by Nikki Riker
She lets out a startled gasp when I pull her into my arms, pressing all that lithe, lean muscle against my front. One hand comes up to tangle in her hair, and it's just as soft and touchable as it looks. I bury my face in her neck and smile against her throat. Her scent swirls around me, spicy like cardamom. I can't tell if she put on perfume to prepare for this eventuality or if she does just smell that fucking good.
She shudders when I press just the edge of teeth into her throat. She seems like the sort who'd enjoy a good, hard fuck. I've heard rumors about this woman. As much of a bruiser as her brothers, with half the restraint. I can guarantee she's never been with a man like me, who can subdue her and make her like every damn second of it.
I lay kisses everywhere but those soft petal lips. I have kissed no one properly since Trinity, and I'm not wasting that affection on an enemy.
Her hands rest placidly on my waist, and she's pulling that full lower lip between her teeth to contain a sound of pleasure as I bring one hand up to palm her breast. Her body betrays her, bucking into mine when I roll her nipple between my thumb and forefinger through the fabric. I give a hard nip to her earlobe and then growl the command into her ear;
"On the bed."
She hesitates a fraction of a second before nodding to herself, trying her damndest to close off once again.
That won't do.
I tug her toward the edge of the bed gently by her calves, splaying her legs so I get a preview of her pussy through all that sheer lace. She's shaved bare, and there's a blush of pink here that was absent anywhere else on her body. I brush the pads of my fingers across the thin material, grinning when I find her wet. Try as she might to ignore me, she's already affected by what I've done.
"Call me Calamity," I tell her as I hook a finger in the waistband of her panties, drawing them down those long shapely legs. I fling them into the corner lazily. "You're going to want something to scream when I'm done with you."
"Arrogant prick," she mutters. Another shiver rocks her frame and I smirk. The lady doth protest too much, it seems.
"It's only arrogance if I can't deliver."
She has only a few seconds to realize what I'm about to do when I settle between her legs, pressing a harsh nip into the soft skin of her inner thigh. I want to leave an imprint here so any man who fucks her after will know I've been here. I press my fingers into her skin, cradling her thighs in my hands to keep her in the position I want her. I will not give her my cock until she's earned it. But I will give her this. I will make her cum so hard she sees stars and make her regret treating me like I'm an unpleasant undertaking. I'd be willing to bet my most prized possession that she's had no one do this for her before. It'll be a real head fuck for her that it's me doing it.
I move the last few inches until my mouth is on her, my tongue delving between her folds. Fuck. She tastes damn good. There's almost a kick to her, like the spicy scent that clings to her neck. Cardamom or cinnamon.
Her hips buck up in surprise, and a moan flies from her mouth before she can contain it. I keep her as still as I can with my grip on her thighs, stroking circles into her skin. I find my way leisurely to that sweet little nub and then zero in on it, smirking when she lets out another protracted moan. I don't do this with every woman that comes crawling into my bed, but I've made a point of getting very good at it over the years. Fear isn't the only thing I can use to get someone to capitulate. Sex is a great negotiating tool. I'd even considered using this tactic on Avis Harding earlier in the evening.
I frown, pausing my ministrations momentarily as the red-haired vixen flits briefly into my mind. It's not like I feel bad for thinking about one woman while fucking another. It's been my life's story since Trinity. No woman has ever fucking come close to her. But I don't enjoy trading comparisons between this girl and the woman that Kolton sent as an incentive to join up.
"Oh, fuck..." she says on an exhale, hips moving in little yearning rolls as I continue mercilessly.
She sounds close already, and I'm very confident in my assessment. No one has ever done this to her before. I sling her legs around my shoulders, and she uses them to draw me even closer to her. I let my hands slide down from her thighs to cup her ass, removing any space there was left between us. She seems to appreciate the new angle because another slow moan rolls from her.
