are you defending her?”

              “I am not defending her. I am defending you. You are Rhys fucking Slate, you are powerful and shrewd. You could buy and sell her, but you are letting her push you off the rails again. She is in your head. You are blinded by your rage and she is winning. Every moment you spend thinking about her, she gets what she wants. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

              “I’m so sorry, Sophie, I just don’t know how to deal with her anymore. All she responds to is extremes. I cannot, and will not, allow her to hurt you one more time. I do not know what to do.” His shoulders sag and he falls back into his chair, head in his hands. He looks so broken, his stony façade crumbling before me all because of this vindictive bitch and her lies.

              “Trust me.” I step between his legs and rest my hands on his shoulders. “Together, we can handle this.”

              “I wish I had your confidence,” he pulls me into his lap and holds me tight, “your blind confidence.”

              “Sometimes being blind allows you to see things more clearly.”

              “Aren’t you wise?” He smiles and I see the cracks in his anger spread. “We will face tomorrow together.”

CH. 17

              I slept like a log and when I finally wake I am alone and the sun is high. I find Rhys and Charlie in the kitchen, Rhys on his laptop, Charlie flipping through a Sports Illustrated. Rhys looks up with a wink and pushes a newspaper towards me.

              “Together.” The paper is folded open to Page Six and sure enough, there she is in all her lying glory; made for the society page, leaving some restaurant with an entourage. But it’s the headline that really catches my attention.

Lady and the Tramp

You’re Not in Kansas Anymore

There’s a picture of me coming out of Rhys’ office building, completely unaware, my name printed in big bold letters just beneath. I make the mistake of reading on…

             
Longtime lovers and media darlings Rhys Slate and Nadja Vladova have come up against their most formidable foe to date. It seems the affections of Mr. Slate have been captured by a dowdy Midwest mystery. Rhys Slate, CEO of the Slate Corp., and active board member of several charitable foundations, seems to be slumming it with this unemployed, unremarkable flavor of the month. It seems in recent weeks, Mr. Slate has been MIA, having run away to Ireland with his little apple tart. In the weeks he was gallivanting over emerald hills, Ms. Vladova was reportedly spotted with bruising on her face and arms, rumored to be the lasting marks of Mr. Slates well documented anger issues. Other reports suggest that she is carrying his child, which is what sparked his anger to begin with. There was a time when I looked forward to the reunion of this once epic couple, but in the wake of recent events, and the ongoing pattern of violence and humiliation demonstrated by Mr. Slate it seems all hope for a happy ending is lost. This poor beauty is lucky to finally be rid of her beast.

              Below the scathing editorial is Rhys in black and white, grabbing that man by the collar last night, his fist seemingly cocked for a punch. An unfortunate moment caught out of context. 

              Angry tears begin to cloud my eyes and I don’t dare look at either of them. I stare at the counter and fight it, not brave enough to read another word of the bile splashed across the page. Rhys turns me around, tipping my head to meet his eyes, betraying my evident devastation. 

              “I told you this was going to be hard, Beautiful.” He pulls me into a bear hug, trying to eclipse the pain but the cut is too deep.

              For two days I feign a headache, not wanting to leave the house or face the outside world. He sees right through me, but caters to me none the less, sending Charlie out for soup and cupcakes. Come Sunday morning he will no longer be put off and insists that we walk around the corner for breakfast.

              “It’s just a block away Sophie. I won’t be held hostage and I won’t let you hide away. I want to walk hand in hand and have some damn pancakes, is that too much to ask?” I catch myself sweeping the street with my eyes, back and forth as we walk down the block and around the corner, weary of anyone passing. Charlie hangs two paces back until we reach the restaurant.

              “See, Beautiful, we made it unscathed and I’m famished. We are yesterday’s news.” A quick kiss as Charlie opens the door and we step into the busy little diner. At the end of the counter a waitress stands with her hand in the air.

              “We’ve got three at the end!” She hollers over the morning chatter, pointing to the end of the counter. I follow behind Charlie, sandwiched between him and Rhys. We sidle up to the last three stools at the counter. “Coffee, hun?”

I pick my way through half an order of French toast while Charlie glances nervously out the window. Rhys pushes his omelet around the plate, always watching over the top of his coffee cup. The crowd is growing and there is a line forming on the sidewalk as well, all normal for a Saturday breakfast rush, but it’s the hushed whispers and sideways glances that are the deciding factor.

              “Come Sophie, finish up, let’s go before it gets too crowded.” I look up and see the shadow across Charlie’s face and Rhys tapping his fingers on his coffee mug.

