After the Fall: The Fallen Men, #4 Read online

  “I shouldn’t have said it that way. What I meant was, it takes so much courage and self-belief to give people pieces of their mind and soul the way you do, and you make it look so natural. Most men, alpha men especially I think, have trouble articulating their emotions because they worry it will make them look weak.”

  King considered my words as he played his fingers over my hairline and down the side of my face. He was a tactile man, almost as expressive with his touch as he was with his poetry.

  “It’s ironic, then, that they’d let themselves get caught up in what people could think and so they rob themselves of love and praise, the gift of givin’ it and havin’ it given back. That’s the real weakness.”

  “I used to be like that,” I admitted, thinking of the women I’d been. The woman who was terrified of dating a rebel, of being involved in anything that might be perceived as wrong or risqué.

  Now I couldn’t imagine a life colouring within the lines. Where was the fun or individual identity in that?

  “Did you?” he argued casually, as if his words didn’t fundamentally shift my self-perception. “You were reluctant, babe, I’ll give you that. But you still explored your curiosity with me, still took a chance on a man who could’a fucked you over, and then when he didn’t, you gave yourself over to me in a way that was a promise. A pledge as solemn as a dogmatist gives his god.”

  “I didn’t really have a choice in it. You utterly beguiled me.”

  “There’s a choice in everything we do.”

  And this was one of the many ways King proved to me every day that he was the most brilliant man I’d ever know. He had the soul of an ancient philosopher, a somber wisdom that didn’t seem borne of experience, but birthed from some inner peace he’d been inherently gifted with from some god or fate.

  “Roll over,” he demanded, already flipping me onto my stomach.

  I didn’t protest as his hands, rough from working at the garage, moved up my thighs, taking my dress with them until I was forced to lift up so he could take it off over my head. Naked but for the pale pink ruffled panties I wore, I lay in the cool air as the sun began to peek over the horizon and hummed as King trailed kisses up my spine, pressing one to each vertebra.

  “Speaking of choice,” he said as he moved away and collected something else from the bag. I was too content to watch what he was doing, stretching lazily across the cashmere blanket to feather my fingers through the cool, damp grass. “There’s been a decision that’s weighed on me for a long time now. A decision I should’a made a long fuckin’ time ago.”

  “Mmm?” I asked, eyes trained on the meeting of sun and sea as gold began to seep across the water, heralding the sunrise.

  King leaned into my side, one hand braced on the other side of my bottom, the other suddenly pressing something faintly wet against my skin. I started to rise, startled by the sensation, but he hushed me and pressed me back down.

  “Still remember the first day I met you. How could I not? Even remember what I ate for breakfast, how the hot air, waxy and chemical from the asphalt and the heat, felt against my face. Of course, it was the most important day of my fuckin’ life. A man doesn’t forget shit like that. Not ever.”

  He continued to move that wet tip against the delicate skin of my back, only now I realized what he was doing. King was often lightning struck with inspiration, grabbing a receipt, a napkin, the leg of his jeans to use as a canvas for the felt pen he always kept on his person and the poem that rushed to his brain like a spring river bursting its banks.

  He was doing that now, using me as a blank page to carry his beautiful words. I already carried one of his poems on my ribcage, but I loved this spontaneity, loved feeling like both his muse and his art simultaneously.

  “There are only two days, as I see it, that could ever top that,” he continued, and I closed my eyes to better feel the texture of his lovely voice on my skin. “The day you become my wife, and the day you give me our babies.”

  My body went stiff, overly starched from the shock of his words. We’d spoken idly about marriage and babies, but nothing like this, nothing like he was opening a new door in our relationship.

  A hand stroked down my side while he continued to write, as if he was soothing a spooked horse. Accordingly, his voice gentled.

  “Wanna get married at our house, babe. In the clearin’ through the trees so when you come to me in your wedding dress it’ll look like just as much as a dream as it’ll feel to me gettin’ to marry a woman like you.”

  “Okay,” I whispered, afraid to break the tenuous sanctity of the conversation by speaking any louder. “I’ve thought about that too.”

