Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3

by MariaLisa deMora

  Another cautious footstep signaled him moving closer. He said, “I watched you last night.” Juanita pressed the tips of her fingers into her cheeks, digging deep, drawing unconscious furrows through her flesh. “I saw how it is with you.” A pause filled by clothes rustling, a sound she had become intimately familiar with over the past months and at the remembered images and pain, her stomach revolted. Retching, she staggered towards the sink, pitching forward with a bend at her waist, hands splayed to either side, hair hanging past her face.

  Heat came from beside her, a grip tangled in her hair as it was gathered up, pulled out of the way and over her shoulder. She waited for the wrenching pull, waited for the pain, but it never came. Gaze flickering over the tattooed skin of his hands, the dark lines trailing up his arms, she tried to make sense of what she saw. Remembering even his face held emblems and words, some phrases she recognized and some she did not. Sneaking glances when the men were busy talking to each other last night, she had nervously studied him and knew he wore a mix of Spanish, Spanglish, and English. There were even two visible tattoos she was certain were in German.

  Hard shell covering. Camouflage for a man who felt so deeply he believed it a weakness. A man who could look past what had happened to her? Not likely, Juanita knew, not if he spoke so easily of his mother. His life would have been surrounded by strong women: su madre, una abuela dulce, hermanas. Women who would frown down their noses on her in disgust, destroy what was left of her with a sharp word or a pitying look. He would see the comparison at a glance, folly to think otherwise. He was not a man like her Watcher.

  Beside her head, the faucet came on. Sweet, cold water flowed as easily from the spout as lies would from this man’s lips. His inked and colored hand appeared, cupping to contain a portion of the flow, lifting to her mouth with a commanding, “Bebe esto. Bebe por favor.” Unable to ignore him, she dipped her chin, drinking from his hand. “Querida, por qué te haces esto?”

  Eyes stinging, Juanita shook her head, denying his words. It wasn’t her doing this to herself, it was him. His lean body pressed to the counter beside her, one arm resting on her shoulder, blazing a path across her skin. Tresses held casually in his fingers, one demanding hand bringing another offering of water to her lips. Touching her in familiar ways, insultingly so, as if he already—

  Her brain stuttered, breaking the thought off in the middle as she squeezed her eyes closed. He could have. She didn’t look at every man who visited her. Couldn’t always see their faces, but was given no reprieve from feeling their bodies, their hands twisting and pulling at her. Their sucking mouths on her breasts, raising maroon welts ringed round with tiny black bruises, proof of embedded teeth.

  Not able to resist, her torso had been forced down as men entered her with ripping pain, bent double so anything they wanted was available to them. They knew her unwilling, those men. Hands always bagged to blunt the attack of her nails, or arms awkwardly bound behind her back so she couldn’t fight. Standing upright, tied to a hook embedded in the wall so she couldn’t escape. Hours upon hours, until her shoulders were screaming from the angle, wrists held together ending in impotent fists over her head. Red wet running down the insides of her thighs.

  Wedges in her mouth to hold it open, or a filth-encrusted towel thrown over her face so she couldn’t bite once she had proven herself unafraid to use her teeth. Her traitorous mind held onto memories of tearing flesh and the nauseating burn of hot and salty blood running down her throat. She felt again their stained fingers pinching her nose shut until she was drowning in flesh, throat blocked as ropes of saliva dripped from her chin, chest heaving weakly for release. Everything ending in pain. Reliving it forever, pain and chains. Blackness and hunger, and the terrifying sounds of her sisters in slavery crying in the darkness around her.

  “No, no.” Bones’ voice came from nearby, and Juanita jerked back until there was a ripping tear of roots from her scalp as his fingers snarled helplessly in her hair. Her hand flailed, passing underneath the water, spraying the window with droplets that trailed down like tears. An ocean of pain. She had wept herself dry after the first week.

  Mouth closed, jaw clenched so tight her teeth were aching in her head, Juanita stumbled over Bones’ feet and fell backwards. Fell, but never hit the floor because his arms, wiry and strong, caught her. Supporting her, holding her, his face close as he leaned in, mouth moving. She twisted and flung herself back and forth, trying futilely to tear free from his grasp. This was when the tears came in earnest, wide rivers of them escaping her eyes. Silently she cried, weeping for everything stolen from her. Salt on her tongue; the bright taste competing with dark copper and bitterest bile.