We quickly finish and Rhys leaves far too much money on the counter, but he is in a hurry. Charlie gets in front of me and Rhys walks behind as we make our way through the growing crowd of waiting hungry patrons. I feel his hand at my back and stay close to Charlie. When he pushes the door open I am blinded first by sunlight, then by flash bulbs. In an instant I hear yelling erupt.

“Mr. Slate, Mr. Slate!” Rhys pushes me from behind, but someone grabs my arm and pulls me away. I reach out and try to grab Charlie, but he has been pushed in the opposite direction, out of my reach. Rhys is surrounded by a throng of men with cameras, shouting his name, throwing accusations in the air, hoping something will provoke him.

“Rhys! Do you have a comment about your relationship with Nadja?” I hear him call my name but I can’t see him through the crowd.

“Do you have a comment about the miscarriage?” The words carry over everything,
the miscarriage
. 

I see Charlie throw a punch and push some guy down to the sidewalk. There’s a camera in my face, snap, snap, snap. The photographer documents my fear and confusion wearing an odd grin.

“Welcome to New York!” His smile is temporary as Charlie lunges towards me and grabs my hand, knocking the man out of the way, pulling me through a small crowd of people. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, pushing my gaze to the ground, and leads me away from the mayhem.

              “Keep your head down, Lass.” He drags me along the sidewalk, away from Rhys, away from the yells. When we turn the corner, he turns to me, tilts my head to his and checks me over. “Are ya okay, Sophie? Are ya hurt?”

              I just shake my head, no confidence in my voice.

              “Rhys.” I whisper.

              “He will be fine, he will meet us at home. Let’s get moving before those leeches come looking for ya. Hustle now.” He grabs my hand and pulls me along the street.             

CH. 18

I sit at the edge of the bed in shock, terrified and feeling completely over my head, questioning my ability to deal with this spiraling situation. Charlie paces behind me professing his regret, however misplaced. I can’t believe how swiftly I was swept away from him, separated by a wave of people, isolated and intimidated. I’ve never experienced a fear like that, the sheer terror of having absolutely no control. My heart races at the echo of their yells. I focus on a point across the room and take a deep breath in an attempt to center myself.

Rhys sweeps into the room looking slightly winded, but otherwise unscathed. He and Charlie share a few quiet words before Charlie steps out, closing the door behind him.

              “Are you ok, Beautiful” He kneels before me, sweeping the hair behind my ears, running his hands up my arms, no doubt looking for scrapes and bruises. And though there is none to be seen, the scrapes to my ego are bleeding. I look into his eyes, unable to process, unable to focus.

              “Talk to me, Sophie. Tell me you are ok.” A mumbled response escapes my lips, but my head is still reeling. I have never seen anything like that, never experienced such in your face aggression. I was torn away from him so easily.

              “I don’t know what happened, Rhys. All of a sudden I was alone. I couldn’t see you, but I could hear you. It was fucking scary. I felt so lost.” I hang my head in shame.

"I am so sorry, Sophie.  I will never let that happen again.” He reaches up and kisses me with the force of the universe behind him and I fall headlong into him. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close and I can breathe again. Even as he pulls the very breath from my mouth I can breathe. “In a sea of people I will always find you, Beautiful.” He is out of breath and desperate, kissing me with such beautiful words in his mouth.

“I was missing something before you, something essential. You are that something. You have become a part of me Sophie, the best part." He bites my bottom lip, pulling it slowly through his teeth before soothing it with his tongue. His hands are tangled in my hair and I claw at his back unable to get close enough. He pushes me back and scans me with his eyes.

              I feel completely transparent and weak. The way his eyes rake me over, slowly reading my body. My skin like a delicate piece of vellum lies over an open book, every private thought scrawled across the pages for him to read. I am laid open to him, unable to hide myself, and I relish the exposure. I want him to drink me in, as I have done; to read every word that I cannot say, to see the indelible finger prints he has left upon my flesh and my soul.

              "You own me, Sophie, my heart beats for you, but I need you to talk to me, to let me in. Let me take care of you, show you that you are safe.” He produces a pair of suede cuffs and slaps them onto my wrists. I look up into his mischievous eyes, searching for something.

"Let me take your mind away, away from all of this. Let me show you." I don't have it in me to deny him anything, I will endure the lot for this man. To have him kneeling at my feet, desperate to prove his love and offer his protection is intoxicating and I want it all now. I need him, so I let him. He stands and undoes his belt. The slide of the leather through his belt loops makes my mouth water. Pulling it across his open palm he nods at me.