  I could hear the answering smile in his voice. “’Course you have, because my girl gets me.”

  “Are you asking me to marry you?” I ventured because my heart was a rabid animal trying to break through my chest and asking was the only way to appease it.

  King chuckled lowly as he manhandled me until I was seated on his lap, knees on either side of him, and his hands were framing my face. I was naked, and he was completely clothed, but the discrepancy felt right somehow. I’d only ever wanted to be bare and vulnerable with this man because he was the only person I knew who saw everything I was as a gift.

  “Babe, for the past four years, that question has been branded on the edge of my tongue, and every time I look at you, I get a little more tempted to say it.”

  “So why wait?” I tipped my forehead against his and twisted my fingers in his hair while one of his hand found and cupped the back of my neck to hold me to him.

  “’Cause you’d only just found the kinda woman you wanted to be and the kinda life you wanted to live. Didn’t want to make either of those all about me, not before you got a chance to live ’em for you.”

  “I don’t think you understand.” And I was shocked that he didn’t. “But it was through the prism of your love that I found myself and my life in the first place.”

  “Yeah, I’m gettin’ that now,” he murmured through a wry smile.

  “Not like you to be so slow,” I teased, nipping at his lower lip.

  “No, so why don’t we rectify that right fuckin’ now,” he suggested.

  I shivered as he moved the hand on my neck down my back to trace the words he’d written on my skin as he spoke them to me.

  “She was a queen

  Raised to sit on a golden throne

  In a kingdom of crystal and ice

  * * *

  All I had to offer was my sword of smoke and world of gasoline

  With soldiers shielded by leather and coated in tatts

  * * *

  My currency was love and loyalty

  In a market that traded in diamonds and class

  * * *

  I would do anything to convince her

  That she might have been raised to sit on a golden throne

  But she belonged on the seat of iron with a crown of steel

  At my side.”

  * * *

  I was crying, my entire body moving like the sea with the force of my tremors, but I blinked away the wet so I wouldn’t miss a moment of seeing King’s handsome face broke open with love for me.

  “Cress, you’ve been my teacher, my lover, my best friend, and my Old Lady. Now, I’m askin’ you with everything I am to be my wife and Queen.”

  Words drowned in the tidal wave of emotion swamping my belly and throat. I felt almost sick with love, every particle and atom infected with absolute adoration. Dizzying, crying, swooning, I could only cling closer to the strong, beautiful body against me and breathe in the laundry clean, fresh cut grass scent of him.

  His hand found the back of my neck in that familiar possessive hold that anchored me to him, and his hot breath wafted over my ear as he burrowed his nose in my hair. “Takin’ that as a yes, Cress, babe.”

  I pulled my face out of his neck, tears streaming, cheeks flushed, hair tangled by the ocean breeze, as raw on the outside as I was internall
y. My hands framed his face, those strong planes, cut-glass cheekbones, and plush mouth I’d been immediately seduced by, and I dragged in a steadying breath so I could say what I needed to say and say it strong.

  “Not yes, King.” A smile tattooed itself between my cheeks in a way that felt permanent, as if the happiness of this moment would be worn on my face for eternity. “Fuck yeah.”

  I watched the light bright through the crust of his tundra blue eyes, absorbed the way they crinkled at the corners, how his pale pink mouth bloomed open into a smile that took my breath away, and then he was tipping his head back to the sky the way he did, throat strong and brown as it moved with his delighted laughter.

  He crushed me closer, his humour moving through me as profoundly as his proposal, and then he yelled, “Fuck yeah!” to the sky as if thanking God for shunning us from Eden so we could find this slice of our heaven on earth together.

  “Gonna be my wife,” he growled possessively, fisting that hand on my neck and tugging so I was pinned for his mouth to devour and feast at, slow, intense sweeps of his tongue against mine that left me boneless.

  My hands curled in his kinky, silken mass of hair, and I held on tight, along for the ride, always ready to follow King into whatever adventure moved his rebel soul.