Her fingers wind into my hair, tracing long nails over my scalp. It sends little prickles of pleasure down my spine, and a jolt of pure want to my cock. As if I wasn't hard enough already. The temptation to sink into her is strong. I'm sure, at this point, she'd appreciate the fullness of me inside her. But I'm trying to prove a fucking point. This isn't getting brushed off as a necessary evil she must perform for another. If she wants it, she will have to ask for it.
I pull one hand away from that tight, shapely ass to slide two fingers inside of her, stroking over a spot that makes her thighs tense on either side of my face. She quivers, dangling on a precipice as I steadily guide her over the edge. Her muscles twitch, already nearly at what promises to be an intense orgasm.
I pull away just enough to rumble another command. "Say my name."
She drags her lip between her teeth, restraining a frustrated groan. Her eyes screw shut, and her hips roll against the continued thrust of my fingers as if she just can't help herself. She wants me to be inside of her just as much as I'd like the same.
"Fuck you," she pants.
I bark a laugh. "No, that's what I'm doing to you."
I don't give her time to compose a witty retort. My mouth finds her clit once more, and she lets out a squeal before she can slap a hand over her mouth. I chuckle, and it only makes her squirm harder. Her entire back arches off the bed seconds later, forming a perfect bow shape as she comes. The legs anchored around my shoulders buck up once, and her entire body convulses in a full-body climax. It's entertaining as hell to watch those perfect tits bounce as she rides out the sensation.
She still doesn't say my name, which pisses me off a little. But I've got only time. We'll be doing this again. I'm not sure I want the taste of her from my mouth any time soon.
Penelope settles onto the black duvet, breathing hard. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure, her body supple, and she's slightly mussed. She's staring at me expectantly, propping herself up on one elbow as I rise from my crouched position. Her impatience is palpable. I bite back another darkly amused chuckle. So fucking eager, even if she won't admit to it. It's not going to take long for her to capitulate.
A small, indignant sound escapes from her when I turn for the door.
"That's it?" she asks breathlessly. "What about the rest of it? We had an agreement. Fucking, right?"
I cock my head over my shoulder to look at her. "You're mine, Penelope. I'll decide when and how I want to fuck you. If you want my cock inside of you, you better get down on your knees and beg for it."
Her afterglow dissipates real fucking quick. The satisfied sex kitten is swapped for a steely tigress in an instant, her dark eyes closing and a look reminiscent of disgust flitting across her face.
"My name is Penny," she bites out.
I lean over and fist a hand in her hair, dragging our faces together. Her breath shudders against my face, warm and close. Her gaze drops almost unwillingly to my mouth, her lips parting, ready and willing to receive a kiss.
"I'll call you what I like," I inform her before releasing her.
Her gaze still doesn't leave my mouth. She licks her lips, and I swear I see disappointment play out in her eyes for the briefest of moments. I give her a light push, and she lands sprawled on the duvet again.
I turn for the door, and this time she doesn't call out for me again. She's quietly seething, and I don't have to look over my shoulder to know that she's glaring at me.
"Get some rest, little Spade," I call over my shoulder. "You're going to fucking need it."
5
Penny
I still can't fucking move. He's been out of the room for a good minute and a
half, and I can't force my stupid legs to support me for more than a few seconds. My entire body feels boneless, and I'm beyond pissed about that. The first man who gives me a full-body orgasm, and it's Calamity Fucking Gardel of all people.
And the worst part? I want him to come back and finish what he started. I can't decide if I'm just that fucked up or if I somehow crashed my bike on the way over, and this is my mind's final fever dream, offering me the most absurd scenario to chew on while I slowly die of a brain bleed. It's not the way I want to go, if I'm honest, but it's got to have more dignity than this.
I'm sprawled on Calamity Gardel's bed, naked but for my violet lace bra, which offers pitiful coverage. The man who tried to kill my brother had his hands on me. The man who possibly shot my father used that wicked tongue to bring me skillfully and mercilessly to the best climax I have had in my life. My cheeks are burning, and I want to smack myself for acting like such a damn girl about this.
It could have been a lot worse, I try to reason. He could have fucked me properly. I noticed a sad lack of protection when we came into the room. He could have finished inside me and knocked me up into the bargain. I should be grateful that he stopped at eating my pussy.
