Page 16 of Riot’s Thorn (Sons of Erebus: Reno, NV #4)

CHAPTER NINE

PARKER

O h, god. He’s masturbating . And is that. . .? Oh, god, he’s pierced. Silver balls circle the head of his penis and gleam as his fist strokes up and down. His grip is tight, almost painful-looking, but there’s not a hint of discomfort in his expression. He’s definitely enjoying himself.

My brain screams at me to turn and run back to the bathroom, locking the door behind me, but my feet are cemented.

He’s naked save for the boxer briefs pulled down to just under his ass, exposing his balls that are drawn tight and resting on top of the cotton fabric.

But it’s his dick I can’t stop looking at.

Besides the piercings, it’s thick and veined, with a prominent crown that glistens with pre-cum.

How would it feel to touch him there? To put my mouth on him?

He paused his stroking for a brief second when he first spotted me, but I think he takes the fact I didn’t scream and run as consent to continue. Is it? Why am I still here?

The hand that’s not strangling his manhood rubs across his chest, and I see more piercings, one through each of his nipples. I’d always considered unconventional body modifications to be unattractive and trashy, but standing here in front of this man, I can assure you, they’re sexy as hell.

His panting breaths and the slick sound of each stroke sound through the room, and I’m certain he’s about to come.

I meet his gaze but quickly look away. Staring into his eyes feels more intimate than watching the mesmerizing way the muscles in his abdomen tighten into distinct ripples and the movement of his hand as it increases its pace.

“Fuck,” he groans, stretching out the word as he grips his cock tight and squeezes, milking himself. Ropes of white cum shoot up his abdomen and chest, pooling between his pecs and abdominal walls.

The sudden silence in the room breaks the trance, and the reality of the situation slams into me like a ton of bricks. Oh, god. What did I just do? My cheeks heat, and I dart into the bathroom in shame. Slamming the door, I sink to the tiled floor and hold my head in my hands.

Shit. Shit. Shit. How embarrassing. I just stood there and watched him like a creeper. Each time I think this situation can’t get worse, I’m proven wrong. I can’t even blame him this time. Nope, this was all me.

But I’ve never seen a man do that in real life, and it was so much more arousing than the few times I watched porn. I’m ashamed to admit my panties are soaked and my sex is aching. It wouldn’t take much to get me to come—just a couple swipes over my clit, and I’m certain I’d explode.

I jump to my feet, pacing. No, I can’t do that. He’d know, and things were already going to be uncomfortable between us. My face flames just thinking about getting into bed next to him after that. The urge to flee this house reaches all-new heights, but I’m trapped. There’s no way out.

I huff. Come to think of it, the only reason I’m here is because he won’t let me leave. That means nothing that happens while I’m here is my fault. I can’t help that there’s only one bedroom, and besides, he’s the one who decided to whip his junk out, knowing I’d be right back.

Right now, I need to put my big girl panties on and go out there with my head held high. It wasn’t my fault I saw him in a compromising position. He should’ve shut the door if he wanted privacy.

Standing tall, I leave the bathroom and reenter the bedroom to find Riot on his back, the covers pulled up to his hips, leaving his chest on display.

One hand is under his head, the other resting on his stomach, and he’s staring at the ceiling.

I flip the light off and crawl into bed, turning away from him and teetering on the edge of the mattress.

The process is too domestic for a captor and captee.

“I’d appreciate it if you were more discreet with your private time,” I say, my voice strong and confident, even though I’m dying inside.

“Why?” he asks, and I don’t think he’s being sarcastic. The question sounds genuine.

“Because I don’t want to see it.”

“You didn’t tell me to stop.”

“I wasn’t expecting it. I was shocked.” I defend myself, even though I don’t think he’s accusing me of anything.

“I couldn’t tell. Your expression was confusing to me.”

I laugh humorlessly. “Maybe you’re the one who needs glasses.”

“I don’t. My vision is perfect.”

