Page 113 of The Finish Line
“I don’t give a fuck.” I’m hollow. “Nothing matters to me right now, and you’re going to have to convince me to care again if you want to keep what we built because at this point, I really fucking don’t. I really—” my voice cracks—“I really fucking don’t care.”
“I know you’re hurt, man,” Sean says as I step away, his profile backlit by the headlights closing in as Tyler pulls up and jumps out of his truck, scanning the three of us before his stare lingers on me.
“You too? You too, Tyler?” I rasp, my heart shredding as I look between the three of them. “After all we’ve been through?” I swallow again and again and slap away the weakness clouding my vision as I look on at Dom, whose eyes fill before he darts them away. “You fucking look at me!” He locks his gaze to mine. “This was for Maman and Papa, Dom. We were so close, brother. Why?” I croak as Dom expels a pained breath, his eyes spilling over.
Tyler steps toward me, and I shake my head, stopping him.
“Tell me, brothers, word for word, how you deceived me for three months. Tell me every single thing you did, every purposeful lie you told, every move you made to betray me this way, to keep me in the dark, and then,” I rasp out, “tell me how you love—” my voice cracks again as my eyes drift to Dom—“tell me you love me.”
Faltering, I cup my face, and Tyler grips my arm, ducking his head beneath it to keep me upright. Tossing my cigarette down, I lift my eyes to my brothers. “I suggest you tie up whatever lingering club business you have and do it quickly because the time doesn’t start until you touchdown in Paris. And don’t worry, I broke it to her gently that you won’t come calling anytime in the future, and if you so much as contact her, we’re done.”
“Tob—”
“I can’t even fucking look at you!” Dom gasps as I push past him and stumble forward. Tyler catches me as my mask slips fully while I bleed out in front of them. Needles thundering in my chest, Tyler manages to get me to the passenger door of his truck and hoists me inside, taking off just before I pass out.
For eight months after, I felt like an outsider in my own club, the only place that ever felt like home. For eight months, the remaining men whom I trusted, whom I loved like brothers, looked the other way when I walked by—disappointed in me, in my actions for sending Dom and Sean away, as if I were the one in the wrong.
And during those eight months, between checking on their welfare and progress in France and keeping close tabs while protecting the woman they deceived me with, I resisted temptation to try to uncover the mystery for myself in what they saw in her. A true to life Helen of Troy capable of breaking apart the kingdom I built with my bare hands.
For eight months, I closed in on her father, making my last moves to ensure the minute my brothers got off the plane, their final act to regain my trust was to aid in bringing Roman down.
I had absolutely no intention of ever laying eyes on her again. But when I could no longer handle being an outcast in the club I built, I went back to the place where it all began—to remember why we started it, to try and forgive them, make peace with their mistake and reclaim the place back as my own.
As I breached the trees, intent on gaining perspective, only to hear her calling for them, I knew without a doubt if there was a God, I’d pissed Him off somehow, arranging my life the way I had without consulting Him with my plans. And the most brutal kick in the teeth was seeing her drenched in moonlight, calling desperately for them. It was then I knew I was too far past the point of His redemption.
The proof shone down on me—by way of her—the minute I again set my eyes on temptation. Her innocence taunting me, crippling any decency I had left in me to the point I wanted to erase it and set fire to her love for them. Because she wasn’t innocent; she’d singlehandedly destroyed everything by existing, and the evidence was glinting around her neck.
The minute she pushed back against my anger, just as furious, lips parting, eyes wide, I knew that I was being taunted for what I’d denied myself a hundred times or more. After years of resistance, of shoving compulsion aside, for them, for us, of keeping all the weaknesses I was susceptible to at bay, I wasn’t going to deny myself another fucking minute.
And with one taste of her, I discovered freedom.
*
The same freedom I feel now when I open my eyes to see her mouth surrounding me, her deep ocean eyes full of silent demands.
My strongest temptation and undoing. The only woman capable of satiating me. My nemesis and equal, my torment and love.
Unraveling with her has never felt so fucking good.
Wrapping my fist in her hair, I revel in the stretch of her lips around my cock and the moan vibrating in her throat.
My trésor has never been easily sated, no matter how often I do my job. She chokes on my girth undeterred and bobs her head, jaw clenched in determination, earning a groan from me. I sink into the feel, the perfect pressure of her wet mouth, propping my hand behind me for a better view. She releases me just as I thrust up, her lips lifting in a sultry smile as she fists me in her hand.
“Good morning, Mr. King.”
I can’t help the return lift of my lips. “It is.”
She claws my thighs, taking me to the back of her throat, and I drop back on my pillow, denying myself the buck of my hips, doing my best to restrain myself.
“Putain.” Fuck.
She dives again, and I grip her head and gaze down at her. The sight alone has me close. She’s completely naked, straddling one of my thighs, her perfect tits in view, nipples peaked as I run a hand over them before tracing the stretch of her lips.
“Tellement sexy.” So fucking sexy.
We’re back sexually, and I won’t last long this way. She sucks me to the tip before releasing me and again pumps me in her hand, her eyes expectant.
“Something on your mind, Mon Trésor?”