Edison (The Henchmen MC Book 10)

by Jessica Gadziala

  Because they won't anticipate it.

  The problem was, this attacker wasn't just any laymen on the street. This was a fellow teacher at a gym that taught Krav Maga.

  Of course he knew the move.

  Of course he was expecting it.

  So his hold loosened slightly, rendering my impact completely useless with his lighter grip.

  My feet landed, ricocheting pain up my ankles and knees, and making his arm slide.

  It wasn't on my waist any longer.

  Oh no.

  His whole hand was cradling the underside of my breast, his fingertips splaying the whole side of the admittedly undersized swell.

  And everything in me froze.

  My heart seized in my chest.

  My blood stopped coursing through my veins.

  My lungs forgot how to inflate and draw in breath.

  In fact, the only parts of me that seemed even remotely capable of functioning were my nipples which hardened almost instantly, straining against the thin ribbed material of the wifebeater, making me, for the first time, curse myself for not wearing a bra. And, well, there was no use trying to feign modesty here, that was never a condition I was ever afflicted with. My pussy tightened hard and a rush of wet met my panties.

  Turned on.

  Good god, I had never been so turned on so quickly before.

  Realizing the inappropriateness, Edison's hand moved. But by moving, it had to graze over the breast again, sending a shiver through me.

  And if you were wondering, no, of course it couldn't be the kind of shiver that moved through your insides, stayed a private little secret.

  Nope.

  If I learned anything about myself over the years, it was Lady Luck did not know how to pronounce my damn name.

  This shiver moved through my insides deliciously and worked its way outward, causing my whole body to tremble slightly once.

  And thanks to still being plastered against his chest, there was no way in hell he didn't feel it.

  Me, well, I was never exactly known for keeping my mouth shut.

  I was not the kind of woman who fretted about it silently, giving herself a panic attack over simple shit that could have just as easily been addressed and moved on from.

  "Okay, we are going to go ahead and move on, pretending your hand didn't just grab my tit," I told him, for some reason not moving to turn around, staying against his solid chest.

  "Yeah?" he asked, his breath warm on my ear, almost enough to send another shiver through me. Almost. "Are we also going to pretend you didn't just tremble from my hand just barely grazing you, love?"

  Oh, good god.

  The pressure on my lower stomach was becoming positively painful, making me curse myself for not having a preemptive vibrator sesh before hitting the road this morning to meet my hot-as-fuck instructor whose hands I knew were going to be all over me.

  Stupid move.

  "Yes," I said, finding my voice, forcing my feet to take my weight and turn me to face him. "That is exactly what we are going to do."

  He leaned slightly forward, invading my space, stealing my air, his lips pulled up in a hint of a smirk at one side. "See, I think that might be easier said than done."

  "Try harder," I suggested, raising a brow. "If you'd show me a pressure point, I could have you writhing in pain, and forgetting all about the shiver."

  "Yeah?" he asked, sounding completely unconvinced as his hand rose. "Would that help me forget this too?" he asked, finger moving out to swipe across my still-hardened nipple, making a tremble move through me. This time, luckily, just on the inside.

  But when I spoke, there was an airy desire in my tone, even if my words were that of denial. Denial we both knew was bullshit.

  "It's cold in here."

  "Yeah," he agreed, dropping his hands, taking a step back. "That must be it."

  He knew the truth, but thankfully, let it drop.

  Then spent the next hour showing me all the ways I could be almost - and several times, definitely - doubled over in pain from one simple, firm press of fingers.

  I could take it.

  I kept telling myself that each time the pain would sear through me, bringing me down on a knee, making me fold forward, hiss out, curse this man seven ways to fucking Sunday then twice more for good measure.

  I could take it.

  Until, of course, I simply couldn't.

  Maybe the point was a particularly bad one, hitting a more sensitive cluster of nerves. Or, possibly more likely, my body had simply had enough, too much, and couldn't control its reaction anymore.