  I’d been proposed to before, married for seven years to another man, and I’d never felt even a drop of the passion and overwhelming ardor I harboured for this young, vibrant man I was somehow lucky enough to call mine.

  “I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you,” I told him, mouths brushing, tongue swiping against the lush curve of his bottom lip. “And I’ll go on loving you forever.”

  “There’s no end to my love for you. It’s woven into the very fabric of my soul so even when our bodies die, we’ll still never stop lovin’.”

  King captured my sob between his lips and kissed me savagely, as if the ruthlessness of our love could eradicate any doubts or any obstacles that might ever cross our path. I tugged him closer still and moaned when he laid me gently on my back to press his weight between my legs. He propped himself up on a bulging forearm and trailed his hot hand between my breasts, over my quivering belly, to dip in the well between my legs and draw wet circles over my clit.

  “Gonna marry you,” he murmured, eyes glazed with desire as if he was memorized by the sight of me naked and laid out for him. “Gonna marry my girl, and then I’m going to plant my babies in you.”

  I moaned, neck arching as he pressed two fingers inside me, preparing me for the large cock lying hard and hot against my thigh.

  “Yes,” I hissed, clutching his iron shoulders, writhing against his hand. “God, King, please.”

  “Please what?” he teased cruelly, dipping down to press scalding, openmouthed kisses to my breasts. “What does my woman need?”

  “You, inside me,” I begged. Tugging at his big belt buckle, I dived beneath to undo his fly just enough so I could shove my hand down his pants, palm his dick, and give it a hard squeeze that made him groan.

  He moved over me, not taking off his jeans, just tugging out his mouth-watering dick so I could watch as he slotted against my damp center. He braced his forearms on either side of my head and played his fingers over my hair, just resting at my center, his eyes fired with love so tangible that my breath caught in my throat.

  “Could spend my life inside you and never get enough,” he admitted and then impaled me on a long, smooth stroke that made every inch of me quake. “Love this sweet, snug cunt.”

  “Yes,” I agreed as he started pumping slowly, achingly tender inside me. “Love the feel of you inside me.”

  And then we were just hushed, stuttering breath, jagged moans, and the soft, wet slide of flesh against damp flesh. The ocean air went warm between our arching bodies, skin steaming in the cold morning light. The sun finally burst over the edge of the horizon and doused us in champagne gold as if nature herself was blessing our union.

  A coil in the base of my belly twisted tighter, tension higher, until I felt taut as a wire held over a flame, about to fray apart.

  “Come for me,” King urged, face twisted into painful pleasure as he moved quicker, harder inside me, tugging my leg up and under his shoulder so I was utterly exposed to the ferocity of his movements. “You come for me, Cress, and I’ll come deep inside this tight pussy.”

  “Fuck,” I cried, back bowing as pleasure arrowed down my spine and burst through my tender sex, pulsing through so hard that tears leaked from my eyes, mumbled words of thanks and broken prayers tumbled from my slack mouth as I came and came and came for my King.

  “Mine, mine, mine,” he chanted on each thrust as he wrung every ounce of pleasure from me in search of his own. Fuck yeah, Cress, givin’ you my cum.”

  And then he groaned, head tipped back, throat exposed for me to nibble and suck on as his cock kicked inside me, and the hot flood of his cum warmed my insides. I held him close, felt the climax move through him like a tsunami, the tension before the flood, the devastation it wrought on his body until he was limp and satiated, damp and panting in my arms. He gave me his full weight, knowing I loved the gentle crush, and pressed lazy, easy kisses against my cheek. As we spiraled down from the heights of our pleasure, I felt conjoined with him, flesh fused, hearted tangled so tight I couldn’t dream of even an inch between our chests. I coveted the closeness because my whole life I’d yearned for someone to know me, the darkest corners of my sexed brain and morally ambiguous heart, the brightest echelons of my wisest thoughts and deepest dreams. There wasn’t a part of me this man didn’t love and to be so wholly consumed by someone as beautiful straight through to the soul as King was, was better than anything else.

  When he shifted to the side, I murmured in protest, half-asleep, half-drunk on the warming sunlight and the new satisfaction in my previously restless soul.

