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  A Love Neverending

  Rowan Larke

  A Love Neverending

  Copyright © November 2009 by Rowan Larke

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  eISBN 978-1-60737-460-2

  Editor: Heather Hollis

  Cover Artist: Anne Cain

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  870 Market St, Suite 1201

  San Francisco CA 94102-2907

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * *

  DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  About this Title

  Genre: BDSM Paranormal

  Death took Jason from Clarissa, and she blames herself. Night after night, she throws herself into the arms of other men—men who abuse and pleasure her, but never take her far enough. She is waiting for the one who will take her over the edge and into death, so she can be reunited with Jason.

  Death didn’t take Jason far enough. Every night, Jason watches. His immortal self is trapped inside the club Clarissa owns, and he longs to be with her once more. Death is a dark angel. A handsome man. The promise of violence in his eyes draws Clarissa to him. Will a single night in bed with Death be all it takes to destroy Jason and Clarissa’s love neverending?

  Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: BDSM theme and content (including spanking), violence, voyeurism.

  Dedication

  They say it takes a village to raise a child. In my case, it takes a community to write a book. Specifically, the community at Romance Divas. Thank you, ladies. As always, to my girls, the subset of Divas who hold my hand and love me for all my insanity.

  And to my boys: my sons and husband. I love you guys.

  Special love to: Crystal Jordan, who held my hand while I wrote this book, even if she couldn't read it.

  Patti O'Shea, who made my day when she had to print the last ten pages to read, because she just HAD to know how it ended.

  Jen Leeland, who told me this book deserved to be written, even when it scared me to write it.

  Sarah Frantz, for being there when this book sold, giving me the best hug of my life in congratulations (complete with slo-mo!), and for being with Suzanne Brockmann when I told you, making for the best First Sale story EVER.

  And huge thanks also to: My editor, BG, for loving this book, and Treva Harte, who sat with me to talk over revisions, and by doing so, showed me what working with Loose Id was going to be like from the beginning.

  Chapter One

  His fingers traced the line of her jaw, and she whimpered. “Don't,” she said. His eyes—

  gray-blue, she noticed, the color of clouds before it rained—lifted to meet her gaze. “Don't be gentle.” She couldn't bear it if he were gentle. If he didn't hurt her the way she deserved. Their gazes locked, so she saw the moment he understood. She watched the slow, lazy smile cross his face. White teeth appeared, evenly spaced, and a dimple that winked with promise. The dimple itself was familiar—as if each man she'd had one of these interludes with had worn the same one. A badge of their deviance. Of hers. Need arrowed through her, riding a wave of relief. He'd give her what she needed.

  He stepped toward her, his body pressing her against the wall. “Like it rough, do you?”

  His chuckle, low and throaty, should have been menacing, but Clarissa felt her thighs tighten against the rush of liquid heat inside her. Need it rough, she answered, but only in her mind.

  His hands tore at her shirt, which was flimsy enough to fall away from her body with a single tug. He nipped at the skin of her neck while his hands fumbled with the fastenings on her skirt. She encouraged him, wiggling her hips, allowing him to free her of her clothing. When she was naked, he stood back.

  His gaze skimmed her skin, and she watched his eyes as they moved side to side, assessing her. The skin of her torso was milky, dotted and lined with scars she bore from previous nights like this one. She watched him inventory them and felt empowered as she saw the light flash in his eyes. He actually purred. “You do like it rough.” He sounded pleased with himself, like he'd searched out some treasure. Clarissa let him believe what he wanted, but she'd marked him the moment he'd stepped in the club.

  She knew what he saw, and followed his inventory along with him. She was neither too young nor too old—barely out of her twenties, she still had the flush of youth without the

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  innocent ingénue. Her breasts weren't big enough to put a porn star to shame, but they were full and still high. The small tracery of scars along their upper planes entranced him for a full minute. His gaze descended. Her stomach was flat, though not from exercise but rather the lack of having given birth. Her thighs were firm, and that was due to exercise. The quick flare of desire in his eyes at the sight of them was encouraging. Yes, she told him in her mind. I know how to flex those muscles in just the right way.

  She was a sex machine. Taut and tight, soft and warm in just the right places. And wet whenever she needed. And she needed. Needed it rough, needed it fast, needed it anonymous. She needed it to obliterate the thoughts that would otherwise fill her mind and tear at her heart. Her stomach clenched with sudden desire. Not for the man standing before her—though he was attractive enough in an aging-high-school-football-player kind of way. No, her stomach clenched with a single need—to lose herself. She felt his gaze continue to rove across her skin and suppressed a shiver.

  He never did look at her face.

