Leather & Lark: The Ruinous Love Trilogy (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, 2)

I scan the audience.

But Lachlan is gone.

I don’t catch sight of his dark hair or his tattooed skin or that fucking smirk. I don’t know why, or how, or when it happened, but I need his teasing, cocky smile. Just like I need that soulful look in his eyes when he desperately wants to share but can’t bear to. Just like I need his growls and grumbles and the zombie grumpiness he can’t shake until he’s had his first coffee. But what I don’t need, what I can’t bear, is him disappearing. Was the vibrator thing too much? Did I cross a line? I thought he would find it sexy. But maybe …

I smile through the encore, because I’m good at that. I push every atom of hurt to the bottom of my guts where it burns. Then I wave and pack up my shit. I ask Kevin to look after my instruments until tomorrow, though I don’t say what’s on my mind. I don’t tell him that Lachlan—the man I finally called my husband out loud and meant it—has left me here.

He left me here.

I leave the stage before anyone can pull me aside, then jog down the hallway toward the backstage bathroom to cry my fucking eyes out.

The tears are streaking down my skin before I even make it to the door.

As soon as it’s closed behind me, I rest my forehead in my palms, lean my elbows on the counter, and fucking sob.

I want him. I want him so badly it’s a crushing ache. It’s as though my bones are folding in on themselves, breaking into splinters and shards. The more I see who Lachlan really is—all the things he does for the people he holds close—the more I want to be near him. I want to be part of his tight embrace. I thought I was.

I thought wrong.

“What is wrong with you?” I hiss as I press my eyes shut.

I’m trying to muster the strength to face my reflection when the door bursts open and crashes against the wall. I spin around and meet the incandescent eyes of my husband.

Lachlan fills the doorframe, sucking the energy from the room as though he’s made of dark matter. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I let out a watery laugh and flap a hand toward my face. “Crying, clearly. What the fuck are you doing?”

Every step Lachlan takes toward me is menacing. Predatory. And though my makeup is probably smeared down my cheeks and I think I lost another fake eyelash because why the fuck won’t they stay on around this man, I don’t back away.

Lachlan doesn’t stop until he’s looming over me, his eyes dark and filled with a vicious heat, but he doesn’t touch me when he says, “I was pacing in the dressing room, duchess. I was waiting for you so I could give you the keys to drive us home and then fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

Everything in my body grinds to a halt. Everything except my heart. It hammers my bones with a staccato rhythm until I’m sure the bruised organ will wedge its way between my ribs and tear free of my chest.

“I … well …” I take a step back, but Lachlan moves with me. Another step and my ass hits the bathroom counter. I square my shoulders and try to tilt my chin in defiance, but I feel too exposed to scramble into my armor. “Well … I … you …”

“You’re never at a loss for words, Lark Kane. Spit it out so I can say what I want to say.”

His eyes fixate on mine, lethally dark in the dim light. It’s like every cell in his body is trained on me. My stomach flips as he steps farther into my space, just enough that he grazes my body with his.

Dear God.

“You should have bat-signaled me,” I finally say.

There’s a brief, suspended moment where neither of us moves, and then Lachlan laughs—really laughs. The corners of his eyes crinkle with delight. “All right, you feckin’ catastrophe. Next time I’ll just use this instead of the phone, since you didn’t think to check your texts,” he says as he holds up the remote control.

“I left my phone in the dressing room.” I tear my attention from Lachlan’s unwavering stare and open the text notifications on my watch.

Dressing room. Now.

“Oh. That’s, um …”

Lachlan raises a single brow.

“Bossy.”

“Bossy,” he echoes.

I nod and try to resurrect my confidence. “But if you’re going to use the remote instead of the phone moving forward, you should probably test it. See if it still works.”

“I did test it. In front of an audience of what, three hundred—”

“Five hundred.”

“—five hundred people. My wife. On stage. Having an orgasm. In front of five hundred feckin’ people.”

My wife. The possessive edge in it cuts through my thoughts. Echoes in my head. Ricochets in my chest. I try to shrug it off and give him a haughty look, but those two words rattle around in my mind. “You’re the only one who noticed.”

“I doubt that very much, duchess.”

“And that bothers you?”

“You meant what you said in that song? That you forgive me?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Answer my question first.” Lachlan leans closer, his eyes never straying from mine. Every word is slow and distinct when he says, “Did. You. Mean. It?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

Lachlan eases back just a little and I try not to move with him even though my body is burning for his closeness, begging for his touch. His eyes break away from mine to drop down the length of me, from the sweat that dots my hairline to the tips of my boots and back again. When he meets my eyes, there’s fire and need and longing staring back at me.

“Does it bother me?” he says, returning to my question. “To see you on that stage and know I’m the one making you come and yet I can’t touch you?” Lachlan edges closer. He leans forward to cage me between his arms as he grips the counter, but he’s careful not to touch me. “Yes, it feckin’ bothers me, duchess. It bothers me very feckin’ much. In the best and worst of ways.”

I bite my lip and Lachlan watches the motion as though it’s the only thing he can see, like nothing else exists in the world except for that small display of need. “What are you going to do about it?” I whisper.

