Page 16 of Man of Lies (Vendetta Kings #2)

Chapter Sixteen

MASON

This was happening. Finally.

The Dead End had never felt this quiet. Even when I rolled off the borrowed cot at the crack of dawn, shaking off a few restless hours of sleep, there was always something to fill the silence: a garbage truck rattling the dumpster, the rumble of hungover bikers, or some sorry chump puking in the parking lot.

But tonight, the lot was empty, no idling engines or drunken laughter bleeding through the back door. Just the whine of cicadas in the grass and the hum of power lines overhead, buzzing like static in my ears.

I followed Silas up the back steps. The dark was so thick I couldn't even see my own hands, so I followed the sound of rotting wooden steps creaking beneath his boots. A single door waited at the top, cheap and weathered and peeling in strips, but the lock was solid and expensive. Not the kind of hardware people installed unless they had something worth protecting.

Silas slipped a key into the deadbolt and glanced back at me, eyes catching what little light there was, like he was checking to see if I'd changed my mind.

I hadn't.

The apartment wasn't much bigger than my bedroom, but what struck me wasn't the size. It was the emptiness; not the kind that came from laziness or indifference, but the kind that said: don't get attached. The man who lived here hadn't put down roots. He hadn't even tried.

The walls were so bare, I couldn't find a single bent nail or sun-faded outline where a picture might've hung. A two-top table huddled against the wall in one corner, smaller than the desk I'd used in high school. The kitchenette was stripped to the studs and equipped with nothing but a coffee maker, a microwave, and a mini fridge that looked like the place where takeout containers went to die. No dishes. No scent of food or spice. No sign of a life in motion—just the hollow stillness of someone who never meant to stay.

I turned a slow circle, taking it all in. "You move in straight from lockup? Because this place has all the personality of a goddamn holding cell."

Silas snorted and tossed his keys onto the table with a metallic clatter. "Yeah, actually."

That gave me pause. I hadn't expected him to admit it so easily.

"You never mentioned what you were in for," I said, keeping my tone casual, like I wasn't tracking every detail.

Silas took his sweet time answering. He shucked off his riding jacket and tossed it over the back of one of the dining chairs, slinging the scent of smoke and leather with it. Then he peeled off his gloves, working the fingers loose one by one, and dropped them beside his keys. The veins in his forearms stood out in stark relief as he leaned into the chair, weight braced on his arms, head bowed like he was giving the truth a moment to settle.

"Armed robbery," he said finally.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I wasn't sure what I'd expected, but it wasn't that. No matter how I looked at it, it didn't suit. Silas was reckless, yes, and he didn't shy away from violence. But he wasn't chaotic, and he wasn't greedy. He played the long game. Nothing about him suggested the kind of desperation that came with pulling a weapon and demanding cash. My instincts, the same ones that kept me one step ahead in court, were sounding alarms.

I crossed my arms and waited, giving him room to elaborate. Over the years, I'd learned that silence was its own form of pressure. People rushed to fill it. I'd been reading moods since I was a kid, learning when it was safe to speak, prudent to stay quiet, and when the only choice to survive was to lie. Those skills had shaped me and turned me into someone who could see straight through most people.

But not Silas.

He met my gaze without blinking. His expression was smooth and untroubled. Free of any sign of guilt.

"Who did you rob?" I asked, carefully. Not because I thought he'd answer—but because I needed to know how far he'd take the lie.

"You forgetting the rules already, counselor?" His eyes narrowed, and he moved toward me, crowding into my space until I had no choice but to tip my head back to meet his gaze. "What's it gonna be, slick? You want to play twenty questions…or you want to fuck?"

I held my ground, but my pulse tripped. It always did around him. I could rationalize a hundred decisions in a courtroom, but I'd never found a defense against the way Silas looked at me. Or the way he moved. And when he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth, unhurried motion? All bets were off.

The man was cut from solid muscle, broad and robust in a way that came from more than just a bench press. It was the kind of strength built from years of real work and real fights, carved into him by a life I knew too little about. The elastic that tied his ponytail caught on his collar and snapped, and all that thick, dark hair cascaded down his back in a glossy sheet. He didn't run a hand through it or fix it. He just stood there, bare-chested and confident, letting me have my moment.

And damn , did I take it.

I stared like he was mine to stare at.

"God," I breathed, dry-mouthed and aching. "You're too good for this town."

I grabbed his belt, fingers curling into the worn leather, and yanked him toward me. He came without resistance, smirking like he'd seen it coming. Our mouths collided, and he caught me by the back of the neck, instantly taking control.

Somewhere in the tangle of breath and teeth and tongue, I dropped to my knees. Whether I volunteered or he put me there, I didn't know—and didn't care.