But all the should-haves in the world don't stop me from hating myself.
Because, if I can force myself to move, I'll drag him back and make him finish what he started. I'm so fucking furious with my traitorous body that frustrated tears gather at the corner of my eyes. It's a challenge to force myself to swallow past the hard knot of emotion in my throat. I swipe at my stinging eyes before any evidence can leak out to ruin everything. I will not give Calamity Gardel the satisfaction of knowing just what a head trip this is.
It's like some sick cosmic joke, isn't it? I search for years, trying to find a man who can keep up with me on a bike and dominate me thoroughly in bed. And I find what I'm looking for in the arms of the one man I can never allow myself to get attached to. The one man who should disgust me more than any other, and I can't even force myself to feel the proper hatred for him.
I clench my thighs together tightly, trying to quell the insistent throbbing of my core that begs for something thicker than fingers to slide into me.
"Prick," I mutter again.
He's done this on purpose. I jerk my chin up and glare defiantly where the massive man disappeared. If he thinks he can cow me that easily, he's got another thing coming. I'm Penelope Maria Ilona Cruz, and I've taken no shit. I'm not going to start now. He wants me to beg? He's going to be waiting a while. And meanwhile, I'll ride out whatever he does.
I untuck the covers and wrap myself tightly at their center, locking out the cold creeping over me. It also acts as a straight jacket against stupidity. It's one more layer to restrain me from seeking out Gardel. I shimmy to the top of the bed and keep my hands tucked firmly between my thighs until the throbbing want dulls to something more manageable. I don't know what Gardel's plan is here, but I know one thing with dead certainty.
Calamity Gardel will regret the day he tried to make me a pawn in his game.
I'm deposited onto the floor unceremoniously when someone tugs the covers out from under me. I splutter and roll to my feet, fists automatically springing up to cold-clock Calamity Gardel for waking me so rudely.
Instead, I find myself face to face with a woman about four inches shorter than me, even boosted by four-inch heels. I'm 5'9, so flat-footed, this woman has to be only about five foot even. She's busty and curvy in all the places I'm not, practically popping out of the pink halter and short denim skirt she's wearing. It's South Hollens, and the usual patter of rain is droning on outside the window, so I know she has to be freezing. Still, she screws an unpleasant little smile onto her face, just for me.
"You should wear nasal strips," she suggests snidely, tapping the side of her nose lightly. "You rattle on like a chainsaw."
Heat flushes into my cheeks, and I'm about three seconds away from swinging at this bitch. It should be easy enough to knock her off those heels. She didn't dress well for the fight she's trying to pick.
It's only then that I notice her peeking curiously at my lower half, and I realize belatedly that I'm still naked, except for my bra, and I'm flashing this woman an eyeful. I scramble to pick up the abandoned duvet, forgoing my need to sucker punch this bitch into oblivion to preserve modesty. Her smirk only broadens as I arrange the covers around my front.
"Who the fuck are you?" I demand.
"Kylie," she says with a shrug. "And you must be Penelope Cruz."
"Penny," I grind out.
I'm tired of everyone slinging my name around like they've known me for years. Only Kase and Cruz call me Penelope, and even then, only when they're pushing their luck. This woman hasn't earned the right to my name. Neither has Calamity Gardel, but it's slightly easier to ignore the twinge of irritation at his presumption when it's said in that gravelly bass growl he does.
"Whatever."
Kylie tosses a cloth bundle onto the bed. Her eyes tighten with dislike as she scans me from the soles of my feet all the way to the mussed hair atop my head.
"The boss got this for you," she spits, nodding to the clothing she dropped. I get the impression that someone is suffering from a case of sour grapes. Was this curvy little hooker Calamity's favorite before I came along? Is she put out because he just found a newer, interesting toy to play with?
If so, she can have him. I don't intend to stick around long enough to be broken. Eventually, he will tire of this game, and that will be the point at which I make my escape.
