Roman's Redemption: Roman: Book II (Roman's Trilogy) (14 page)

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I don’t know much when it comes to Roman, but I can say without a modicum of doubt that my husband is starved for me. I can only hope he remembers my words as his hunger wages and consumes my body and soul like a man who has gone stark raving mad.

He holds nothing back, bringing me to the brink of ecstasy time and time again with his mouth and hands before finally allowing me to begin the descent. Leaving my skin flushed and damp, my hair in ringlets around my face and neck from the humidity and sweat and my muscles quivering in jerky trembles. I gasp, trying to swallow the dry lump in my throat, shaking my head back and forth as Roman’s blunt nails rake up my sweat soaked skin until they drive into the hair at the nape of my neck, tightening their grasp, and wrenching my head back, as his teeth sink into my shoulder.

His lips kiss, his tongue laves, and his teeth nip their way from my collarbone along my jaw to behind my ear before his husky voice growls a plea, “Mouse, your window of opportunity is closing—“ His cock slides against my drenched core, back and forth as his warm hands fumble from my tangled hair to cup my heavy breasts.

I cup his face in my hands and pull him up from my cleavage until we’re nose to nose. I smile before closing my eyes and kissing him with everything I have in me, muttering against his lips, “Please, Roman, please.”

My nails graze over the warm skin covering his ribs as I run my fingertips up his abdomen before gripping his hard tattooed shoulders. His movements are rough, his fingers dig, bruising my thighs as he yanks me to the edge of his desk by my hips before nudging his forehead, matted with sweat soaked silky hair, into the crook of my neck. His warm breath causes goose bumps to raise across my arms and chest and my nipples harden painfully. I feel the rigid muscles along the sides of his torso flinch before the head of his cock stops sliding through my wetness and aligns at my entrance. Once he’s eased as far in as possible we both release a long held sigh.

My hands grip, fingertips biting into both of his biceps and when I feel them trembling as I try to circle his waist and use my ankles for leverage to rock against him, I realize we’re both shaking. I chuckle, blushing like a fool.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels it.”

His cerulean, sapphire blue eyes flick down to mine, and his boyish smirk reveals his rarely seen dimples, “We’ve only just begun, and already we’re trembling like baby giraffes, yeah?” He chuckles before pulling almost completely out and slowly sinking back in, pulling a whimpering moan of pleasure from me. I arch my neck and back in an effort to meet his movements and sync my quivering body to our rhythm.

My ankles hook around his neck as his hands pin my wrists above my head and his warm breath whispers through the damp hair around my ear. His voice growls with his increasing thrusts, “Like this, baby? Hmmm? This slow enough, mouse?”

“Yeah,” I whimper, struggling already for reasons unknown against an oncoming avalanche that will drag me down before blotting out any rational thought or concept where Roman William Payne is concerned.

“Do you know how fucking crazy you make me? Huh?” His left hand encircles my throat and tightens as his thrusting quickens, slamming into me so much it hurts, but at the same time it feels so fucking good.

“
OPEN YOUR GODDAMN EYES AND LOOK AT ME, HEATHER
!” I hear the wood of his desk groan before the legs screech, scratching their way across the hardwood floor. I realize his thrusting has become so fierce, it’s shoving the desk from one side of the room to the other. My eyes snap open, pinning his with mine when I feel the massive desk crash against the wall once fifteen feet opposite it.

Then it happens. Just as it always has with Roman.

Do I love my husband? Yes.

Is he a saint? No.

Is he Lucifer’s Belial? Quite possibly.

Has he hurt me? Destroyed me? Pushed me past the brink of sanity? Mocked me, frightened me, tortured me? Bullied me and transformed me from the woman I was, into a woman who I’m grateful my parents aren’t alive to witness the debacle she’s allowed her life to become while upholding her Taurus sign, bullishly and stubbornly throwing away not only her pride and dignity, but her life as well?

God yes, he fucking has.

Now, do I hate my husband? Every single moment I’m awake.

But not right fucking now.

Not when he rests his forehead against mine, and his sweat-drenched, black hair sticks to both of our sweaty foreheads as his sapphire blue eyes burn into my brown ones.

Not when every muscle in his body seizes, going rigid as I feel his jaw tense against my cheek while his warm come spills inside me.

Not when I see the telltale tears soak his inky black lashes before mixing with the sweat beading and running down his face as his eyes look back and forth between mine.

And not when his coarse voice delivers the words I’ve longed to hear, “Bloody fucking hell. Goddamn it, Heather, I love you so much more than I thought was possible.”

And then it happens, this thing, it just happens…it causes hope to bloom and like a fool, I laugh at what my mind is screaming, warning my heart. I spit in the faces of our fate. I scoff, mocking the notion that history repeats itself.

And after I convulse around him, I giggle before releasing a sigh and letting my sanity slip from my fingers. Diving head first into something women across the world would chastise me for, and arrogantly parrot ‘I told you, so' in my face. It’s possible my world will collapse around me like the fickle, shaky house of cards I already know my future’s foundation is built upon.