  That was the only explanation.

  Because me, yeah, not only was I the cold hard bitch everyone accused me of, but I had tear ducts as dry as goddamn sandpaper.

  So when tears swam in my eyes, blurring my vision, completely and utterly horrifying me with their presence, the words, "Please stop!" burst out of me almost as a scream, echoing off the walls and back to my own ears as Edison snatched his hand away, deep eyes going wide with concern, maybe realizing he had pushed it too far too soon.

  "Ow ow ow," my voice hissed as I slid down the padded wall, pulling my knees to my chest I hard-blinked at the unwanted tears.

  "Fuck," Edison growled, and I was vaguely aware of him dropping to his knees in front of me before his hand reached out toward the pressure point again, making me jerk back, slamming against the wall with a sound that was meant to tell him to fuck off, but came off a lot like a whimper somehow. "Easy," he murmured, his impossibly deep growl becoming oddly comforting, "I'm not going to hurt you," he told me right before his fingers moved to stroke over the spot, making the throbbing pain he had inflicted just a moment before ease almost instantly.

  Once the pain faded, his hand moved upward, his thumb catching one tear that had managed to slip out and slide down.

  Feeling that, seeing the look of regret in his eyes, it did something to me, something that I didn't really even have a name for, something I was sure I never experienced before. It was a heaviness in my chest and an ache in my heart.

  Maybe someone more in-touch with their emotions, someone less guarded, someone who understood what these sensations were could put a name to them.

  Me, though, I was clueless.

  All I did know was that I found them simultaneously comforting and incredibly disconcerting, a cocktail that wasn't going down smooth.

  "You're so fucking tough, Lenny. I forgot to be careful."

  There the sensations were again, stronger.

  And, to be honest, that was one of the best compliments I had received in a long time.

  I was tough.

  I tried so hard to be.

  It was reassuring to hear someone else recognized that.

  But I still had my pride.

  "I don't need you to be careful," I countered, forcing some steel into my voice even if I wasn't feeling it. "I just need a minute."

  With that, I pushed up off the floor, moving quickly away in toward the main part of the gym, my hands at the back of my neck, taking a few deep breaths to calm my nerves, ignoring the eyes from everyone around who maybe, possibly heard me cry out.

  I went across the room toward the water dispenser, realizing as I reached for a paper cup that my hand was shaking.

  Freaked, I dropped it down by my side, curling it into a fist, trying to mentally berate my body into doing what I wanted it to do even if it was overwhelmed from all the adrenaline surges brought on by the pain.

  "Lenny," Edison's voice said from my side, making me wonder if he could see how my hand was shaking, how it was seeming to start to make my whole arm do the same. Hell, even my insides felt all weird and trembling.

  What was wrong with me?

  "I think I'm done for the day."

  "You're shaking."

  I wanted to say something smart-assy about my tits or something, but I couldn't seem to think clearly through the completely foreign coiled, twitchy sensation in my abdominal muscles.


  I needed to get out of here.

  And fast.

  Before I did something completely out of character and admit a weakness, ask for help.

  I didn't need help.

  I needed to get back to my apartment and consult Google, figure out what was wrong with me.

  I was sure that after ten minutes, I would self-diagnose with three different kinds of cancer, some rare auto-immune disease, and some sort of mineral deficiency.

  No matter what it was, I would have a shot and a few Advil and hope for the best.

  People in jobs like mine didn't get the so-called luxury of health insurance.

  I once got the flu with a fever so high that I hallucinated and woke up somehow outside with no shoes or jacket in the middle of winter because I couldn't afford the eighty-dollar fee to go to the emergency medical office.

  I certainly wasn't dropping eighty because I worked out too hard, inexplicably cried, and started shaking.

  It sounded like a whole lot of non-life-threatening to me. Even if it was completely and utterly embarrassing.