  He hushed me, reaching for his back, and then hauling me over his chest so that I could watch as he slid something onto the base of my left ring finger.

  I gaped at the huge emerald, square cut and regal between a frame of diamonds as clear as mirrors flashing in the sun.

  “Fallen colours for my Fallen girl,” he explained, kissing the ring before resting our tangled hands against his heart.

  “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

  “Nah, not really. But don’t care much for perfection, in general. Only gotta be perfect for you.”

  I rubbed my cheek into his sternum like a cat and arched under the hand that stroked down my back.

  “I didn’t realize how much I needed this,” I admitted. “Not that I wasn’t happy, but I was so ready to take the next step.”

  King made a grunting noise of distress. “Sorry, babe, it took me a beat to work my way around to it. Didn’t want you to feel like you were makin’ a mistake.”

  “How could you ever believe I’d think that?”

  “Worried, I guess. I’m Fallen now and don’t much like the thought of my woman with a husband in jail or dead.”

  And there it was, that secret sliver of insecurity that pierced King straight through to his heart. I blamed his evil mother for never loving him the way she should have, and it made me want to weep to know he’d bear those scars for life.

  “You’re not your mother or your father, King. Even if you don’t believe you’ll make good choices, I do. And I hope you know by now, I’ve grown into the type of woman who wouldn’t blink at visiting you in prison if I had to, that wouldn’t ever turn her back on you just because we decided on a life of freedom and rebellion. Remember, it was Eve who made the decision to leave Eden, not Adam.”

  He chuckled as he played with my hair between his fingers, watching the strands catch the light. “I form’d them free, and free they must remain,” I quoted from Paradise Lost.

  “Free together,” I agreed.

  “We have a girl first,” King told me. “Name her Eve.”

  My heart turned over in my chest at the beauty of that. “Okay.”
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  “Boy, it’s Lucien.”

  “Our little Satan?” I laughed.

  “Our little morning star,” he corrected.

  “I was thinking Prince,” I admitted. “I have a collector’s edition of The Prince at the shop I was waiting to give you when you were patched in. The art of manipulation should come in handy with all those alpha males you’ve gotta round up.”

  He laughed, forcing me to hang on to his chest so I wouldn’t fall off. “Prince, son of King. You know Zeus’ll love that.”

  I did. It was one of the reasons I loved it so much.

  “Okay, babe, Prince it is.”

  “I like Lucien too, though.”

  His grin was wicked as he rolled me back over and spread my legs, a hand sliding down to play in his cum as it leaked out of me. “Don’t worry, babe, gotta feelin’ we’ll have a fuckin’ baseball team of kids by the time I get tired of plantin’ my babies inside you.”

  I laughed as he kissed my neck, clutching him to me, accepting him into my body again and thinking with absolutely certainty that he was right.

  King

  * * *

  He timed it.

  The motherfucker.

  SS Danner timed the raid of the storehouse so it’d interfere with the opening of Cressida’s bookstore and all the brothers would be preoccupied, feel conflicted about leavin’ even when they found out.

  Only we weren’t conflicted because my woman wasn’t.

  “Go,” she said instantly when Zeus relayed the phone call from Gibson, explaining that the police had just pulled up to our storehouse outside Squamish. “Go and show that bastard how much smarter you are than him.”

  It was a big fuckin’ day for my woman. Paradise Found seemed like a symbol of all the growth she’d done and all’a the ways she’d flourished since she changed her life to live it free of her family’s expectations. The store was fuckin’ perfect from the bottom of the glossed floor to the waxed beams gleaming on the ceilin’, and it was finally time, after months of hard work, for Entrance to see exactly how special my Cress could be. This place wasn’t meant to be just a home for books, but for anyone with a sense of loss who needed to be found, whether that was in the pages of a book, a chat sittin’ on leather with friends, or talkin’ to Cress who could soothe a troubled soul better than a shot of whiskey or an hour with some fancy therapist. She had been talkin’ to one when I’d interrupted, a young guy who didn’t look down on his luck so much as up on my woman.