A slow, feral, ravenous smirk tugs at one corner of his lips as his eyes turn lightless, the color consumed by desire. He raises the remote clutched in his hand and turns it on. Even at its low setting, the vibration shocks my swollen clit.

“You’re going to show me that toy,” he commands, “and then you’ll find out.”

With a flash of motion, Lachlan lifts me by the waist and sets my ass on the bathroom counter.

We stare at each other. Lips parted. Breaths ragged. We’re separated by mere inches of air and thin layers of fabric and the determination to not be the first to bend so far they snap.

It’s Lachlan who makes the first move, Lachlan who slowly leans forward. Lachlan who bridges that gap to graze my cheek with his lips and summon shivers through my flesh, his plea a caress against my ear.

“Duchess,” he whispers. His voice is a lush, luxurious spell. “Show. Me.”

Lachlan pulls back just enough to solder his eyes to mine. He never breaks eye contact as he folds his hand around mine and guides it to the tulle that covers my legs. He curls my fingers into the fabric before he lets his hand drift away.

I take two shallow breaths and then bunch the fabric in my fist to drag it up my leg. The more fiercely the need burns in his eyes, the slower I move, drawing out both his torture and my own. The hem inches up my skin. Only once the edge skims Lachlan’s hand where it rests against my thigh does he look down. His thumb follows in the wake of the fabric. Tension radiates from his coiled muscles. I slow to a crawl of motion as the fabric climbs higher until it finally reaches the lace edge of my panties.

And then I stop.

Lachlan’s eyes snap to mine, dark with a dare. His thumb traces the hem. “Thought you didn’t like to wear these,” he says, his voice low and husky.

“Special circumstances.” I press my hand over his when he grips the edge of scalloped lace. “I want you,” I say before doubt can blossom in his thoughts. “You know things about me and my past that I don’t tell anyone.”

His face creases with pain. He takes a breath to reply, but I press my fingertips to his lips.

“Just don’t go thinking I want you to play nice.” A slow smile creeps across my lips. “I’m not your demure little duchess. I’m your fucking whore, understand?”

I slip my thumb into his mouth. Lachlan groans as he wraps his lips around my flesh and sucks. When I move to pull my thumb free he bites down, his teeth bared, his eyes hooded as he drinks in my reaction. I’m caught in the balance of pain and pleasure. The push and pull of power. Lachlan lets me go and turns up the vibration on the toy and I suck in a tremulous breath.

“Then lift that dress up and fucking prove it.” Lachlan leans closer. His fingers trace my thighs, spreading them wider without lifting the fabric that pools between them. His breath floods my face as his lips stop a thread’s width from mine. “Show me how soaked those goddamned panties are from coming on that stage in front of all those people. Show me how desperate you are to be fucked.”

My chest grazes his as I take a shallow breath. With my eyes fused to Lachlan’s, I lift the dress to my waist and lean back until my shoulders rest on the mirror where I feel the ridges of the leather harness against my spine.

Lachlan’s hands are gentle on my skin even though every other muscle seems coiled to strike. Tension radiates from his body. He takes one step away and holds my eyes for a moment that feels eternal before he finally drops his gaze to the apex of my thighs.

With one long, slow stroke of his thumb, he runs his touch across the damp fabric and the vibrating toy beneath it.

“Tell me,” I whisper as his thumb passes in another stroke.Content is © by NôvelDrama.Org.

His eyes are dark. Deadly. Merciless. “Tell you what? That you’re my fucking whore?”

“Yes.”

The vibration increases and I gasp as he presses the toy to my clit. “I didn’t lock the door, Lark. Someone could walk in here at any moment. Does that scare you?”

I shake my head and bite my lip and moan.

“Good, because any one of those assholes that watched you on that stage could walk in here and I don’t give a fuck. I won’t stop until you scream my fucking name so they know exactly whose whore you are.”

In a flash of motion, something metallic slides across my hip and my panties go slack. Lachlan tugs them away and with another slice of his knife they’re off completely. The toy is gone, and my feet hit the floor. He grips my waist and spins me to face the mirror. The blade he used falls into the sink as Lachlan wraps the panties around my throat but doesn’t tighten them, his eyes fused to my reflection.

With the vibrating toy clutched in his grip, Lachlan drags a knuckle down my cheek as the other hand holds the fabric around my neck. “Red means …?”

“Stop.”

“Orange means?”

“Slow down.”

“Green means?”

“Fuck me and fill me with your cum.”

Lachlan chuckles against my ear before he gives it a nip, letting his teeth rake across the flesh. “Only if you beg,” he whispers.

Please barely leaves my lips and he tightens the panties with a twist of his fist, then presses the toy to my clit with his other hand. The vibration skates across my nerves in slow circles and I roll my hips, seeking friction. The veins in my neck strain against the pressure of the fabric. My makeup is smeared in streaks beneath my eyes. But when I let out a low and husky moan and see Lachlan’s jaw clench with restrained desperation, I feel powerful. Beautiful. Like I can be the woman I want to be.

“More,” I whimper. “Please, more.”

Lachlan’s smile borders on menacing. He takes a long moment to answer me, pressing kisses and nips along my jaw. “Try again, duchess. And make it pretty.”

