by Huss, JA
“I want it here, Mr. Shrike. Outside, in the alley. And I want it now.”
His grinding intensifies even more now, and one hand reaches down to grab my ass while the other one unsnaps my jeans. “We might get caught, Bombshell,” he says in that reasonable tone he always gets when I’m the one doing the dirty talk.
“We might,” I agree.
“Mr. Harrison might open the donut shop door to throw out a bag of trash any second now.”
“He could,” I concede again, but my zipper is loose and my pants are sliding down my hips before the words are fully formed.
“Take me out, Veronica.”
I unsnap his jeans and release his zipper just as quickly, then push his pants down just far enough for his hard cock to escape. My jeans are still around my hips and I let my arm drop so my purse can slide to the ground. My shoes fall out and one tumbles down the concrete stairs and lands in a puddle in the parking lot.
Both of Spencer’s hands are reaching down inside my jeans so they can cup my bare ass and then suddenly he lifts me up. I bend my knees and raise my legs to give him access, pushing back against the uneven brick wall to keep me in position. He doesn’t pull my jeans down so my legs are only open enough to give his thick cock access. I rest my calves on his shoulders and even through his leather jacket I can feel the power in those muscles.
Spencer is nothing but power.
He’s gonna take me with no fanfare and no foreplay.
But with Spencer, the sex is the foreplay. It’s not what he does, it’s how he does it. It’s not what he says, it’s how he says it. It’s not how I feel, it’s how he makes me feel.
Spencer Shrike does not need to suck on my clit to get me ready. When I see him, I’m ready.
“Take me like this,” I moan out in his ear. “Put your cock in me and just take me here, right now.”
“Take you how, Bomb?” He eases his cock between my folds and I gasp as he pulls away. “Like this, soft and gentle?”
“No,” I whine. “No. I want it hard. I want you to make me scream your name right now. I want to scream it so loud—” I lean in and purr in his ear in the softest of voices. “I want to scream your name so loud it’ll stop traffic out there on the street. And—” I have to bite my tongue and stop talking for a moment. It’s been so fucking long, I might make myself come.
His dick flirts with my entrance and he’s holding me up one-handed now. My jeans are barely past my thighs, so I have to fight the urge to open my legs wide to invite him in. He’s pressing me against the wall so hard, for a moment I have a slight panic about being able to breathe. But he can read me better than anyone and the pressure on my chest eases up just as his cock thrusts inside me and his hand returns to my ass, holding me steady. The angle of my hips and the fact that my ankles are practically next to my head make his thrusts painful, but it’s the kind of pain girls fantasize about. Being filled up with the long hard cock of someone they love so much they spend every waking moment thinking of this.
His grinding evens out and we find our rhythm, my back arching and pushing forward each time he pounds me backwards against the uneven brick wall, our breath heavy with desire and effort.
I’m in ecstasy, I’m so close, even though his dick is nowhere near my clit, I don’t need that with Spencer. His smell is enough to set me off. The thick corded muscles of his upper arms as he strains to hold me steady and fuck me at the same time—that is enough.
I’m about to explode when he pulls back and leans into my ear before I can whimper my protest. “Bombshell, listen carefully now, baby. Because I told you I was only gonna say it once, but sometimes it takes a good public fuck to make you hear me.”
“Huh?” I’m all breathy and a little bit pissed that I’m not halting traffic from screaming his name right now.
“I’m the boss of you, Bombshell.” He thrusts into me hard. Hard enough to hit the wall of my cervix and make me cry out in pain. “I’m the boss, aren’t I?” He thrusts again and this time is even more painful, but at the same time, I can feel the orgasm building again. “Answer me, dammit,” he says as he pulls out, leaving me empty and wanting.
“Yes, OK. You’re the boss, Mr. Shrike.” Just keep the fuck going!
He chuckles. “Good, baby. That’s perfect.” He eases back into me, softer this time. Slow, controlled back-and-forth movements that only make me ache for more.