"Right where you belong," he growled, looking down at me with those dark eyes. He tipped my chin up with one finger, firm but careful. His free hand went straight to his belt, unfastening the buckle with practiced ease.

A shudder rolled through me as I fought with the button of his jeans, chasing that praise. I hated how he exposed me, how effortlessly he understood what I needed. But I couldn't fight it anymore. Not after weeks of restraint and second-guessing and pretending I could live without this.

I dragged his jeans down just far enough to free him—and Jesus, I'd forgotten how glorious he was: thick, flushed, and already slick at the tip. My mouth actually watered.

"You look so good like this," Silas rumbled, sliding his thumb down my cheek and skimming it over my mouth, pressing just enough to part my lips.

I licked his thumb first, then the head of his cock, before opening up and swallowing him inch by inch. He threw his head back and groaned, burying his fingers in my hair and holding me where he wanted. I took my time, mapping every ridge, reveling in the weight against my tongue and the way his breath hitched every time I convulsively swallowed.

When the muscles in his thighs jumped beneath my palms, I knew he was getting close. But just as I hollowed my cheeks to finish the job, he hissed and pulled back.

A choked whine escaped before I could stop it. I swiped my mouth with the back of my hand, still catching my breath, when his fingers caught my jaw and tilted my face up.

His eyes were burning.

"Get on the bed," he said, all smoke and sin.

It wasn't a request—and fuck me, I obeyed. I stripped on the way to the bed, yanking my clothes off like they'd started to burn, especially once I caught the sound of his boots crossing the floor behind me.

The mattress dipped as he followed, warm and solid as a brick wall. Wordlessly, he reached past me, yanked open the nightstand drawer, and tossed a foil and bottle of lube onto the sheets. Then his weight returned, blanketing me in a slow, inexorable press that drove me to my elbows.

"Just like that," he murmured, punctuating his words with a sharp bite at the nape of my neck. His hands bracketed my hips, lifting me onto my knees and adjusting me the way he wanted. One palm pressed into the small of my back, steadying me, while he spread me open with the other. I hadn't noticed him open the bottle, but his fingers were already slippery, coaxing me open with gentle circles.

"Look at you," he whispered, low and reverent. "Opening up for me so easily. You trust me to take care of you, don't you, baby?"

I dropped my forehead to the mattress and squeezed my eyes shut. But hiding wouldn't save me from the truth. "Don't make me say it," I muttered. "You already know."

He laughed, deep and pleased and indulgent, and the sound warmed me from the inside out. "That's my boy."

God help me, it felt like a reward.

Silas didn't rush. He moved with the devastating control of a man who already knew exactly how this would play out. Nothing like the hurried, forgettable encounters I'd forced myself to settle for. This felt different. It shouldn't, but it felt like it mattered.

I didn't want to obey him. Not really. I never wanted to obey anyone. But my body betrayed me, trembling with anticipation, desperate for what only he seemed to know how to give.

"See?" His breath was hot in my ear. "Told you I knew what you needed."

I heard the tear of foil, the slick sound of lube—and then he was there, thigh to thigh, fitting himself against me.

"Deep breath," he warned, kissing between my shoulder blades. He dragged his teeth across my skin and then bit down, just hard enough to pull my focus to the flash of pain and not the slow, stretching burn of his cock pressing inside.

"Fuck," I cursed through clenched teeth, twisting the sheets around my fingers.

He was so big it should've hurt, but he was taking his time, working himself into me inch by excruciating inch. He went still once he was fully seated, letting me sink into the heat and fullness.

"You're goddamn perfect, you know that?"

I hung my head, breathing hard while I adjusted to the unbearable ache. "You gonna move," I panted, "or just sit there talking about it?"

A sharp slap landed across my ass, sending a crack of pain and pleasure blooming through me.

"You don't give the orders here," he rasped. "You take them. You take everything I give you."

And then he slammed into me; one deep, punishing thrust that knocked the breath out of my lungs. The second one sent a shockwave rolling through my belly. A broken sound wrenched from my throat, and I dropped to my forearms, forced to brace myself or get wrecked.

Silas laughed, and I felt him shift, adjusting his grip to flip me onto my back.

"Whoa." Panic flared, and I twisted, grabbing the edge of the mattress for leverage. "L-like this," I panted. "We stay like this."

"Ah." He caught on instantly. He slowed, partially withdrawing, teasing me with a series of shallow thrusts that left me gasping. "That's what this is about, huh? You figure if you're not looking at me, you can still be in control. Keep me out of that head of yours."

