Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC 2)

I only half responded, the weight of Brock’s gaze burning into me. When we had farewelled the couple and their baby Brock had seized me, dragging me into the darkness.

No words were spoken as he plastered his mouth to mine, kissing me with a ferocity I barely survived. I was ready to lie on the sand and beg him to fuck me, despite what a logistical nightmare sex on the beach was when he released my mouth.

“My place now,” he growled.

I nodded and was about to suggest transportation options when he threw me over his shoulder. I squealed and he smacked my ass, hard.

“What are you—” I started to ask, but I got another firm smack in response.

“No talking. We always fuck shit up when there’s talking. I need to get inside you and neither of us are going to say a word to fuck it up,” he growled, striding through the sand.

I pursed my lips, listening to him for once. My thighs had instantly quivered at his tone. I hadn’t realized how close his and Cade’s houses were until we walked up the passageway from the beach to his house.

He opened the French doors to his bedroom, which opened out with a view of the ocean and threw me on the bed. “How fond are you of this dress?” he asked gruffly, standing over me.

“Um—” was all I managed before his hands went to my bodice, ripping the thin fabric off me.

“Omigod!” I whisper yelled, “That was Elie Saab!” I exclaimed, my sadness for such brutal treatment of couture momentarily jerking me out of my sex haze. Thoughts of the sad departed dress went away when Brock’s mouth went to my breast. He wasn’t gentle or sweet; he was rough and urgent, desperate. I moaned at his touch, his body on mine and his fingers which touched my sweet spot.

I writhed underneath him as he brought me to climax with his hands between my legs and mouth at my breast. He wasn’t tender, he was brutal. It was perfect.

“Brock,” I muttered, needing him inside me.

“No fuckin’ talking,” he ordered, knifing up to take off his clothes.

I complied and for the rest of the night we made silent, frantic, intense mind-blowing love.

I fell asleep in the early hours, drunk on his touch, happy to be with him. I let my guard down. I let my façade fall and let myself be bewitched by the wedding joojoo.

“I love you,” I whispered to his sleeping body as I drifted off to sleep.

I was too far gone to recognize his body stiffening and his arms tightening around me as I dozed into dreams.

I was driving my car. I didn’t know exactly where to but I knew the direction and I knew I had to get there fast. I knew if I didn’t something terrible would happen. My foot flattened on the accelerator as the landscape whizzed by. I was going to make it. Suddenly ringing sounded on my phone and a voice sounded through the car. “He’s dead, Amy. He’s dead,” Dave’s voice informed me flatly.

“No, no, no” I chanted my world falling apart around me.

I awoke with a jerk. I registered the strong, tattooed arms that encircled mine, the comforting smell of tobacco and the ocean. I felt relief; relief that it was just a dream and that Brock wasn’t dead, it was Ian. I then felt the prickle of guilt over my skin. How could I think that? What was wrong with me?

I had to get out of here. Through some great act of fate I was able to slip out of Brock’s bed and pick up his shirt. The tattered remains of my dress left that as my only option.

“Where you going, Sparky?” a rough voice asked.

I jumped and turned to see Brock, sitting up, his impressive boy on display and looking all sexy and rough from sleep. “I’ve got to go,” I answered quietly.

His face hardened. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me?” he growled.

I shook my head. “I’ve got to.”

“Fucking save it,” he snapped, getting out of bed and storming toward me. “You aren’t running off after last night, after we finally put all the shit aside and I got you back again. You’re mine. I’m not letting you shut me out anymore,” he declared, snatching the hand that I had been using to button his shirt.

I knew him well enough to know he was serious. To know I couldn’t run anymore. So I had to do it. I had to lie. I couldn’t let him convince me to do what I wanted to and stay here with him. Because with all of the fucked up shit going on in my head I would fuck us up eventually. I didn’t want him to have to deal with the guilt I was feeling. He didn’t deserve that.

“I’m not yours,” I declared coldly. “We both know that.”

He jerked at my words but didn’t step away. “That’s a fucking lie, Amy,” he snapped. “You’re mine. Every inch of you. You’re not perfect. You can be annoying as fuck, irritating beyond belief and as stubborn as a mule. But you’re perfect for me. You’re meant for me, Amy. Don’t spout shit to me to the contrary.”

“It’s not shit!” I shouted, yanking myself away from him. “I’m not yours. It was never you,” I finished cruelly and I watched him jerk as if I struck him.

I swallowed my tears as his expression turned blank.

“Whatever,” he bit out finally. “You wanna fuck up your life by pining over a dead man, be my fuckin’ guest.”

I paused a second and then walked out the door, my heart shattering.

CHAPTER NINE

Present Day

The door opened quietly and Rafe slipped in. The look of anticipation and arousal on his face was enough to make my skin crawl. I ignored it; I had to if I was getting out of this place. I stood up, restraining a wince at the pain.

“I haven’t been able to sleep all night thinking about you.” I smiled at him seductively as he crossed the room.