“Harder, please,” I beg.
“Now,” he says through his heavy breath. “You’re gonna be a good girl and do what I say, right?” He punctuates each word with a thrust and retreat.
I just nod. Hell, I’ll agree to anything right now. I haven’t been fucked since New Year’s and that one I can’t even remember. So it hardly counts.
“And what I want you to do is…” He leans into me, pushes himself as deep inside me as he can get and I swear, even though my eyes are open, everything goes black. My world is nothing but those little fuzzy stars you see just before you have the orgasm of a lifetime. His cock pulses inside me and he tugs on my hair and moans along with his explosion. His cock pulses over and over again inside me, his hot semen shooting out.
I push back, on the verge of something truly spectacular…
And then he pulls out and backs off, no longer supporting my legs so they drop to the ground.
“What the fuck?” I ask as his come spills down my thigh and collects against my jeans.
He pulls my pants up and then his own.
I’m stunned. “I was just about to scream your name.”
Never—and I do mean never—has Spencer used sex against me. He’s never been one of those guys to withhold orgasm to make a point. Until now, apparently.
“I told you,” he says as he tucks his partially erect cock back into his jeans. “I’m the motherfucking boss of you, Bombshell. And I am not fucking around this time.” He leans in, all the fun dirty talk forgotten. His orgasm forgotten. The flirty banter forgotten. “When I call that fucking phone, you fucking answer it!”
He’s not behaving normally and this sets me back a minute as I try to button and zip my jeans back up. “I never got any calls, Spencer. Calm down.”
He shoots me a nasty look. “You’re a shit liar, Veronica. I can tell every time. You crinkle your nose when you lie.”
“Do not. And what the fuck? Is this how you play now? You take what you want from me and once you’ve had your fill, you just leave me hanging? You’re a total asshole. Especially after you said you never wanted to see me again. Only texts and phones.”
He stares hard at me for a moment, his breath still labored from the sex. “I never said that, Ronnie. I said we only need to communicate with texts and phone calls.”
I pick my purse up from the ground beside me, fish around and find my pack of e-cigs, and start puffing. Spencer drives me to puff. “What’s the difference?” I say through a thick stream of vapor. “And if that’s all you want from me, then why this… this… what the fuck was this fuck? I don’t even have a word for it, you asshole!” I’m so upset with how this has turned out, I might cry right here, right now, in front of him.
“Ronnie, I need a place in town.” He says this like… like… like he didn’t just fuck me in an alley and leave me wanting like a worthless whore. “Your job this week is to find me a place to live in town.”
“What?” His words make my heart flutter and I have to place my hand against my chest to collect myself. “But… the farmhouse?” I’ve always pictured my life being lived out on that farm. Always. Since the day I met him three years ago, that’s been my happily ever after and now he wants to sell it. I turn away and place my head against the wall.
It’s over. My fantasy life with Spencer Shrike is over.
His strong hands grab my shoulders and turn me back around. “I’m not selling the farmhouse, Bombshell. Never. I just need a nice place to crash in town. That drive is killing me. So look around and find me something good. Set me up some appointments, and then text th
em to me.”
“Oh.” I’m hopeful again. “Do you want me to meet you there when you look?”
“No, babe. Just me.”
Now I’m deflated. See, this is why I need to avoid him at all costs. He deflates me. He sucks all my air out. He collapses me into nothingness. I look down at my feet and concentrate on not being sad.
“And the next time I call or text, you answer. OK?”
When I look up he’s already walking away and I’m feeling more used and dejected than ever.
“Spencer!” I call after him, desperate for one more interaction. “What’s the budget?”
“No budget, Bomb,” he calls out without turning back to me. “Just find me a nice place.”
And then he rounds the corner and he’s gone. And I’m left here, in this stupid alley overhang, looking like an idiot as the back door of the donut shop opens and I almost give Mr. Harrison a heart attack when he finds me there.