“Take off your shirt, Sophie.’ I whip my shirt over my head and drop it swiftly to the floor, releasing my bra eagerly and in the next moment, letting it slide down my arms. A slight grin raises his mouth and he silently demands my hands. I lay my wrists out for him and watch with baited breath, lust pulsing through my veins as he wraps my wrists in the supple leather of his belt and pulls it tight.

“Turn around and lie down, Beautiful, hands above your head. I roll over and lay my face on the bed, wiping my tears on the duvet, stretching my arms high above me. His hands skate across my back, tracing my spine, laying their claim to my strength. He climbs on the bed, kneeling behind me and places his hands at my hips, pulling me to my knees. “Bottoms up," he purrs. My back is arched, ass to the sky with my arms stretched out. A tiny tremble rolls across my hips when I feel his fingers hook into my shorts, slowly pulling them and my panties down around my knees, he sits back on his heels, making a meal out of watching me squirm.

“Up on your elbows baby.” A master of disarmament, I am no match with a belt around my wrists and anchored to the spot. I look around to see what he has planned, but he snaps, "Eyes on the wall."

Turning back to the wall, I close my eyes in anticipation. The waiting is agony as he teases me, his hands skating lusciously up and down my back and legs from neck to toe. Over and over, the rhythm is hypnotic. I am lost to it, consumed by his hands, by his scent, by his intent. He splays his fingers across my back, pulling them down my spine, across my buttocks and down the back of my thighs. The sensation ripples through me and I shudder slightly before I am snapped back by the feeling of his tongue.

His hands grip the back of my thighs as he slowly runs his tongue along my seam. I sag, but his hands hold me fast. His tongue runs up and down, pressing just beyond the cheeks, each time wetting and teasing neglected, wanting flesh. I am awake to a whole new world as he teases and strokes me, exploring my deepest recess. He rests a heavy hand on my back and begins to circle my clit. The tight, achy bunch of nerves spring into action, a ripple rolling down to my knees causing them to shake.

"You have yet to talk Sophie. Tell me what you want, what you need, what you’re afraid of." This is not good. If there is anything that I have learned about Rhys in the short time we have known each other is that he does not give up. He wants something from me and he is going to get it. Whatever it is.

I hear him slide back and slip off his pants before he is behind me again, his fingers digging slightly into my hips. He lies across my back and whispers in my ear, "I cannot have you keeping things from me, Sophie. You allow so much to go unsaid."

A small involuntary moan escapes my throat as his hips push against me, the anticipation building to a head, my body ready to explode, but I say nothing. He places a hand at the base of my throat; it is erotic and a little scary. I feel his hand push against my chest as his cock slips inside of me; he is buried to the hilt and still. The fullness and mere contact are almost enough to pull me under. I pulse around him, pulling him deeper, begging him to move. He starts to push into me and pull out, slowly at first, shallow thrusts, gentle pressure and desperate pleas in a hushed whisper. Before I know it, he is slamming into me. His body rigid, his knuckles white from the grip he has on my hips, pulling me onto him, pushing me off. He is emotional, uncontrolled, and raw.

              “Why won’t you talk to me? What is holding you back?” He slams into me mercilessly, trying to force me to confess. I am hot and sexed, confused and angry. His fingers dig into my hips and he lies across my back. The contact is heavy, his sticky skin coating my back with the proof of his virility. He lays his lips against my shoulder and kisses me softly. Slowing his hips, he strains against his own urges. His hot breath slides across my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “You really need to tell me what is holding you back…” The delicate kiss he places between my shoulder blades is no warning. He rises up and slams into me with such ferocity that my arms buckle, I sink to my elbows and press back against him. I know he means to punish me, to fuck me into submission, but all he has done is wake a sleeping beast. Every deep thrust is proof, the proof that I need proof that he needs me as much as I need him. I rock my hips against him and he stills.

              “Oh no, Sophie. This is not for you.” He flips me around and pulls my hips to the edge of the bed. My arms stretched high above me, the edge of the leather biting the soft flesh of my hands.               

“You will tell me what is holding you back.” His head dips between my legs and he takes a long, heady breath, his blazing eyes focused so intently on my reaction to his brazen sexual attack. I want to look away, but he won’t let me. “Watch me,” he demands. He softly spreads me open and blows a steady stream of cool air over me. I am hot and wet, well used with no end in sight. He grins that crooked grin and slowly presses a finger past my puffy folds. Twisting and turning, he slides his finger to the knuckle before pulling back. He puts the finger to his lips and slowly sucks it into his mouth. “Mmm,” he moans, licking every drop of me from his finger. My eyes roll and I let my head fall back.

