by Ella Goode
“I’m not anywhere close to being done with you, baby girl.” I step closer and draw her agitated body into my arms. I’m about to kiss her when Schmidthead knocks again. The third time sets off Morgen and he goes wild, barking like a mad dog. Reluctantly, I release her. “You better get the door.”
I lean my ass against the sink and fold my arms across my chest. I’m not the first thing that Schmidthead will see when the door opens but I’m not hiding either.
Chapter Four
Pippa
Later, after I kick all the testosterone out of the house, I’m going to give myself a stern talking-to. No more men and no more men wearing leather cuts with patches on them. Let’s rule out men wearing leather in general. And no badges. Those are out. I’m going to concentrate on using my vibe collection to its fullest extent. Maybe I’ll even order a new one as a prize for my self-imposed no-man rule.
The weight of Judge’s gaze prickles the back of my neck. I want to shove him in the closet and beg him to hide until Chief Schmidt leaves but I know better than to even try. “No bark,” I say to Morgen and he pipes down immediately. I can’t resist throwing a ‘see, look at how obedient my dog is’ look to Judge. He only grins.
Throwing open the door, I startle Chief Schmidt who is in the process of knocking again. “Can I help you?”
“I was about to call in a 419.” Schmidt glares.
“419?” I ask.
Behind him, a deep voice interjects, “Dead body.” The newcomer subtly nudges Schmidt to the side by raising his hands holding two brown paper sacks. The smell of cooked beef and fried potatoes draws a rumble from my tummy.
“Sorry,” I say. I step out onto the small wooden porch to make way for the man. It’s either that or risk being mowed down. He’s on a mission to…deliver food? He’s not a Death Lord. There’s no leather cut but he’s wearing a Death Lords’ uniform of jeans, a tight-fitting T-shirt and shitkickers that have laces wound a couple times around the tops of the boots.
He gives me a small chin nod and disappears inside. A moment later the door opens and Morgen trots outside. He growls low in his throat and bares his teeth menacingly. Judge is right. Morgen is a sweetheart but he puts on a good show. Schmidt takes a step back.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“You don’t know?” At my negative shake, he jerks his chin inward. “That’s Abel Drake, 27 years of age. Deployed for four tours with the Marines. Comes here to join the fucking Death Lords. What a waste.”
That explained the lack of a cut. Prospects are the men who want to join the MC. Usually they do shit jobs like delivering food out to the country so that the club president doesn’t have to inconvenience himself.
“What are you doing here? You made yourself perfectly clear earlier in town tonight how you felt about me.”
“Yeah, about that. I got to admit that I was caught off guard. The Death Lords are a menace in this county and not enough people take them seriously. Hank Harrison’s son killed a man and if I hadn’t been in charge of the investigation he would have gotten off on a self-defense.”
“Which you think would have been wrong.”
“Damn straight.” He stretches his neck to the side, peering around me. Fortunately the blinds are drawn but there is the low murmur of voices, clearly male, having some kind of conversation inside.
“I appreciate you coming out here to tell me this but Judge is no danger to me.”
Schmidt snorts and places his hand on his belt. “You’re already using their gang names, huh?”
“Road names,” I correct gently. I’m not afraid of the MC culture. As a group they represent no greater danger to a woman than any other set of men, particularly the ones that wear uniforms. I had a girlfriend in college who’d been felt up inappropriately during a traffic stop and another who’d been roofied and date raped at a fraternity. Simply because Judge and my dad wore leather and rode a motorcycle and went several days between shaves didn’t mean that they were dangerous.
Some clubs were bad and some were decent. It all depended on who was in charge. I had a feeling Judge ran a pretty tight ship when it came to treating women right. For all his bossiness, he didn’t argue when I wanted to drive my own car, had made sure I came first, and had given me the opportunity to say no in the bedroom. A guy who does those things respects women, a least a little bit.