  I mean, seriously, what the ever-loving hell was that? So what if it hurt? So what if I reached my max? I had hit my max before without tearing up. Maybe it was a nerve thing, when you pressed them enough, they got more and more sensitive or something.

  I would be fine.

  I just needed a shower, some food, then to get a decent night of sleep after work. That was all.

  I was training too hard to be running on fumes.

  I made a peanut butter sandwich, loaded half an inch thick for extra protein.

  Then, well, I ovaried the fuck up and moved on.

  FOUR

  Edison

  I was a fuck.

  That was the only way to put it.

  I didn't do shit like that.

  I didn't go overboard.

  I didn't ever lose sight of the fact that a student in my class wasn't as trained as I was, couldn't take the same level of abuse that I could after so many years.

  I certainly never genuinely hurt a woman.

  Pushed one in class? Twisted them in ways that weren't comfortable? Let them slam back against a wall or the floor? Sure, yes. It was necessary to teach them to tolerate a hit.

  But I never, fucking never brought tears to a woman's eyes from pushing her too hard.

  That was exactly what I was trying to prevent - men who used their strength against women. Then I went ahead and made a woman like Lenny tear up.

  I wasn't lying to her either.

  She was so fucking tough.

  I had gone up against trained men who couldn't take pressure point after pressure point like she did.

  Even when she hissed and cursed me to hell, she didn't pull back. She kept charging, kept asking for more, kept trying to sharpen herself. The training session had been so intense - then so abruptly over - that I didn't get a chance to see if I could weasel out what that was for.

  A part of me was mildly worried that I wouldn't get the chance again after the tears then the shaking. On top of the tit graze and shivering.

  I could tell it was most definitely an off-day for her. She didn't strike me - or anyone who so much as crossed her path - as someone who wore her reactions on her sleeve. Snark, bitterness, and the slightest bit of anger aside. She damn sure didn't seem like the kind of woman who shivered easily either.

  I would be lying if I said that her reaction didn't shoot right to my cock. A woman wound as tightly as her, who had the guards that she had, shivering at the barest of touches? Yeah, I couldn't help but wonder how she might respond with my lips at her neck, my tongue on her nipples, my fingers or cock buried deep in her pussy.

  It would be a world-class fuck.

  I think we both understood that.

  But I also understood that if I tried to go there, that she might decide not to train with me anymore, which would deprive her of some skills she might very well need for whatever it was she was preparing for.

  But then again, I also thought she was fully capable of showing up just to make a point.

  That the sex wasn't personal.

  That she wasn't wishy-washy about a casual fuck.

  That she wasn't going to let the fact that she enjoyed your cock alter her behavior or patterns in the least.

  If for no other reason than so a guy didn't think she was affected by him.

  Interesting.

  That was what Lenny was.

  Women with guards like that, yeah, you know there had to be a story there. Likely one they had no interest in sharing. Which only made men like me even more intrigued to hear it.

  "The fuck is up with him?" Reign asked, pulling me out of my thoughts, making me realize he was talking about me. Which meant he had likely spoken to me without a response.

  "Came back from his class like this," Roderick supplied, making me shoot him a look. "What? It's the fucking truth, man. Been lost up in your head for hours. Expect that from Roan, not so much you."

  "You finally met Lenny, didn't you?" Cyrus asked. The way my head whipped around to him at the sound of her name on his lips was, apparently, all the answer he needed. "Yeaaaah," he said, nodding, reaching up to run a hand down his beard. "She is something else, right? Tougher than half the fucks here," he added, and I had to agree. "Surprised it took you this long to notice her."

  "Why's that?"

  "Dunno," Cy said, shrugging. "There's just something about her. That's your thing, isn't it? Chicks with something about them that you can't quite put your finger on."

  He was referring to his sister, Wasp, who he was convinced I had some plans on fucking behind his back. I didn't. First, because of loyalty. Second, because she needed a certain kind of man to get past her particular guards. I wasn't that kind. We were friendly when she came to visit. But that was all it was and all it would ever be.