“Sorry,” I say as I quickly hop down the stairs, pick up my stray shoe and stuff it in my purse with the other one, and walk barefoot out into the rain.
“Find him a house,” I whisper to myself as I leave the alley and walk towards my street. Probably so he can share it with Carla the burrito bitch. I hate her. Why does she get a date with Spencer every damn week and I get nothing? I hate her and I hate him.
But a smile leaks out as my toes splash through a puddle on the sidewalk.
Because I will have the last laugh today. And I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out what I’m doing.
Chapter Three - Veronica
By the time I make it back to my apartment, Rook is waiting for me in the Shrike truck, I’m sopping wet from head to toe, and my feet are fucking freezing.
“What the hell?” Rook says as she gets out of the truck and jogs over to me. “What happened to you? You just dashed out the back without a word.”
We trudge up my stairs together, then I unlock and open the door and hold it open for her. I’m already wet, she’s still fairly dry. Might as well keep her that way. I close the door behind me and hang my soaked jacket up on the coat hook. “Spencer was texting me all morning and I didn’t answer, so when I looked out the window and saw him coming across the street, I panicked and ran.”
Rook laughs. “That plan work out well for you?”
“Ha ha,” I say as I walk to the bathroom. “I’m gonna take a shower because I’m fucking freezing. Then we can go.”
“Sounds good,” she calls back from the kitchen. “I’m gonna raid your fridge, mind?”
“Nah,” I say back. “Go ahead. Be out in a minute.” I head into the shower and start the water.
Spencer was right when he came over here last week. The only time he’s been over here. He called it a dump. And it is.
Granted, my family home is sorta dumpy too, but at least it’s from my relatives. The windows were cracked from baseballs me and my brothers threw. The linoleum in the kitchen is stained and chipped from decades of Vaughn feet walking over it. The banister is missing spindles because Vann got his head stuck between them when Vic was in charge, so Vic just pulled one straight out thinking he was gonna get his ass kicked if we couldn’t all be accounted for when our dad got home.
Yeah, that’s home.
But this… well, I lied to Spencer. I stuck up for this place because he made me feel poor and trashy. He was right though. It’s a crappy place. The floorboards beneath my feet in the bathroom are probably all rotten with water damage. They sway when you walk. I might fall through the ceiling one of these days. Good thing no one is living below me. I have no idea what this place used to be. I’ve lived in Fort Collins my whole life, but I never paid any attention to these old buildings on this street. They were shops, I think. They look like storefronts with giant picture windows and mail slots on the doors.
The water finally runs hot and I peel off my wet jeans, toss them in the hamper, and then struggle out of my top and bra. I feel… used. And even though Spencer and I have had some pretty… interesting… sex during our relationship, it’s never made me feel unclean.
I mean, he likes the dirty talk, so he’s called me names during sex that would earn him a punch in the teeth any other time. I’m used to his particular brand of heat. But he’s never used me like this. He’s never used sex against me to get something he wants. That part of our relationship has always been normal.
Sure, I get a little hysterical when we fight. I’ve been known to throw a wine bottle or two at his head. But he’s a good ducker. I’ve never actually hit him.
And he can predict my violence pretty well. He pins me down and dirty-talks me back into reality and then things are all good.
It’s been a long time since he had to pin me down. And not because I’ve been rational. He just hasn’t paid much attention to me for almost a year. After that altercation with Rook’s ex, Jon, last summer, Spencer was almost back to his old self for a few weeks. We saw each other a couple weekends, he took me to Rook’s birthday party at Antoine’s studio, we fucked when we could manage to meet up, since we were living in two separate towns.
But then… after all that shit went down with Rook and Ronin and those weirdo human traffickers, Spencer was back to his distant self. And since that time, it’s only gotten worse. We work less than a mile from each other. We should be having lunch breaks together every day. We should be living together out in that farmhouse of his, riding into town every day in his Shrike truck, drinking our coffee on the road as we chat about our day.