“Watch me,” he growls, demanding my attention. My head is so heavy; my body limp from the relentless onslaught. I manage to drag my head up and his eyes are on fire when they meet mine. If he wasn’t making me feel so good I would swear he was trying to kill me. With his eyes locked on mine, he flicks my flesh, carefully kissing every tender, swollen inch before spearing me with his tongue. The sensation is overwhelming and rocks me to my core. A lightning bolt runs through me and I am ready to ride it home, but Rhys has other plans. He rolls back onto his heels, leaving me empty. Hands firmly planted on his thighs, watching me impassively as the orgasm dies and my face falls. It is almost painful, the dull ache of so much pent up energy trapped just below the surface, searing me from within, screaming to be released.

He slides back between my legs, starting the process all over; pressing his fingers into me, swirling and stretching me open, blowing his hot breath on my inflamed lips. His tongue dips in and out, twisting around my clit teasing and torturing me. With each small tremor, he sits back and watches me burn, waiting for me to beg. The ache in my belly has grown to a dull roar. I can’t stand it. I have to come now and hard. I am afraid of what my body will do when he finally lets me uncurl.

“What do you want? Please, Rhys. I cannot take another minute.” My voice shakes in unison with my legs, hot tears stream down my face. I am spent, needy and broken. His strong arms anchor my legs; his eyes have me tied down, expectant, and waiting.

“What do I have to do to make you understand?” He slowly presses a second finger into the raging inferno between my legs. The contact is slow, delicious and utterly painful. Before he can push any further, I crack.

              “I’m afraid!” I scream at him. “I’m afraid that I can’t handle this, that you’ll tire of taking care of me. I have so little to offer you! I don’t want to lose you; I would be lost. Please, Rhys.” He slowly climbs over me, softly lapping the tears from my jaw. He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. He is calm, tender, and starkly different from a moment ago. He gazes into my eyes and the flood gates open. “You have everything. I have nothing of value. Nothing you need.”

              His hands cup my face, eyes wide with shock. “I need you, Sophie.” My arms feel like lead as I raise them from the bed and slip my bound wrists over his head. He sits up and pulls me into his lap and in two easy movements undoes the belt and begins to unwind it from my wrists. My arms pulse and throb and I flex my hands as the blood rushes into my fingertips. I blink up at him through a curtain of tears, and he looks lost, broken. “I’m sorry, Sophie.” His fingers slide down my arms, checking me over. Curled against his chest I feel safe, but I ache. From the deepest part of me the ache rises like smoke.

              “Why? Why do you need me?” His hands are in my hair, caressing and comforting. All traces of his ferocious sexual taming evaporated the instant I confessed; a confession I had not planned, a confession that caught me by surprise.

              “I don’t understand.” His hands are in my hair, caressing and comforting. All traces of his ferocious sexual taming evaporated the instant I confessed. A confession I had not planned, a confession that caught me by surprise.

              “I will make you understand,” he insists, “what do I have to do?”

              “Finish what you started,” I beg.

              I watch him quickly change character and sink back in amongst the pillows and soft down. He covers me with his body, careful not to crush my aching form. Yet, the weight of him upon me is anything but oppressive. It is a relief. Something deep inside me needs the weight he has come to bear. Brushing the hair off my forehead, he kisses my lips, softly first, and then with an urgency that builds so quickly between us the air grows heavy and hot. He wraps his arms around me and before I know it, I am astride him and he is beneath me.

He grasps my hands and holds me aloft for a sweet, delicate moment before he bucks his hips and sends me into the air. I ride him like my life depends on it, like the tip of his cock holds the secret to life and I am the deepest cave; all of our secrets hidden in its depths that only we can reach. My body happily pillaged by his demanding lust, a sticky sheen the proof of our shared desperation. He labors to possess me and I give him no choice but to accept my surrender.             

He pulls me down against him, skin to skin, my breasts crushed against his rigid chest. Our hearts beat like bass drums answering back and forth, blood surging through my body and him whispering in my ear.

              “This pussy is mine, this body is mine, and I will remind you when you forget,” his rough whisper rattles in my ear. “This pussy is mine, this body is mine, your heart is fucking mine.” He chants, getting louder, squeezing me closer, “This pussy is mine, this body is mine, this heart is mine.” He sinks his teeth into my shoulder as I roll myself against him, the heat between us burning me up, making me so fucking needy. He holds me still, his strong arms wrapped around me like a strait jacket, growling in my ear. He tears me apart with a brutal thrust that sends my eyes rolling back in my head. “This pussy is mine, Beautiful. Your body is mine; your heart is fucking mine. You. Are. Mine,” he pants, “and I am yours.”