“Yeah, well, next time I’ll make it perfectly clear.”

It’s quiet for a minute before he says, “I liked you watching me.”

A slight thrill runs through me, and I shake it away. Is it too early for Stockholm Syndrome to set in? Because I can’t think of another reason why that does something for me.

“I’m not your girlfriend or wife.”

“I know who you are.” He rolls onto his side and pulls me against him. I just used his soap when I showered, but it smells so much better on him. It’s warmer, or maybe muskier? Oh, god. Is it his semen I’m smelling? Are there pheromones in semen?

“You don’t need to hold me if it’s like you say and there’s no way out.” A shiver runs down my spine at the feel of his warm breath against the back of my neck. I should’ve let my hair down after my shower, but it’s too late now.

“I’m not holding you because I’m worried you’ll get away.”

“Then why?” I look over my shoulder to find his eyes closed and his face relaxed. Without the hard lines and severe expressions, he looks younger.

“I like the way you feel.”

Is he joking? “What about what I want? Have you stopped to think this might be uncomfortable for me?”

“Yes. I just don’t care,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I can’t sleep like this.” I huff and shift my body, making it seem as though I can’t get comfortable with his body curled around mine when it’s the only time I’ve felt safe since Dad was shot.

Which is ridiculous since he’s the one who has me in danger, but his heavy arm continues to pin me in place.

“Stop moving.”

“Why? So you can fall asleep while I lie here miserable?”

“No. All your squirming is making me hard again.”

I’m suddenly perfectly comfortable, not moving a muscle because I might be all kinds of messed up after the events of the last couple of days, but I’m not so messed up that I want to tempt the monster between his legs.

A penis like that isn’t for virgins. It’s for more experienced vaginas. Vaginas that have seen some stuff. What I need is a training penis. Something unassuming and shy.

“Goodnight, Little Thorn.”

“Goodnight, asshole.”

I wake up with my cheek smooshed against something hard. Dang it ! I did it again.

Lifting my head off Riot’s chest, I find him in the same position as yesterday: one hand under his head, the other wrapped around me, staring at the ceiling.

At least I didn’t drool on him this time, but I can’t give myself too much credit because my leg is thrown over his, straddling his thick thigh.

“Mornin’.”

I push him off and jump out of the bed, disgusted with myself. “I need to use the bathroom.”

After doing my business, I was pleasantly surprised to see him out of the bedroom.

I close the door and quickly finish unpacking the backpack he brought me.

It wasn’t nice of Riot to break into my apartment and bring me some of my things, since he’s the reason I’m in this mess, but I’m grateful anyway.

He even brought me my favorite pair of Chucks.

Coincidentally, he packed my favorite shirt, and I hold it to my chest. It’s nothing special, just an oversized blue tee with “Aloha” printed on it, but I got it when a few of my friends and I took our senior trip to Hawaii.

I’ve worn it hundreds of times since, so it’s soft and comfortable, something I wear when I’m feeling down.

Since that’s exactly how I’m feeling, I swap my pajamas for the T-shirt and a pair of leggings.

I still can’t believe he went through my bedroom.

It’s a violation of my privacy at best and a crime at worst. If he doesn’t let me go soon, I wonder what will happen to my room.

Will my roommates take what they want and donate the rest, since there’s no family to come forward?

There are still so many things I want from home, Mom’s wedding ring at the top of the list. I wonder if he’d break in again for me, maybe take me next time, because what will happen to my things?

I don’t have any family to pack them up and keep them, and I’m not close enough to my roommates that they’d feel any sense of obligation to do it.

They’ll probably keep what they want and toss the rest.

God, this is so stupid. I’d almost understand him keeping me here if he was raping and abusing me. That would be horrifying, but it would make sense. But this? This is weird. It’s as if he wants me to be his girlfriend.

I leave the bedroom and follow my nose to the living area. Something smells amazing, and since I skipped lunch and dinner yesterday, I’m starving and not strong enough to go on a hunger strike. I love food too much.