But things haven’t turned out that way.
That thought alone is enough to start the tears.
I pull the ugly shower curtain back and step into my old and cracking tub and try to accept what my life has become. I should be thankful. Lots of people have it worse than me. I have a place to live, I have a job—two actually. I’m still working at Sick Boyz, my family’s tattoo shop. Even though Spencer gave me this great job as his personal assistant, I can’t just quit my tattoo job. I have regular customers who are depending on me to finish up their work. I’m booked solid three days a week for the next two months. And that’s just the big pieces—the backs and chests I’ve been working on. I told all the guys with sleeves they had to go to one of my brothers or I’ll be stuck there forever.
So yeah. It’s hardly fair to complain when I have two jobs that collectively pay me almost fifty-five grand a year. That’s not a bad paycheck for a twenty-three-year-old with no real prospects. I mean, I have an art degree, but come on. It’s an art degree. How much did I expect to get out of that?
Plus, I have a great family. My dad and gramps are cool as hell. Yeah, they were mean bastards to the boys all growing up, but I was their little princess. The spitting image of my mother.
That makes me smile.
My mom died giving birth to Vann, my baby brother. Well, he’s no baby now, he’s seventeen. I was already six when he was born and my oldest brother, Vic, he was twelve. The twins, Vinn and Vonn—don’t ask about the names, it’s my dad’s thing—were eight.
And my brothers might’ve challenged that princess side of me every chance they got, trying to toughen me up and teach me survival skills. But they love the fuck out of me. They are always there when I need them.
So check. I’m one lucky bitch. I should be happy. I should be grabbing this half-satisfied bull by the horns and riding the fuck out of it.
But I just can’t get past Spencer. I fell in love with his ass the first night I met him and I even fucked him the next day. We were practically strangers. And that love has only gotten stronger. In fact, I might be on the verge of being obsessed with him.
“Ronnie!” Rook’s knock on the bathroom door shakes me out of my funk.
“Yeah?” I answer back.
“Hurry, bitch. We gotta go.”
I laugh at her calling me bitch. I taught her that. She couldn’t make herself say it back to me at first, she thought it was an insult. But I told her, That’s what bitches cal
l each other. “Be right out.”
I love Rook. I hope she never goes back to Denver. I want her to stay in Fort Collins with me forever. Rook is really the only great thing about my life right now. She’s always down with my stupid plans to get back at Spencer and today just proves it—she’s a keeper.
I turn the water off and step out onto the plush pink bath mat. The floor might be a mess, but I have my own stuff to counter it. I wrap myself up in a big thick towel and open the door. Rook is watching TV on the couch, stuffing her face with popcorn. “I’ll only be five minutes,” I tell her as I dash to my bedroom.
“Whatever,” she calls back. “That’ll be the day.”
Yeah, and that would usually be right. I’m a primper. I take forever to get ready. I dry my hair, curl it, brush it, curl it again. Then the makeup. I luuurve makeup. Like bad.
Then the clothes. I love clothes. I have my typical outfits. Tight low-scoop-neck t-shirts with the Sick Boyz logo on them. I wear those a lot with jeans. So much, in fact, it’s like my uniform. They’re comfortable and pretty.
I’m an eighties girl when it comes to fashion. I like big hair, tight leggings, stiletto heels, red lips, and tank tops under short jackets. And my big Betsey purse.
But today, I’m not about fashion, I’m about purpose. My last-ditch attempt to grab Spencer’s attention. I sigh as I fetch a pair of jeans from my dresser. They are old and ripped in the knees. I slip them on and notice they are a lot looser than the last time I wore them. I like my jeans tight, so I almost take them off, but really, I’m in the mood for loose today. I grab a Shrike Bikes t-shirt. This one used to be red, but has faded to an almost grayish-pink color. It has a vintage pinup girl riding a WWII-style bomb. Over the girl it says Spencer Shrike, but the words below are what I love about it. It says Bombshell Bikes.