From behind my closed eyelids the bright sun in the room pulls me from unconsciousness and my slurred words are muttered at Rome into my pillow, “Baby, Seriously? Please close the damn drapes,” I laugh under the covers I pull up over my head, “Rome, what the hell? It can’t be seven am, you know I’m a late sleeper…”

Dolores’ voice shatters my playful banter instantly. “It’s eight thirty. And Mr. Payne and Ms. Ivy are having breakfast in the kitchen, child. Don’t you want to join them?”

I bolt upright in bed and when my eyes land on Dolores standing at the foot of the bed, I feel Mace pushing for control merely half a second before I’m being shoved to the dark recesses of mind, blinking as the bars slam in my face at Mace’s retreating back.

No. No. No. No. No.

“NO! This is my life, NOT yours! I will not let you come and go as you want. Roman is MY husband. Winter Ivy is MY daughter! I don’t need you anymore, Mace.”

She smirks over her shoulder,
“Oh, sweetheart. You wouldn’t be here, alive, much less mentally sound without ME. The second you bowed to my presence in France, you sold your soul and your happiness, to me. So, no, this is OUR life. Roman is OUR husband. And Winter Ivy is OUR daughter. Now shut your fucking mouth, while I go take care of YOUR messes.”

“Messes? What messes? Everything is perfect. EVERYTHING IS PERFECT! Roman and I are finally on the same page! My daughter and I are finally where mother and daughter are supposed to be! Mace! Stop it! Fucking stop—“

I don’t even hear my own voice being spoken anymore. My world is shrouded in the black nothingness, the same black nothingness I stumbled around in for two years. But with sound and sight, goes my drive, my will, my need to right any more wrongs, and my fire for life flickers out.

Why even try to care about anything when Mace will always hold more power over us than me.

If I can’t fight her, then what am I even here for?

Look, if you’re just gonna scoff and get your damn panties in a twist over the way I’m handling this, you can take your panties, and your scoffing, and go fuck yourself. Until you have been where I have, until you have suffered for something you didn’t do, for the sake of someone else, I see no merit, or ground for your judgments.

This may be Heather Mackenzie’s life, but it’s also mine.

She may have everything seemingly fixed. But I still can sense things that have the potential and the power to rip Mac’s ‘perfect fixed everything’ to fucking shreds, leaving her and I with the tattered remains of what we could have had, had she kept her dim witted mind on the game and not the far placed prize.

Dolores’ words reverberate through every cell within me, “
And Mr. Payne and Ms. Ivy are having breakfast in the kitchen, child.”

Flags. Alarms. Warnings are flying up at her statement. Is it her voice? Her tone? Her words?

Whatever it was, as soon as it grated across my conscious it sent me reeling back to the forefront.

The difference between Mac and I is, Mac’s Hell was run by another brand of Satan. One whom she both loved and feared. Roman.

My Hell was run by the brand of Satan we’re all made aware of from the beginning of our realization of good and evil. He doesn’t hide behind masks or smiles, he doesn’t lie and act behind the curtains of sanity, much less society. I hate him to the core of my non existence, but I have not once feared him.

Mac’s enemy is a fight between her heart and mind.

My enemy is public enemy number one and has been since the book of Genesis. 

Chapter 20

As I look around the second floor of the hostel I paid for three weeks ago in Armenia, I realize I’ve become the man I’ve loved and hated, envied and admired, my entire life.

Amy, the whore who’s been with me from the moment I first pulled up to this cold, dilapidated hostel, remains shackled to the far left wall. Had I been paying attention, I would be able to tell you whether or not the rigor mortis set in late last night or early this morning.

A part of me, a very small part, wishes I would have paid attention. Amy was the only one out of all of them who was able to withhold my attention and erection for the very small window of time I was actually able to penetrate any of them.

Shambles. What stares back at me is a plethora of seedy shambles. Shambles of women. A chaos of body fluids and parts, littered atop broken furniture and stained surfaces.

The newest conquest, Julie, is draped across the bed, her wrists and ankles still bound to the four posts. It’s now extremely apparent, I indeed did not translate the instructions properly while using the Judas Cradle. Be it the subpar translators or the amount of drugs in my system early this morning, it’s obvious by the awkward position of her lower torso hanging over the foot of the bed, separated from the rest of her, it may not have been used as its intended apparatus purpose.

However, it’s all technicalities in the end, right?

On the floor to the left of the two twin mattresses shoved together, Candy and Calypso are still bound front to front, ankles to wrists, but the head hanging between both sets of thighs no longer breathes. If memory serves me correctly, their demise occurred days ago.

Well, either my memory or the horrendous smell emitting from the two of them.

My breath freezes in my lungs when I spot a woman huddling in the darkest corner of the room beside the door.

The last living soul left in this room aside from myself is hiding beneath Jackie, the single brunette of my original entourage of six, literal crack whores I obtained from dark alleys and seedy bars almost a week ago.