  “No, no. Estate quieta, querida.” Locking his gaze with hers, he gripped her head with one hand, the other like an iron bar across her back. Folding her against him, he crooned soft words to her, holding her as she cried. Quieting her, easing the pain with his care. Somehow she found herself seated at the table with a handful of paper napkins clutched in her fingers. Watching as he bustled around the kitchen, making coffee, bringing her a filled-to-the-brim cup heavily dosed with sugar and enough milk to swirl through the darkness, creating a beautiful roiling cloud of caramel-colored liquid.

  Carefully avoiding serious conversation, he had sat with her and talked. He allowed the silence she needed, not requiring anything from her. Permitted her time to recover. Amusing and witty, he told her about his friends in Chicago, and she learned his life had not been as sweet as she imagined. Sadness suffused his face when he spoke of losing his sister young, his mother soon after.

  In her privileged life from before, English was a requirement and often spoken at home. Her captivity had stolen some of that from her, her fears stealing more. With Bones, as he seamlessly transitioned from English to Spanish and back again, he showed her how the things could be blended to make something more than it was before, like the milk in her coffee, taking something worthy to an abundant goodness. Raised in a Spanish-speaking household in Midwest Norte Americanos, his accent was unique and choice of words sometimes entertaining, but as he exposed more of himself with each story, she came to believe this man could be her friend. He would never be her Watcher, never make her tremble with a touch, but Bones could be a friend.

  That was when she lost it for the second time that morning because she had nearly thrown all of this away without knowing the treasure behind his mask, reacting in a panic to imagined demons. If he were less of a man, he would have cast her down, stepped across her prone body to whatever it was he wanted. Staring up at him, leaning into his touch, she tried to explain, tried to make him understand, but even as she stammered her regrets, his eyes left her, locking on something across the room.

  Weight and heat came to rest against her leg and recognizing it, she did not pull away. Instead, she went to it. To him. She knew this pressure, had felt it a hundred times while riding behind Watcher, measured it in the fingers trailing up her knee to the outside of her thigh to gain her attention so he could point out the beauty all around them.

  Watcher had shown her a horse running free in a field, mane breaking like a wave in the wind. Tail held high, it had flagged the beast’s drumming retreat from the noise of the machine they rode.

  He’d drawn her attention to the beauty of a rainbow tumbling free from the clouds overhead, brilliant colors scattering and reflecting across the road ahead of them. Gems drawn down from the sky by the hand of God.

  Together they’d grinned at a child, face plastered to a sheet of glass, staring at them from inside a car, nose held upturned like a piglet. The absurdity emphasized by the soft mocking grunts and squeals coming from deep in Watcher’s chest. Laughter chasing them down the highway, his heavy gravel broken by her light belling.

  Those were times she loved. When he shared the things that made him smile.

  Now, Watcher touched her, and she twisted in her chair to find him kneeling close, right beside her, eyes only for her. Flinging herself into
his arms, she curled up against his chest, and the flow of tears was unceasing because this was something she wanted. Wanted him, more than life.

  Sitting on the mattress, draped across Watcher’s legs, cradled to his body, she let these memories flow through her and away, releasing the pain they held. Bones was talking again, his accent pronounced because he was…upset?

  “…do not handle her with anything other than utmost care, my friend, then will we have words. Juanita, beautiful, sweet Juanita, she deserves to only have goodness in her life. If you cannot give her this, if you cannot promise me now this is what you will have for her in your heart, then lift your arms and allow me to take her from you.” Watcher’s arms tightened, not releasing her in any way and Juanita’s heart jumped into her throat at his silent rejection of Bones’ words. “Can you give me your oath?”

  “Not sure how this became your business, Bones.” Watcher’s voice rumbled underneath her cheek, muscles all over his body tensed as the possession in his words shocked her. “She’s mine, and I won’t be handing her over to anyone, much less someone like you.”