"Get dressed," she instructs me lazily. "The boss says you're not going to laze about all day. Get up so the rest of the boys can get a good look at you."
My stomach pitches once as I consider the implication behind those words. Maybe I wasn't as fortunate as I thought last night. Perhaps he's still planning to run a train on me.
I shake my head, pursing my lips. I'm jumping to conclusions. Why bother gifting me clothes if he will do something like that? Besides, Calamity Gardel doesn't strike me as the sort of man to share. He's not tossing me to his men until he's got inside me at least once.
Kylie pivots on one ridiculous heel and marches out the way she came. I'm left standing alone in the massive and sparsely decorated room. Curiously, I prod at the cloth that's pooled on the bed. It's a horrific pastel pink, something I wouldn't be caught dead in. When I lift it up for inspection, I find it's a scandalously short backless skater dress that will probably only hit me mid-thigh. Perhaps higher. I make a disgusted face at it, the desire to punch things quickly overriding my embarrassment at flashing the messenger. That motherfucker. He seems to know just how to push all my berserk buttons. He has to know that I'd rather strut around naked than wear a pastel pink monstrosity like this.
I drop to my knees, searching for my abandoned jeans, blouse, and jacket only to find them conspicuously absent. With mounting desperation, I cast my gaze around the room, trying to find a scrap of the clothing I cast off the night before. They're gone without a trace. In an act of dwindling hope, I move the sparse furniture around to see if I can at least find the panties that Gardel flung away the night before.
Nothing. I can't find a stitch of the clothing I wore here.
I eye the pink thing on the bed, clamping my jaw down so hard on a scream that my teeth ache. He's offering me a choice. Humiliate myself or play his game.
My knee-jerk reaction is to steal his boxers and just lounge around his clubhouse, letting his men get an eyeful of what he wants. But he's probably anticipating that, given how well he's played me. So I fight against my gut instinct. I will not give him the satisfaction. But I do silently vow painful vengeance. The bastard will pay for this.
I stride out of the room a few minutes later, moving as carefully as I can. The wide, flared skirt is breezy and reminds me with every step I am not wearing underwear. I feel uncharacteristically vulnerable like this, and that's probably intentional. Gardel is subtly reminding me of our bar
gain, stating without words he can shove this skirt up at any time and take what he wants with his tongue, teeth, or cock.
He's waiting for me when I saunter into the foyer. There are more men here than before, and I note with wry amusement that the Kings look to be a sausage club. It’s not as if the Spades are a bastion of diversity. Men still outnumber women significantly, but the lack of women in the room is glaring.
An arrogant looking prick with dark hair is lounging against a nearby wall and has the gall to wolf-whistle at me. I wait for Calamity to bring the metaphorical hammer down on the guy, but he barely glances up at me as I shuffle into the room. Apparently, he's already putting what passed between us behind him. It shouldn't bug me, he's unaffected by me. The less of his attention I draw, the better, right?
But it does bug me. Because who the hell goes down on a woman one night and won't fucking defend her honor the following day? A fucking asshole, that's who.
I walk past him in a sway of hips, feeling petty after the way he left me to my own devices the night before. Let him get a good look at my ass and everything else that I have to offer because he is never getting a chance to have it. I'll make sure he’s a man of his word. He’s not going to fuck me until I beg? He’s going to have blue balls for a long time.
The arrogant biker who'd whistled at me pushed away from the wall as I approach and puts himself in my path. The patch on his jacket identifies him as Liam. And that was the last thing I register before Liam, the pompous little shit, reaches out and palms my ass. His fingers curl around the cheek and squeeze hard, and he lets out a low, coarse laugh. He flips my skirt to get a better grip and tries to grab the other cheek, attempting to grind himself into my front.
My fist is cocked before I even think, and my fist is colliding with the side of his smirking face seconds later. It hurt a whole hell of a lot more to punch someone with bare knuckles than I remembered. I usually have brass knuckles on my person. Figures that Gardel would steal those too and leave me to the mercy of his men—or so he thought.