That hit too close, but I gritted my teeth, breathing hard, refusing to admit he was right.

Silas sighed and smoothed a hand down my spine with a deceptively gentle touch. "You really that scared to look me in the eye?"

"I don't scare easy, McKenna," I ground out. The words came out like gravel, and the crack at the end gave me away.

"Prove it."

I didn't get the chance. Before I could reply, his hands locked around my hips, and in one clean motion, he flipped me. My back hit the mattress hard enough to knock the wind from my lungs, splaying me out beneath him.

He followed me down, slotting between my thighs and covering me with the full weight of his body. My hands flew to his arms, gripping solid muscle, biceps and forearms like rebar—but I wasn't trying to push him away. I was holding on. Bracing for the fall.

He propped himself up on one arm, the other catching my chin and tipping it up until I had no choice but to look at him.

"Now," he said, low and patient, "look me in the eye and tell me you're still in control."

I stared up at him, wide-eyed, caught between fight and surrender. But I didn't answer. I couldn't, not with him looking down at me like he saw right through me. He understood every reason I should have pushed him off…and he was just waiting for me to realize none of them mattered.

"That's it," he murmured, searching my expression, soaking up my surrender. "You came to me for a reason, angel. Now let go. Take what you need."

Then he thrust back into me, rough and deep—and I shattered. A strangled sound tore from my throat, and I arched like a bow beneath him. His hand slid beneath the curve of my back to support my spine, cradling me as he set a relentless, punishing rhythm.

The room was filled with the sounds of sex: the sharp slap of skin, the creak of the bed, the ragged, breathless moans I couldn't bite back. Fuck. I'd spent my whole life keeping myself in check, five steps ahead of everyone else. It kept me safe. But I wasn't safe now. Silas had torn through my barriers like they were made of tissue paper.

I'd never even consciously handed him the power. He'd taken it, piece by piece, stripping away the me everyone else saw and replacing it with him. He filled every hollow place I'd never let anyone touch, invading my body, my blood, my lungs, until I breathed him out with every exhale.

It terrified me how much I wanted this—how much I wanted him.

My body wasn't my own anymore. It belonged to him. He commanded me, working me open, unraveling me like I was his to do with as he pleased.

Maybe I was.

Maybe I wanted to be.

His hand dragged up my chest and curled around my throat. Not squeezing. Just a solid, grounding weight. A reminder of who was in control.

A broken noise ripped from my throat.

"That's it," he purred, low and filthy, reading the surrender in my face. "Knew you'd figure it out eventually. Go on. Come for me, angel."

God help me, that's all it took. Pleasure detonated behind my eyes. My spine bent, every muscle locked tight as I rode the razor-edge of release, caught between pain and bliss with nowhere to run.

"Silas—" I gasped, helpless and pleading.

"I've got you, baby."

He thrust so deep I swore I could feel it in my stomach. One hand slid down my heaving stomach to grasp my spurting cock, pumping me through my climax. I slung one arm around his shoulders and bit down on the curve of his shoulder to muffle my cries—but they still ripped out of me, drowning out the deep, guttural groan that tore from his chest. One final, brutal snap of his hips, and he came too.

For a long time, neither of us moved.

His ragged breath gusted hotly against the side of my neck. He was heavy, but it felt so good sprawled beneath him, limp and boneless and safe. A wall between me and the rest of the world.

I should've moved. I needed to push him off and get cleaned up. Anything to put some distance between us. But instead, I turned my face to his throat and breathed him in, the scent of sweat and sex and leather.

Everything I wasn't supposed to want.

Humming lazily, he nudged my face with the bridge of his nose and kissed me gently as rain. "You're staying here tonight," he said fiercely.

It wasn't a suggestion.

It was a bad idea, but with his body still locked with mine and the scent of sex heavy in the sheets, I could barely manage a token protest. The air was thick with intimacy that I'd spent a lifetime avoiding.

"I've got work in the morning," I said, but even I could hear the lack of conviction in it.

"It can wait." He propped himself on his elbows to get a good look at me, as serious as I'd ever seen him. "The world won't end if you stop propping it up for a day."

"It'll damn sure get heavier," I scoffed.

"Then let it," he said, eyes locked on mine. "God knows when we'll get this chance again. Take it."

It went against my very nature. Everything in me was hardwired to keep moving, to control all the variables. Ben wasn't safe, the foster program needed too much work, and Dominic needed constant legal advice. There wasn't enough time to rest. But Silas's warmth was already crawling into my bones, and for once, giving in didn't feel like failure.

It felt like permission.

"Fine," I muttered grudgingly. "But just this once."

His stubble scraped my cheek when he smiled. "We'll see about that."