  Once he finished his appraisal, he stepped toward her again. His hips banged against hers as he ground his erection against her pelvic bone. His teeth sought out the sensitive flesh of her shoulder. The bite was tentative but hard enough to sting, and Clarissa moaned, both from real desire and in encouragement. She felt his cheek wrinkle against her neck as he smiled again.

  “My fucking pleasure,” he growled, and she didn't correct him. But this wasn't about him. It never was.

  He grabbed both of her wrists, transferring them to one hand, and dragged her across the room toward the meeting table. He braced her against it, so she couldn't move, and wedged his knee between her thighs, separating them roughly. With a quick jerk, he pressed his thigh along her mound. She writhed against him like a cat in heat and moaned encouragement. Wet heat pooled between her legs, and she clenched the muscles, not wanting to leave evidence of her need on his clothes. A small dignity at this p
oint.

  “More,” she said through gritted teeth.

  His face twisted into a malicious grin. “I've just started.” Then his face hardened, a twist of expression making him suddenly seem dangerous, though she wasn't afraid.

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  The first slap to her breast was tentative. A careful measure of her, as if he hadn't seen the evidence on her skin of what she could take. She looked at him evenly. Is that the best you can do? The second slap, with his other hand, carried more weight, and she moaned appreciatively. The sting rushed adrenaline to her head, clearing it of thought. After a few more slaps, her breasts were red and tender, and he smiled with selfsatisfaction. Catching both her feet with his, he spun her around, pushing her face and nowtender chest onto the wooden tabletop. The sudden pressure spread new pain through her system, and since her hair covered her face and he wouldn't be able to see, she smiled. This was good. Pain and pleasure, punishment and release. He spread her legs wide and hooked her feet around the table legs. They were far enough apart, she had to stand on tiptoe, which strained the muscles of her legs and ass.

  This time, the first slap was not tentative. His meaty hand connected with her taut bottom, and she moaned again. A flutter of shame beat against her mind as desire spiked within her. Her focus narrowed to the stinging warmth of her flesh, and gratitude flooded her. Each fall of his hand was in a different place, a different weight behind it. The harder slaps she rewarded with a plaintive moan. Eventually, though, the succession of slaps no longer added to her pain. She'd hit equilibrium. And in the absence of new pain, thoughts rushed her mind. Shit. She wiggled her hips, trying to demand more from him, but he was lost in his own zone. His hand took on a rhythm—a predictable beat that echoed some thought or music in his own mind. She could pull him out of it, but he would resent her, and the night would be over before she found her release. Thoughts beat at her defenses, and she forced her eyes closed against sudden tears. Jason. The name brought more pain than anything the man had doled out yet.

  She squeezed her eyes tighter, trying to keep the thoughts at bay. She almost sobbed with relief when his fingers grasped her hips, angling her ass up higher off the table. The drag of her sweat-damp skin across wood sent fresh awareness through her stomach and breasts. Her eyes flew open, and she gasped, grateful not to have said the thank-you dancing through her mind. When she was angled to his liking, he stepped away, the air sudden and cool on her flesh. Admiring his handiwork, likely—the red, flushed skin of her ass. The moisture of her desire would be obvious to him because of the way he had her pelvis tilted. His fingers probed her

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  entrance, and she was relieved to note he hadn't taken time to lick or lube them. Neither was he taking the time to prime her with one finger—instead he thrust three inside her at once, spreading her wide. The friction of his dry flesh inside her wetness was a dragging ache. She was wet enough for both of them, though, so that after three thrusts the friction was no longer a pain. It was only sensation.

  She wriggled. More, she wanted to demand, but he'd want to be in control. He slapped her ass again, as if to put her in her place, and she stilled her movements. But the twisting, cloying demand for more wouldn't stifle itself. Images flickered behind her eyes. Jason. His smile. That dimple.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, eradicating the images for a brief moment with the flare of light and dark from her constricted eye muscles. “More,” she said through clenched teeth, afraid he'd hear her. Afraid he wouldn't listen.

  The tips of each finger dug into her hips, grinding against bone, and she clenched her jaw against the new and sudden pain. He stepped up behind her, and she realized he'd shed his pants, or at least lowered them to his knees. The head of his cock brushed against her slit, and she moaned.

  Not yet, she wanted to tell him. I need more. Bite me, scrape me, hurt me. Shame and desire followed the silent plea, and she groaned with satisfaction and disappointment when his cock slid home.

  He found his rhythm, and she drifted. Without the pain, her mind was free to go where it wanted. And it always wanted Jason. She bit back a sob. Hurt me, she wanted to whimper. It's what I deserve. Because it was her fault Jason was no longer there. Her fault, and she needed to be punished. Not that it was ever enough. It never could be. When it was done, and she'd been hurt and humiliated, Jason was still dead. And the pain of her body never entirely obliterated the pain of knowing that fact.