Unlike Schmidt who can’t even stand to be corrected by a woman, even on this tiny little thing. His eyes narrow and his lips get so thin they almost disappear. What had I been thinking when I agreed to go on a date with him? Clearly the badge and position had blinded me. Kissing his nearly lipless face would have been like exchanging a wet one with an eel or whatever animal doesn’t have lips.
“Something else you should know.” He pulls a sheaf of papers out of his back pocket and holds them out. “Your contract requires you to live in town for the first year. This here is unincorporated territory. Out of town. You’ll need to move before the council meeting or we’ll have to find a replacement.”
He slaps the papers in my hands. “I don’t understand,” I say.
Before he can answer, Judge comes out. He’s put on his cut and his jeans are zipped but he’s shirtless and bare footed. It’s not hard to guess what we were doing before Schmidt arrived.
“Your food’s getting cold, baby,” Judge says softly. He curls his hand around my neck, marking his territory. It should make me mad but instead, I’m turned on and kind of relieved.
Schmidt’s face takes on a veneer of angry disgust. “How many of them are you going to fuck tonight? Or is she the initiation prize? Patch in and pound the pussy of a new sweet butt.”
“You’re an idiot,” I say and turn on my heel and walk inside the trailer. Morgen follows me inside, sensing my distress.
Inside Abel stands at loose attention. His military bearing is still instinctive. I hold my nerve until I reach the kitchen where I collapse into a chair. Hands trembling, I cover my face. It’s stupid to be shaken up by the insults of a dickhole but what woman enjoys getting called a slut and whore?
“Have a shot. It’ll make the burger go down better.” He splashes some amber-colored liquid into one of my juice glasses and pushes it across the table. What the hell, I think. With a shrug, I knock it back and revel in the burn. Morgen lays his sweet head on my leg. I run my hand over his warm fur and take a few deep breaths.
Outside, I hear Judge order Schmidt to leave. “As you pointed out, this isn’t part of Fortune so you’ve got no jurisdiction here.”
“You better watch yourself,” Schmidt threatens. “Make a wrong step and I’m going to put you and any one of your members behind bars.”
“My suggestion is to stop using so much of the product you help traffic. It’s making you too goddamned paranoid,” Judge drawls.
I try to shut it out. “I’m Pippa Lang, the new Fortune librarian.” I give Abel a tentative smile.
“Not much of a reader,” he admits.
“That’s okay. I read enough for half the county,” I say. “Thanks for the food.”
“No problem.”
He is not a sparkling conversationalist. “Chief Schmidt said you were in the Marines.”
“Did he?”
“Yep. Not much more to say?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. You staying for dinner?”
“No, ma’am.”
I shake my head. “Where are you from?”
“South, ma’am. Tennessee.”
“You have family there?”
“No, ma’am.”
He’s so stiff I want to say ‘at ease, soldier’ but there’s something almost comical in the brevity of his answers. Parrying with him helps to chase away the bitter taste of Schmidt’s slurs and by the time Judge steps in, I’m actually wearing a little smile.
“You need me to stick around?” Abel pushes away from the counter he’s been leaning against.
“Nah, I got it covered.” Judge leans over me and tips
my face up to his. In front of Abel, he plants a hard kiss on my mouth.
Self-consciously, I lick my lips when he draws back. “What’s that for?”
“Just felt like kissing you is all,” he replies and pulls up a chair next to me. Turning to Abel, he says, “You head to the granary. Schmidt’s not coming back. He’s delivered his message, got an earful from me, and is likely going home to regroup.”
“Are you inviting yourself to stay the night?” I ask mildly. “Because the sofa is uncomfortable.” We all look at my dumpy sofa that’s barely long enough for me.
Judge merely grins. “I’ve slept in worse places.”
“Give me a call if you want me back here,” Abel replies. “’Night, Ms. Lang.”
Judge’s grin falls away as soon as the door shuts behind Abel. “You know about this residency requirement?”
“I knew it was in the contract, but when I was hired by the mayor, he said I shouldn’t worry about it. I’m guessing I should start worrying?”