An ache to be filled clenches deep in my core as Lachlan kicks my feet out a little wider and rolls the toy across my sensitive nerves in long strokes. He doesn’t turn it up or make any moves to give me what I crave. But denial is its own reward.

“Lachlan, please, I need more. I need you,” I whisper. The panties tighten around my throat, just enough that I can breathe in a thin stream, but not without my skin flushing crimson. “I need to be filled with you.”

Lachlan leans close to my ear. He holds my eyes with an unwavering stare as every exhalation tickles my skin. “The first time I fuck my wife is not going to be in the bathroom of some bar. So if you want to be filled, you’d better use your imagination and come with what I give you.”

I whimper at the sudden need to leave with him, to go anywhere but here.

I’m disheveled. Desperate. Imperfect. But Lachlan looks at me in the mirror as though he sees through every tarnished layer, every broken mask. It’s the thought of going home with this man who always searches for the real woman beneath it all that propels me into action.

I press Lachlan’s hand over my clit. I grind my hips. I beg for him to tighten his grip over my throat. And then I come in blinding stars as Lachlan’s name tumbles from my lips, over and over, a chant that doesn’t stop until he’s wrung every moment of pleasure from my body. It washes through me but leaves a hum of need behind. It’s not enough. It won’t be until I feel his skin against mine and the weight of his body and the planes of muscle beneath my palms.

My head drops to my chest and Lachlan lets the fabric fall from my throat. The vibration of the toy lowers and then he turns it off. He wraps his arm across my waist and holds me close. I relish his heat, the languorous kisses he layers across my neck, the pressure of his muscle and bone against my trembling flesh.

The door creaks behind us and my eyes snap open to Xander’s wide-eyed reflection in the mirror.

“Get the fuck out,” Lachlan snarls as his arm tightens around me and he shelters my body with his. Xander disappears with a shocked apology, but Lachlan’s eyes stay fused to the door in a vicious glare. “I feckin’ hate that guy.”

“You don’t even know him.” Though I bite down on the edge of my grin, it erupts when Lachlan turns his fury to me. “Are you jealous?”

“Fuck off.”

“You are jealous.”

Lachlan’s deep sigh cools the beads of sweat on my neck.

“Let’s get out of here so I can prove you have no reason to be.” I turn in Lachlan’s arms and pull his glasses from his front pocket. Slowly, I slide them on and fluff up my hair as I give him a smirk. “How do they look?”

“Christ Jesus, why is that so hot?”

“Now imagine them paired with a corset and feathers.” My laugh is the freest it’s felt in a long while as Lachlan grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. I tug back, not ready to go yet desperate to leave. “Wait, Lachlan. I look like shit.”

Lachlan looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes warm. “You look beautiful, Lark.” When I still hesitate, he turns to face me fully and steps closer. He pulls the glasses from my face. Puts them on. Sees me clearly. He smiles and drags a thumb across one cheek, and then the other. “There. Less like tears. More intentional. See?”

He takes my shoulders and turns them until I meet my reflection. Maybe I still look a little crazy with my trash panda mask and flushed, freshly-fucked blush and my sweaty, wild hair. But he’s right. I look beautiful too.

With a swift kiss to my cheek, Lachlan takes my hand and resumes his campaign to pull me from the bathroom, his steps purposeful. “Now let’s get out of here. I meant what I said earlier about you driving us home so I can fuck you until you can’t walk.”

“Then let’s grab my stuff quickly,” I say before he can stride toward the back exit. “I’d rather not leave it with the band if I don’t have to.”

Lachlan groans but pivots to follow behind me as I lead the way to the stage. Xander looks up from where he packs up our equipment next to the far wall. He gives us a sheepish smile, and I motion to my cello and guitar to let him know I’ll be taking them.

“Can you carry that for me, please, Lachlan?” I ask with a nod to the guitar in the black case. Lachlan squeezes my shoulder and strides toward it, progress that Xander pretends not to watch with trepidation, though he fails. Lachlan mutters something to Xander I don’t hear. I try not to laugh as I lift my cello from the stand.

“A wonderful performance,” a voice says from behind me. Something about the accent is familiar. “The cello is my favorite instrument.”

I turn. It’s the man I met in Lachlan’s shop. “Mine too,” I reply. “Abe, right?”

“Yes, good memory.” Abe drops an appreciative glance to the instrument in my hands. “Been playing a long time?”

I nod before bending down to lower the cello into the case. “Since I was seven.”

“Seven,” he echoes. He squats to stay within my eyeline. “What a wonderful tool music is to escape from darkness. Don’t you agree? Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth. Break forth into joyous song and sing praises.”

My smile is polite, yet brittle. Abe scrutinizes me, but I’m not sure that he interprets my discomfort—or maybe he just ignores it. There’s a flatness in his eyes. A disconnect with his gentle smile.

Abe passes me the bow. He holds on when I grip the frog, waiting for me to meet his eyes. That smile returns, void of light. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Montague. Thank you for the inspiration.”

He lets go of the bow.

By the time I set it in the case and Lachlan joins by my side, Abe is already gone.