Lili Germain - Seven Sons

He pushes me down on the bed, hovering his cock between my thighs.

“You’re mine now,” he says, thrusting inside me with enough force to make me cry out. He immediately starts pumping in and out, hard and fast, and my brain does battle with my body. So many conflicting emotions are vying for my attention, I am completely and utterly overwhelmed.

Ohhhh .

I open my eyes to see him above me and am immediately a scared, bleeding fifteen-year-old girl again.

No . Don’t think about that. Pretend he’s someone else. Remember why you’re here.

And that delicious knowledge of my deceit stirs something carnal in my belly, a snaking kind of desire that coils around me and squeezes tightly. Yes. Better.

I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, the thrill of my treachery almost enough to make me orgasm on its own.

“That feels so good,” I moan, and he smirks because he thinks he is fucking me, when I am the one fucking him.

He is a skilled lover. I don’t have anyone to compare him to, other than my high-school sweetheart from Nebraska, but as he carries me to the brink of climax on a white-hot wave of pleasure and lies, I cannot help but scream.

Afterwards, we lie together, catching our breath. I look at him out of the corner of my eye to see him staring back.

“Where’ve you been my whole life, baby?” he asks, running his hands over my breasts and between my legs. His touch is everywhere, all over me, marking me as his, a possession that has been claimed.

I smile coyly. “In high school, probably,” I giggle.

“Hey, now,” he replies playfully. “Don’t tell me I gotta prove to you that age doesn’t matter?”

“I think you just did,” I breathe.

We lie there in silence for a few blessed moments. It gives me time to think. Time to plan.

Dornan’s voice strikes that silence, shattering my moment of refuge.

“I just have one question for you, baby girl.”

One question. Sounds easy. I turn to face him and nod in anticipation.

“Your ex. What was his name?”

It’s one teeny, tiny white lie. “Michael,” I say, my fake backstory flashing before my fake blue eyes. “Michael Trevine.”

He nods. “He’ll never hurt you again. Why won’t he hurt you again?”

I smile dreamily, imagining the look on his face when they put him in orange overalls and slam his jail cell shut forever. Maybe they’ll give him the death penalty.

They should.

“Because,” I say playfully, tracing his lips with my finger, “I’m yours?”

He just fucking laughs. “What have I done to deserve you?” he breathes.

Now I am the one who laughs.

I grew up next to the ocean. Until I was fifteen years old, I had no idea that some people could go an entire lifetime without ever seeing the sea.

And then, one night, I was forced to flee from it, ripped from its beauty forever.

I didn’t see a beach for six years. Landlocked and bitter, surrounded by dirt and storms and nightmares of Dornan Ross’s face.

So when I wake up, after barely sleeping, to see his unshaven face peering down at me, it is all I can do not to scream.

“Whoa,” he says, grinning like the cat that got the motherfucking cream. “Bad dream?”

I sit up, pushing the sheets off me to discover I am completely naked, my tattoo angry and red and burning. Elliot warned me about this. But instead of trying to avoid thinking about the pain, I relish it. The burn helps me to remember why I am here.

It makes me remember how good it feels to be alive.

“Good morning,” I say, rubbing my eyes. I lean back, letting my breasts jut out in full view so that he can see them. “Oh Jesus,” he says, groaning loudly. I can see the bulge in his pants. The man is literally ready to go any time of the day.

“Wish I could stay, baby girl,” he says, handing me a mug of hot black coffee. “But I gotta go run a job with my boys.”

“That’s okay,” I say, arranging the sheets around myself. “I’ve got to go and get this tattoo finished, anyway.”

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere,” he says. I almost choke on my coffee.

“P-pardon?” I ask, wiping coffee from my chin.

“Severe storm warning’s in place,” he says, shoving his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. “I’ve got about ten minutes before this motherfucking weather outside becomes damn near impossible to drive in. Lucky we weren’t planning to ride.”

“So, you want me to stay here?” I ask. “By myself?”

He drains his own coffee cup. “Nope. My son’s gonna be here. Jase. He’s staying behind with you.” He looks at me oddly for a moment, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “Besides, little runt is the only one of the lot that I’d trust to take care of your fine ass.” He leans closer and smiles conspiratorially. “I’m eighty percent sure he’s gay. Don’t tell anyone, though. Little fucker’d be beaten to death by his brothers if anyone else knew.”

Jase. Fuck.

I just smile vacantly, my mind going a million miles an hour. I’m essentially trapped, without a phone or a way out. I memorized Elliot’s number, but that doesn’t actually matter if I haven’t got a way of calling him. And I don’t want to raise any suspicions by making a big deal of contacting him.

I just pray he doesn’t get impatient and report me missing. Especially since, technically, I’m already dead.

“Okay,” I say brightly. “Where are you going?”

Dornan chuckles as he pulls his leather cut on over his black t-shirt. My throat gets tight as I see the club colors adorning the black leather, the President badge unmissable. It is exactly like the jacket my father used to wear.

“It’s a surprise, babe. You’ll see soon enough.”

A surprise. I wonder what the fuck that could possibly be. I have to strain forcibly to stop my eyes from rolling violently back into my head.

“I like your jacket,” I say softly. “It looks comfy.”

He puffs his chest out and studies himself in the mirror next to the bed. “I got it when I became president of this club,” he says, and something inside of me dies a little. So it is my father’s jacket.

“Get dressed,” Dornan says, still preening himself in front of the mirror. I obey, swinging my legs out of the bed. I find my bag next to the bed and select a new outfit – dark denim jeans and a white halter top that exposes my cleavage nicely. I pull on the jeans and halter, then make my way into the adjoining bathroom to apply some more mascara and fix my bed hair.

Ten minutes later, I am being paraded around in front of the club members who are still at the club. We are downstairs in the main room, which features lots of low-back leather couches, a fully-stocked bar that we stand in front of, and a small stage at one end. There are no windows, which makes me itch. I know why. Windows mean people can see inside. Windows mean people can shoot bullets through.

I look around, scanning the dozen or so guys and girls hanging off Dornan’s every nauseating word. I guess most people have decided to return home after the storm warning was issued. I tune in to what Dornan is saying as he’s finishing up.

“Nobody is to touch her,” he finishes. “She’s mine. You hear?”

I smile vacantly as a few guys jostle and wolf-whistle and a few slutty-looking girls look seethingly jealous as they look me up and down.

Dornan snaps his fingers and grabs my arm. “Come on,” he says. “Time for me to go.” I trot after him like an obedient puppy, taking in every detail I can about the place.

Some things have changed, and some have stayed exactly the same. Dornan is still an asshole – that definitely hasn’t changed.