He sighs. “Maybe so. The mayor won’t stand up to Schmidt. We think that Schmidt’s got something on the mayor so if Schmidt brings up the residency requirement, the mayor will try to enforce it. Is that going to be a problem?”
My heart’s in my throat so I can’t do much more than nod. I paid six months’ rent for this trailer and the surrounding land. I can’t afford to move and neither do I want to. Living in a small town there’s always someone who watches who comes to your house and how long they stay. They time when your television goes on and when it goes off. They count how many packages you get delivered and some of the brave ones peek inside the mailbox. Out here in the country there isn’t much but the crickets and Morgen. And, I suppose, the creepy police chief.
Judge rubs his chin and eyes me thoughtfully. “Can’t do anything about it tonight, baby girl. Why don’t you eat up. After dinner, I’ll give you a nice rubdown.”
None of his words were suggestions or questions, only statements. Stop worrying. Eat. Sex will follow. It’s all so easy for him on the other side of the table. He’s not trying to make a new life for himself; he doesn’t have to worry about where the next meal is coming from. Anger at Schmidt, at my inability to say no to the man across from me, at my frustrating monetary situation spews out.
“It must be real tough to be the president of an outlaw gang who answers to no one. Why, I can’t imagine the trials you must have gone through. Just don’t worry my pretty little head? Just lie down and spread my legs? Getting stuffed with your cock is the answer to all my problems? Boy, please. Your cock can’t even solve one problem, let alone all of them,” I spit out bitterly.
His only response is to raise an eyebrow. “I think my cock solved at least one problem.”
“Sex doesn’t solve anything!” I yell as his nonchalant attitude throws more fuel onto my fire. Hot tears are prickling at the back of my eyes and the last thing I want to do is break down in front of this man whose careful eyes assess everyone’s weaknesses.
Stomping down the hall, I wrench open a closet door and angrily pull out the extra sheets and blankets. He’s sleeping on that sofa tonight and I don’t care how many discs in his back are displaced. Turning around I run into a wall of muscle.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, all traces of humor gone. “I was trying to lighten the mood and take away your worry but instead I made you angry, and for that I’m sorry. I’m not sorry that I’m trying to help you. If it makes you feel better, that’s how I’m built. It’s what makes me a good president of my outlaw gang. I run it so that my boys have better lives than they would without it. It’s got not one thing to do with your gender, your pretty hair or your hot body and everything to do with how I’m wired.”
Chest still heaving with the remnants of my anger, I study him. His face is unlined except for the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and three faint lines on his broad forehead. The bridge of his nose is crooked—no doubt the result of a fight. On the side near his left ear, there’s a deep scar. He has a healthy summer tan, but not too dark as if he sometimes finds the time to slather on sunscreen. His wheat-colored hair is closely cropped, almost military in its short length. Around his lips and chin he sports a trimmed goatee. Some guys grow facial hair to disguise a weak chin, but there’s nothing a bit weak about Judge.
“You’re still sleeping on the couch,” I say, and shove the blankets at him. “Come, Morgen.”
Inside my bedroom, I ready for bed, pulling on an old sleep shirt with Tweety Bird and a pair of granny panties. They are the ugliest clothes in my closet and I’m hoping that they’ll keep me from creeping out in the middle of the night and attacking him.
Because of the paper-thin walls of my trailer, I hear him moving about. The water runs and the door opens and closes. I try to remember the last time I lived with a man. My dad never quite left Mom and me but he wasn’t around a lot. My memories of him are fractured. There is no single continuous loop of events that involve him; instead there are fragments—pieces from a broken mirror.
Confused and tired, I call my mother.
“It’s late, dear,” she says in reproof. She loves me, but she’s my mother. Every opportunity for correction is not allowed to pass by without comment.
“I can’t sleep,” I admit. “I had a visit from Chief Schmidt tonight. He told me that there was a residency requirement in my contract. As the Fortune librarian, I’m supposed to live in Fortune.”