  "Pickiest biker I've ever met," Sugar agreed, dropping down in a chair across from Cy.

  That was fair.

  When there were women invited to the compound, or when we all went out on the town, Roderick, Virgin, and Sugar tended to almost always go home with someone, or bring someone up to their room.

  Roan would occasionally be interested.

  Reeve, well, he often didn't even go, didn't participate.

  Reeve was another one with secrets. Not the kind like Roan and I had, blood-soaked and brutal. But they were there in that haunted look in his eyes, in his unwillingness to connect with anyone at all - his own brothers included - let alone random women.

  He had been more inclined to participate back when his brother was single, when he would - more or less - force it upon him. But Cy was with Reese, leaving his women-filled shenanigans well in his past. As it should be. But it also meant Reeve wasn't pushed to do the normal shit Cy used to encourage him to do, usually just hanging back at the compound, claiming he was doing so so that everyone else could have a good time, but anyone with a working brain would know it was just an excuse.

  Me, well, like they said, I was picky.

  I had no interest in taking some random woman to bed because her pussy got wet at the idea of an outlaw biker, in being able to slum it, knowing it wouldn't come back to bite her because she knew that the next night, your average biker would be right onto the next woman.

  I wasn't opposed to casual sex. Clearly, since I hadn't attempted a relationship since my very early twenties, back when I was so wet behind the ears that I didn't see that my lifestyle at the time was not something to try to bring a woman into.

  It wasn't the lack of depth of the act that was the problem.

  It was the lack of depth of the connection.

  It wasn't enough to have a great body, to be interested.

  I wanted more than that.

  Yes, even just for a one-night stand.

  I wanted a woman who intrigued me, who sparked something other than a fucking hard-on.

  Cy was right; it was always the girls with 'something' about them, that thing that they ha
d that you couldn't quite put a finger on, the thing that you wanted to understand.

  Those were the women I approached in bars; the ones who couldn't care less if I did or not.

  And it wasn't the challenge, that alpha bullshit about wanting to fuck the unattainable girl.

  It was just the girls who had something, who by having it, clearly had some depth, that worked for me.

  Cyrus was right; Lenny had something.

  "You gotta wonder what lit that fire under her ass," he went on.

  "What fire?" Sugar asked as he typed off something rapidly on his cell. Maybe getting in touch with Janie.

  "She's training like she expects to be jumped at any minute," Cy explained. "I've never seen anything like it. If you're at the gym anytime between eleven and four, she's there, busting her ass. No wonder she's so fucking thin. I've never seen someone go at a heavy like she does. It's a miracle she hasn't broken a hand."

  "So, what? You only want to dip your wick in a woman who can kick ass?" That was from Roderick.

  "Nah, man," Cy went on, happy to do all the talking for me, a quality he was likely used to with his brother who barely spoke at all. "It's more than that. She's got this fucking attitude too. About as friendly as a junkyard dog one minute, giving you a ribbing of a lifetime the next. She's just unique. That's Edison's thing."

  "You going there?" Virgin asked, another somewhat quiet member of the newer Henchmen guys. He wasn't easy to get a read on. Aside from knowing he and Sugar had been raised in an MC together and he had a way with women, I really didn't know much about him. Not even in well over a year of knowing him.

  Honestly, that was a good question. One I didn't have an answer to.

  Did I want to? Fuck yeah.

  I had needed to go up and take a shower when I got back to deal with the painful need for release from grappling with her for over an hour. Just the memory of the way she'd shivered had my cock rock fucking solid again.

  I wanted her, sure.

  But that didn't mean I would have her.

  Not even if I knew she wanted me too. Which she did.

  It wasn't that easy.

  "I pushed her to tears with pressure points today," I admitted, not knowing why I had the urge to share that information, maybe because I thought that hearing the whole of the situation out loud might help me understand it better myself.