Lazarus (The Henchmen MC 7)

"This humble fuck," Cyrus said, shaking his head. "He's practically fluent. A goddamn Rosetta Stone. You coming to the fight tonight, gorgeous?"

"Yeah," I said, the smile I gave him genuine.

"Come on," Lazarus said suddenly, squeezing my shoulders. "Let's get you settled in and then you can meet the rest of these fucks," he offered, nodding toward the group who hadn't approached immediately.

With that, I was led down a hall full of closed doors almost to the very end where Lazarus opened the door and ushered me inside. It was like any normal bedroom dominated by a king-sized bed covered in a white comforter that offset the darkness of the deep blue walls. There were two nightstands as well as a dresser across from the bed with a TV on top. To the right side in the door was another door that led to a bathroom that was average, nothing to write home about.

"Why bother having an apartment if you have this?" I found myself asking as Lazarus put the bags down on the dresser and moved past me toward the closet where he leaned down and opened the mini fridge he had stashed in there, coming out with iced teas for each of us, motioning toward the bed. "We can't eat on the bed."

"Why not?" he asked, kicking out of his shoes and sitting down near the headboard as he reached for the remote.

"Because your comforter is white and the sauce is red," I reasoned, shaking my head.

"It'll wash. Come on," he said, patting the bed.

Figuring the wash was his problem, I did just that, taking the to-go container and plastic utensils from him.

I was maybe one bite in when he broke the silence. "So you're cool with my brothers thinking I fucked all the fluids out of you, huh?"

I almost choked to death.

He chuckled as I struggled, twisting off my iced tea and handing it to me.

"It, ah, seemed like you implied..."

"I did," he agreed. "But that was quite an impression."

I looked away at that, feeling a bit awkward admitting what I was about to. "Well, I kinda figured that if we are going to be... friends, that it would be good for them to like me."

"Yes, that would be important if we were going to be friends," he repeated, an inflection in his voice I couldn't quite place and didn't ask about because he went ahead and started plowing into his food, seeming to make a point.

So I ate as well.

And when we were both done, he took the containers and put them on the nightstand.

I didn't think anything was off as he turned back. But he turned to face me, our bodies a mere whisper from each other. "Bethany, we're not going to be friends," he informed me. And the impact of those words was somewhat similar to a kick to the stomach, knocking out my air, making a swirling sensation start there and slowly spread outward. "Bethany," he said, trying to get my attention since I was suddenly studying my hands, seeing the mostly-healed over scrape marks from me trying to claw off my skin to stop the crawling.

"I heard you," I said, nodding.

"Maybe you heard me, but you obviously didn't understand," he countered as his fingers slid up the side of my jaw and tilted my head toward him and up.

When my eyes met his and he said nothing, I shook my head. "Understand what?"

"This," he said as his lips pressed into mine.

My entire body jerked at the contact, so unexpected and yet so wholly wanted. God, how I wanted.

I may have been trying to believe in the idea of Lazarus and I as friends. That was mostly due to the fact that the man had held me while I sweated through both our clothes, had heard me throw up for days on end, had seen me be nothing but undignified, pathetic, and ugly. Men who saw that, who saw that first before all the good stuff, they didn't want to be more than friends with you.

Or that was at least what I had been thinking until I felt his lips claim mine, drawing out an unexpected whimper as I instinctively reached out to him, arm slipping under his raised one and around his back to pull his body closer to me.

His teeth snagged my lower lip and pulled as his body shifted and curled, pressing me back against the mattress as he came over me- his firm lines meeting my soft ones. He was half-covering me, one leg wedged between mine and I had to fight the urge to grind against him- the surge of desire so heady and sudden that all I could think of was the relief from it- the swelling in my breasts, the strangled sensation of my throat, the heaviness in my lower stomach, the aching need between my legs.