  Bones’ voice carried a thin edge holding blood and danger as he asked, “Someone like me?”

  “Slick player. I saw you last night. Saw how you watched her. Saw how her getting spooked by you and your boys coming in registered with you. Saw how you eyed me. Didn’t take you ten minutes before you decided to ignore my claim.” He leaned forward slightly, taking her body with his as he hissed, “And I have a fucking claim, do not mistake that.”

  Leaning back, he took a moment to settle them against the headboard before continuing, “Dismissed what I have with her. You saw what you thought was your chance this morning, took a shot, but missed the fuckin’ mark so far you can’t even see how you hurt her more.” Watcher smoothed a gentle hand down her back, then up, broad palm cupping her shoulder to press her closer. “Someone like you, a user…a player, who don’t give a fuck the destruction you leave in your wake.”

  “I will leave you with your misjudgments, Watcher. Miscalculating seems to be a trait the Otey brothers shared. Danger showed his poor judgment in a bloody way with the Machos”—Watcher tensed, seeming about to say something, but Bones bulled through—“and everyone knows you counseled him differently. He should have listened to you. Everyone knows you are methodical and patient, but today you have made a grave mistake.”

  “What mistake?”

  Hatred dripped from Bones’ voice as he said, “Mistaking me for one of the men who would take joy from hurting the beauty you hold in your arms. Preciosa, such a wealth of beauty inside her even evil could not defeat.” He paused. “I offered her my friendship, and”—voice softening and lowering in register, he spoke directly to her, causing her to jolt in response because he knew her to be awake while Watcher, holding her, did not—“Juanita, my friendship is no lie. Mi bella amiga, you can come to me with any need, and I will see it fulfilled.”

  “Baby?” Watcher’s arms tightened around her again, and she angled her head up at his question. Soft, caring face, worried eyes, lines at the corners. The edges of his mouth tipped down, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “Honey? You okay?”

  Juanita searched inside herself for the fear. The terror that engulfed her when Bones touched her, when Mason filled the room with his laughter. The paralyzing revulsion of being surrounded by hateful, faceless men, hard fingers pinching and twisting with pain drawn into her body with every breath. It was still there, she knew, perhaps closed away for now, barricaded behind a door deep inside. But in Watcher’s arms, every emotion other than joy was held at bay. She was safe, could even be brave. Tipping her chin higher, she looked at him until her vision blurred, his face swimming.

  “Honey,” he called, even though his mouth was only inches from hers. Called Juanita as if he needed to bring her back from miles away, as if she were separate from him. “Talk to me.”

  “Si,” she said, and then shook her head, feeling the tears welling in her eyes escaping, slipping down the sides of her face. She wanted him to understand, wanted no lies or confusions between them. “Yes, I am okay. With you here, I am okay.”

  ***

  Watcher

  Watcher pressed his trembling lips to the skin of her forehead, holding there, a sense of peace sweeping over him. The whole scene this morning, from waking and seeing her seated near Bones at the kitchen table, to just now, with Bones stalking out after she made her verbal choice, telling the world she was safe in his arms, had been brutal. Watcher knew what he wanted, but until a moment ago, he hadn’t been sure if she felt anything in return.

  How the hell do I do this? His thoughts circled the same knowledge they had for the past week, every time he fought against the urge to take Juanita to his bed. Not fall in love with her, because that was a done deal, his fate sealed the first time she’d lifted her chin and braved her own fears. No, his worry was much more fundamental.

  I’m like a fucking joke, he thought, a walking, talking cliché.

  His dick thickened, thudding against the zipper of his jeans. No fucking idea what I’m doing. He slipped one hand behind her head, threading his fingers through her hair. Leaning down, he nibbled his way down her cheek, leaving little kisses in his wake. Her hand gripped his arm, and she shifted in his lap, soft ass grazing and then cradling his cock so he groaned, pressing his face into her neck.

  At my age, and I’m still a fucking virgin.

  Watcher thought back to all of Deke’s laughing jokes about needing experience and closed his eyes. He would willingly pay for some confidence about now. He didn’t count the half a dozen fumbling attempts ending with him soaking his pants or the gal’s hands. He had used his hands on women, too, loved touching their bodies, feeling them react to him. But he’d never sealed the deal, so to speak, the specter of what happened to Tabby and Bethy never far, and he’d wanted the act to mean something, and none of those women had.