“Here,” Riot says, dropping a plate onto the coffee table. It’s piled high with eggs, bacon, sausage, and pancakes. A proper breakfast is my weakness, so I sit and dive in.

“Thanks.” I bite into the bacon that’s cooked perfectly—crispy on the ends but soft in the middle.

I’m not surprised when he doesn’t respond and tucks himself into his corner with his own breakfast. The two rats come out of nowhere, racing to be the first to get some food.

The corners of Riot’s lips tip up the slightest amount, and his eyes soften.

I wish I didn’t find it endearing. Here’s this big, tough guy who murders for sport, but when he’s not doing that, he’s spending time with two rats who seem to be his only friends.

“What are their names?” I ask in spite of myself. Riot is such an enigma, but maybe if I can crack his code, I can talk him into letting me go.

He scratches the top of the white one’s head. “This is Ben, and this one is Amy.”

“How long have you had them?”

“The average lifespan of a rat is five years. Ben and Amy are four, so they’ll die soon.” There’s not a drop of sadness in his tone despite how much he clearly loves them.

“How sad.”

He glances up at me, clearly surprised by my sympathy. “Why are you afraid of them?”

“I don’t know. They’re just creepy.”

“That’s a common misconception. They actually make great pets. They’re easier to train than dogs, cleaner than a cat, and if you tickle them, they laugh.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. You can’t hear it because it’s too high a frequency, but they laugh and talk to each other.”

“Huh,” I say, pretending to be interested because I don’t care what he says; they’re creepy. “Have you always had rats as pets?”

In a flash, his calm, easy mood is gone. His back goes ramrod straight, and his eyes darken. The unapologetic killer is back. “When I was a boy, I made friends with the alley rats. That’s how I figured out how smart they are.”

“Like the wild rats who live in alleys?” I ask because surely I’m missing something.

“Yes.”

“Why did your parents let you play with wild rats? They carry diseases.”

“My parents didn’t care about me. They were bad people.” His indifferent tone throws me off as he stands, taking my now-empty plate, and adds, “Not as bad as your dad, though.”

“That’s mean to say,” I mutter. “You still haven’t shown me proof.”

“I don’t lie.”

“And I’m just supposed to trust you? Some murderer I don’t even know who abducted me?” I follow him into the kitchen.

He drops the plates into the sink. “Yes.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Your choice to make.”

“Let me go, and I’ll find out for myself.”

“You’d be dead within a week.” He rinses the dishes and places them in a small dishwasher.

“I’m willing to risk it.”

“I’m not.”

“Why? You don’t even know me. And unless you’re a sloppy killer, even if I told someone what happened, it would be hearsay,” I reason.

“You’re pretty enough that Bart might not kill you.”

“Thanks, I think. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Instead, he’d sell you or use you himself for his parties. You’d be raped and beaten over and over again, only given enough food and medical attention to keep you alive for as long as possible. You’d only be granted death when one of his friends got out of control and went too far.”

I wince, my breakfast churning in my belly and threatening to come back up. “You’re a cruel man to say something like that to me.”

“It’s the truth. This is better than that reality.”

“For what purpose?” I throw my hands in the air, losing all patience. “Why do you want me here?”

He looks me in the eyes, and I see the confusion, but there’s also a fondness there he has no business feeling toward me. “I don’t know.”

“So this is how the rest of my life will be? I’ll be stuck in this disgusting cabin for the rest of my life?”

He flinches at the insult, and I immediately feel guilty.

People always assumed I was a spoiled rich girl because of who my grandparents were, so I had to work hard to prove them wrong.

With that one comment, I feel like all that effort was flushed down the toilet. Maybe I am just a spoiled rich girl.

When he brushes past me and tucks himself back in his corner, I feel even more guilty. But I shouldn’t, right? There’s nothing I can say that’s worse than what he’s done to me. Insults are nothing compared to murdering my dad and holding me hostage.

If that’s true, then why do I feel like shit?