The waves of disappointment travel down the telephone line in clear HD quality. “Did you read your contract before you rented that trailer?”
“Yes, but the mayor said it was fine.”
She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I can float you some rent, but not six months’ worth. Maybe you should consider moving back home. They haven’t filled your old position.”
“I’m trying to start fresh.”
“Running away never solves anything. Call Margaret Berrywood to see if you can get your job back.”
I ask even though I don’t want to and even though I suspect I know the answer. “Will you loan me the money for rent if I need to move into town?”
“Call Margaret. We’ll talk after that.”
So, no. “Okay, Mom. Love you.”
“Try to get some sleep. It’ll all be better tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” I stare at my phone but it doesn’t provide any more answers after we hang up. Returning home can’t be my only option. A tap of my financial app on my phone reveals a sadly low balance after having sunk most of my savings into this property. A knock on my door startles me.
“You okay in there, baby?” Judge says.
“Yeah, going to bed.”
“Can I come in for a minute?”
I look down at my sleep shirt and figure that it’s about the least sexy thing he’s ever seen on a woman’s body and my granny panties are too embarrassing to show anyone. Hopefully they’ll work like a modern day chastity belt.
Unlatching the door, I open it slightly standing with my hand curled around the frame. His wide frame nearly fills the entire hallway. He looks too big for the trailer and probably too big for my life.
“Your walls are thin so I couldn’t help hearing your conversation about your residency problems. I’ve got some solutions for you.”
“You really are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” I wonder how many troubles he has shouldered in his lifetime. Maybe he is wired that way, but it can still be a burden. His arms are crossed and he looks as strong as a tree and every part of me wants to lean into him.
Somehow he senses this because he’s inside, kicking the door shut with his foot before I can take my next breath. He lifts me flush against him and turns so that I’m sandwiched between the particleboard door and his hard chest.
“We’re doing too much talking and thinking and not enough doing,” he growls into my hair. With his thick erection pressed against my ever-dampening panties and his mouth covering mine, it’s hard to think at a
ll, let alone too much.
He rubs against me in a slow roll of his hips and his mouth takes a leisurely exploration of my jawline up to my temple and then back to claim my lips. His tongue is everywhere, caressing the roof of my mouth, the sides of my cheeks and rubbing along the top and underside of my own tongue. There isn’t a space inside that he’s not touching at least once and then his caresses turn to heated stabs. My legs hook around his hips and I clutch at his bare shoulders, both riding him and hanging on for dear life. Knowing what’s behind his jeans makes this over-the-clothes humping some kind of delicious torture.
He breaks the connection and I exult in hearing his ragged breath next to my ear. He swings me around and places me on my small bed and steps back. In two quick jerks, he’s nude before me—like a master artist’s sketch come to life in perfect proportion of muscle, sinew and tendon. His cock is large, hard and wet at the tip. I lick my lips anticipating the feel of it inside me, stretching me until I’m full up with Judge Harrison.
His fist closes around it and the bulbous head seems to fatten and widen. “A man is most vulnerable when he’s in a woman’s mouth. She could bite off his dick or crush his balls. And the moment when the orgasm pushes from the base of the spine and outward, she could ask for anything and he’d give it to her. Money, life, death, anything. It’s the moment of Samson on everlasting repeat.”
“Are you trying to talk me into giving you a blow job as a way for you to apologize to me?” I ask incredulously.
“Put your mouth around me and see if I’m not telling you the truth. There’s no point during sex where a woman owns a man more than when her mouth is around his dick.”
Judge places his hands behind his neck as if he is preparing to be arrested. “I won’t lay a finger on you until you ask me to.”
My mouth waters at the thought of that big cock in my mouth. I reach for his waist and at my first touch, the muscles of his hard stomach contract. While I can tell from his erection that he’s into it, the sight of his body reacting to the simple contact of my fingers on his torso pulls a corresponding tightening between my legs.