  The mechanics of the process weren’t a mystery. Watcher had been at enough club parties and seen more than one live show by party dolls, but those women didn’t draw him in. Nearly every one of them had an agenda. He had never found someone who wanted him just for himself. Never found anything that was right, special enough.

  Trailing his nose up Juanita’s neck, he nuzzled against her cheek, dragging his lips across hers, feeling her fingers tighten around his arm. He twisted in the bed, settling her on her back, his elbow to the mattress. “Talk to me,” he urged her, stroking across her belly with his palm. Looking down at her face, he was astonished to see what he thought was evidence of arousal in her parted lips, heavy lids covering half her dilated pupils. Surely it’s too soon for her. Not even a day in trade for each month she spent a slave, he thought, deciding to let her drive this thing between them ahead only at her pace. “What do you want, honey?”

  The tip of her chin angled towards her shoulder, and she shrugged, her eyes dipping to his throat. Avoiding his eyes, whether in fear or reluctance, he couldn’t guess. “Honey,” he whispered, anchoring his hand to her waist, holding on and holding her to him. Fingers of his other hand drifted through her hair, loose for once, sheets of inky beauty spread across the pillows. Soft as silk running across his fingers. His cock throbbed, and he shifted his hips away, not wanting her to feel pressured if she noticed his erection.

  Still, she lay silent at his side, and he dipped his head, pressing his cheek to her temple, wishing for access to intelligence like he’d had back in the military. Without it, he was floundering like a fish out of water. I missed the boat on that one, he thought, filled with aching need, but unwilling to go forwards in any way if she didn’t initiate the play. If she couldn’t talk to him, couldn’t express her desire, then she sure wasn’t ready for anything more. I can wait. Time to slow down.

  “You should sleep. You had a restless night.” He drew in a lungful of her scent, preparing himself to pull away when he felt her fingers circle the wrist of the hand he had at her waist. Gentle pressure
tugged upwards, and when he ceased resisting, she drew his hand up her chest, until his palm settled on her breast. Their gasps sounded together, and his fingers involuntarily curled around the soft mound pressed into his palm. Yes. God, yes.

  “Honey?” Caressing her, he asked for confirmation even as his hand was lifting and plumping, feeling the shiver when he grazed across her nipple with the pad of his thumb. Mouth to her ear, he whispered, “Juanita, honey. Jesus. Tell me what you want.”

  Her answering whisper was delayed, voice breathy when she replied, giving him a verbal go order. “Anything with you, Watcher.” His other hand moved, touching the back of her neck as he gave another thumb swipe across her nipple. She arched, head tipping back into the pillow, but not to get away. This was her lifting upwards into him, seeking more touch, more sensation. “Dios, Watcher.”

  “Yeah?” Seeking affirmation again, he pressed his lips to her cheek, gliding down to the point of her jaw, that delicate angle needing attention from him in the form of tongue and teeth. He slipped down on the bed, giving himself more room to discover every inch of skin on her neck. Mouthing and nibbling, he traveled up the column of her throat, feeling her nervous swallow.

  He took her mouth an instant later, hand back to her waist to hold her close, other hand winding up her hair, feeling the silk sliding through his fingers. The kiss grew heated, starting out as a soft exploration and quickly changing to a gasping embrace. Juanita dueled with him for control, telling him without words she was exactly where he was in this; hot and bothered, ready for more. More he didn’t know how to initiate, not really, his few experiences not preparing him for this.

  Tongues sliding and probing, she captured his bottom lip between her teeth, the tiny pricks of painful pressure shooting straight to his dick, making him jerk in his pants. The heaviness there grew in direct relation to the length of the kiss, the press of her teeth in his flesh.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, then his cock jerked again, this time in response to the intense heat from her hand covering his crotch. “Jesus,” this drawn from deep in his throat, his voice gravelly even to his own ears. She cupped the head of his cock, fingers wrapping partway around him, molding the fabric of his pants to his erection.