  The man behind her slammed into her at a different angle, twining his hands into her hair and lifting her head off the table. Her back muscles tightened, howling their rage at this contortion. Relief washed through her. Pain banished thought. Slowly the hot coil of orgasm twisted within her as she felt her pleasure build.

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  5

  He used her hair to turn her head, mashing the side of her face into the tabletop. Each receptor in her skin screamed at the contact, and she sobbed with relief as her orgasm tightened, demanding release. He thrust within her, twisting his hips so he could grind deeper, and she took him in willingly, encouraging him to do more. Deeper. Harder. Faster. More. He slammed inside her, and the coil of her orgasm spun, swirling out of control and taking her with it. She was lost to the sensation, lost to the bliss that both coated and filled her body for one eternal moment. Then he pounded home again, the final deep thrust of his own orgasm, accompanied by the throaty groan, which, like the dimple, seemed to belong to all of them. He sagged against her, sated, and rested a moment before pulling his clothes back in order. Without a word, he left the room. Cool air swirled around her body with the movement of the door, which didn't latch behind him when he left.

  She stayed where she was, catching her breath, letting her tears fall into her hair. It was done, and still the ghosts of the past wouldn't leave her be. Jason still lingered behind her eyelids, still filled her mind with his presence. She punished herself, night after night, but it was never enough. She caught back a sob, biting her lip for the small amount of pain and comfort it might bring. It wasn't enough.

  Lying there, she felt the first few tremors tear their way through her body, and still she could see Jason's soft brown eyes fringed with dark lashes. The arch of his eyebrows, which always made him seem slightly amused. The little curl in the front of his hair, which remained no matter how much gel he used to spike it straight. The soft light in his eyes when he looked at her. Her tears fell faster, creating a sticky line between her cheek and the tabletop. Sobs racked her body, each hitching breath underscoring the truth she could finally admit to herself. It wasn't enough. It'd never be enough. No matter how much they hurt her, debased her, abused her—she could never make amends.

  The most she could hope for was that one of them, one night, would take it too far. Release her from the agony of being alone.

  Death.

  She faced it, admitting the truth to herself in the quiet darkness. She was one of the walking dead…her body just had yet to follow suit.

  “Jason,” she whispered. “What did you do to me?”

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  Chapter Two

  In the far corner of the room, where she couldn't know he was there even if she could see him, Jason's shoulders sagged. What had he done? He'd loved her. “Love neverending,” he'd told her. She hadn't believed. Hell, neither had he.

  Then he'd died.

  And now he was caught in this cycle—this self-defeating, agonizing cycle—of watching her hook up with any man who might cause her a little pain. To punish herself? To stop herself from mourning? The hell if he knew.

  All he knew was that he watched. Every. Damn. Time. And it ripped his insides apart. His hands clenched into useless parodies of fists at his sides. He couldn't strike out. Couldn't pull the men off her, couldn't stay their hands from the slaps, punches, cuts, or burns they inflicted on her. He just watched. He'd scoffed at the idea of hell when he was living. Now he was l
iving in a hell designed specifically for him.

  Alive, he might've appreciated the irony of it. Dead, he wasn't impressed by it at all. He watched as she smoothed her hair away from her face. As she straightened, he could see her fitting the pieces of herself back together, until she had her mask in place—a smooth, perfect face to present to the world. She crossed the room, unselfconscious in her nudity, picking up the pieces of her clothing. Literally pieces of clothing, he realized, as she fingered the tattered remains of her shirt. Disappointed? Saddened? He couldn't tell. She shrugged and dropped the shirt into the wastebasket beside the desk as she moved past it to the green metal filing cabinet beyond it. After opening a drawer, she withdrew a shirt from its depths, unfolded it, and shook out the creases before sliding it on. There were jeans, shirts, skirts, dresses, underwear, and shoes inside each of the deep drawers. Jason had peeked over her shoulder one night and seen them, all sorted into

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  coordinating outfits, and each outfit a different persona. Empty carcasses of the woman she might be. The woman they might want her to be.

  His fists tightened, and the stubs of his fingernails bit into the flesh of his palms. Damn it, Clarissa, he wanted to scream. Had screamed, other nights, though she'd never heard him. Once she was clothed, she performed the same ritual: Scrubbed the surface—whatever it might have been—where she'd been fucked, sprayed air freshener, and straightened the room so no evidence would remain in the morning when she returned.

  The one thing none of the men had ever realized was that Clarissa wasn't just some dumb bar whore they'd picked up. No, Clarissa was the sole owner of D'Light. She was whatever she needed to be to get men to part with their money—entrepreneur, ingénue…whore, his mind whispered, but he thrust the thought aside viciously. She played the part, and brilliantly, but she wasn't a whore. She acted like one to punish herself. For him. Which was worse on so many levels.