She still wanted him. Still needed him. And there was something about that connection that filled him out in a way he’d been previously deflated.
And it was time to return the favor. With a growl, he launched himself at her, taking her down to the hardwood, kissing her and tasting himself as he tore off her slacks, shoved his leathers to mid-thigh, and got her to straddle him while he rolled over onto his back.
Mary sat down hard on his cock and both of them cried out. Then she leaned forward, propped her hands next to his head, and began pumping her pelvis, his erection going in and out of her sex, their bodies slapping together, Rhage’s eyes latching onto her as she stared back at him with a combination of fierce determination and utter adoration.
She still had her coat on. The thing was flapping around her, and though he would have loved to see her breasts and her neck, her stomach, her sex, he was too caught up to be any kind of coordinated with his hands and his thoughts.
It was just really fucking awesome to be wanted like this. Ridden like this. Taken like this.
They came at the same time, their hips racking and thrashing, until he somehow ended up rolling her over and mounting her from on top. Thank fuck for that jacket of hers and the cushioning it offered, as it turned out. Grabbing onto one of her ankles, he cranked her leg to her shoulders and went in deep, hingeing his pelvis freely as he banged her across the bare floor of the pantry until they got crammed in the corner. With a growl, he arched up, held on to the lip of the counter, and got even more leverage.
And the sex just kept going.
And going.
And going . . .
THIRTY-FIVE
As dawn threatened in the East, and the peachy light cast by that unrelenting fireball in the heavens gathered into a thin line at the horizon, Zypher stood by the burned-out shell of a car in one of Caldwell’s back alleys.
All around him, the Band of Bastards had gathered, their bodies tense and twitchy, their weapons holstered, but their hands at the ready.
Balthazar spoke up. “This was his last coordinate.”
Yes, Zypher thought, they all knew that. Indeed, they had started here at nightfall the evening before, after Xcor had not returned to their new headquarters—which now had to be abandoned. Clearly, their leader had been injured severely in a fight, whether it was here or at some other locale, and one could only assume that he and his phone had been taken into custody either by the Lessening Society or the Black Dagger Brotherhood.
Aye, there was a possibility that he had been wounded and had dragged himself unto some discreet cover for a period of time, only to expire either of natural causes or from sun exposure, his phone going up in smoke with him or being stolen from out of his dead hand—but considering the foes they were facing, it was unwise to rely on such a premise.
Better to assume capture. Torture. And possible information exchange.
“He would not want a memorial,” Zypher blurted.
“Aye,” somebody agreed. “And he must have entered the Fade in quite a lather.”
There was a grumble of laughter—but Zypher wondered if their leader, or any of them, would be granted access to that heavenly sanctuary. For their ill deeds, surely they would be turned away? Sent unto Dhund, the Omega’s evil playground of eternity?
Either way, as they stood around, he decided that the alley seemed a proper place for this gathering of mourning, the remnants of the old car a fitting grave marker, the lack of specifics an appropriate closing to Xcor’s life. After all, although Zypher had worked with the male against the lessers for centuries, he could not say that he had e’er truly known his fellow fighter.
Well . . . that was not entirely true. He had been well-versed in their leader’s cruelty and calculation, both in the war camp and then later, as they had been travelers with temporary housing, and later still, when they had settled in their castle fortification in the Old Country.
And there had been that one private moment, after Xcor had stabbed Throe—and punished himself for it.
“What do we do now?” Balthazar asked.
After a moment of silence, Zypher realized they were all looking at him.
He wished they had a body. The course would be clearer, then. At the moment, even with all circumstantial evidence pointing them in a certain direction, taking control of the group felt like insubordination.
But there was naught else to do.
Zypher scrubbed his face with his gloved hand. “We must assume our base has been compromised, or soon will be. We must also destroy all cellular devices. Then we will wait a given period of time—before we shall return unto the Old Country. There is a life worth living o’er there.”
The castle still stood and remained in their names.
But money. They needed money.
Shit.
“What if he attempts to reach us?” Balthazar asked. “If we do away with our phones, how will he find us?”
“If he has survived, he will locate us.”
Leaning to the side, Zypher glanced between two buildings. That glow of dawn was e’er increasing, and if they waited too much longer, they were going to follow a similar fate as this vehicle. As mayhap Xcor himself.
“Let us proceed back to—” He frowned. “No. We shall not go back there.”
He wouldn’t put it past the Brotherhood to wage an ambush inside the farmhouse even in broad daylight—and not because those males were reckless, but rather because they were that deadly. And if slayers were who had gotten Xcor? Then such an attack was even more a possibility.
Glancing around, he focused on a nearby door. The building it opened into was abandoned, going by the boarded-up windows and the CONDEMNED sign plastered on its brick.