by Tara Oakes
She swallows.
Lazily, I trail my fingertip down the front of the throat that just gulped nervously, down between the tits that I couldn’t help but admire in her low cut shirt as she bent over behind the bar, down the center of her stomach, dipping in as I cross over the cute little belly button under the cotton. I feel her quiver under my touch.
Once I’ve reached the leather belt that’s cinched around her tiny little waist, holding her tight black skirt in place, she bites her lip in anticipation.
“That was a killer roast you made for supper. What did you make me for desert?” I let my words toy with her.
Her eyes roll back for the shortest little second before refocusing on me. “That depends. What are you in the mood for?”
She knows what I’m in the mood for. “Something sweet.”
I hoist her up, and she quickly encircles her legs around me to balance herself as I carry her over to my old wooden desk. Making sure I’ve got a solid hold of her with my right arm, I use my left to clear away the papers and small boxes from the wooden surface before setting her down on the wood.
The knee-high leather boots she’s wearing fall to either side of me as she lets her legs fall. I grab each one under the knee and pull her closer to the edge. She yelps from the sudden movement, but her eyes never leave mine.
I can see the rising of her chest flutter as her breath catches when I drop to my knees on my office floor, burying my mouth deep into the shadow between her thighs, searching for the hot center.
I follow her scent, the honeydew aroma that covers her delicate skin until my mouth finds the thin strap of her cotton thong. I use the strong muscles of my tongue to push it aside, lapping at the tender, slick, quivering flesh beneath.
The material only falls back into place and I grumble my displeasure at the hindrance, using my teeth to tug at it until it’s safely tucked into the crease of her inner thigh. My mouth returns to the soft peaks that make up her core.
I know every single square inch of this little valley, letting my tongue wind its way into the deepest part of her. She moans and I feel her hand take hold of the back of my head, urging me on as I explore her depths.
Her body weeps and feeds me the dessert I begged for, the sticky sweet syrup that I love so much. I abandon the hollow area and move up to the spot that I know makes her scream, searching out the hardened peak until it’s firmly within my gently tugging lips, rolling the pea-sized nub back and forth.
Her breathing becomes erratic and I feel her long fingernails weaving through my hair until they dig into my scalp, inflicting some sort of delicious pain that must be rivaling her own.
She pants deeply, gulping down huge amounts of air, faster and faster so I know she’s close. I latch onto the target of her pleasure and harshly pull it into my mouth, suckling on the heightened peak as my fingers join the party, blindly following the stream of warm slippery need into the tight spongy opening that swallow them whole.
“Ah!” She pants. “Mmm,” another one.
Her body tenses legs nearly clamping down around my ears.
“That’s it, Angel. Give it to me.”
As if on cue, she detonates under my mouth, around my fingers, her small body convulsing in waves.
With my sweet tooth satisfied, it’s time to feed the growing need between my legs. I push her knees wide as I stand, balancing myself between her shaking thighs. Her eyes watch greedily as I clumsily work open my belt and let my jeans drop down, gathering around my knees.
She helps by using her legs to push the fabric of by boxers down to just under my ass. I’m already hard, been hard since I first tasted her. She grabs a handful of my shirt and pulls me in, licking the drying sweetness from my lips before slipping her tongue inside.
Turned on like a Harley on a long country road, I thrust into her, guiding every inch of my aching cock between the tight walls of her pussy.
“Fuck!” I call out as my dick is squeezed and pulsed while she suffers through her second orgasm. I hold her close as her body trembles from it, but can’t stop my own quest for mine.
Her hands hold tight to my back, my shoulders, clawing hard enough to be felt through the leather of my cut. Faster and faster I thrust, each time trying to bury myself deeper and deeper, although I know it’s impossible. Hot, moist streams of air tickle my skin as she breathes into my neck, kissing the hollow area her head is cradled in.
I feel myself getting closer, chasing the dragon. I want it. I need it. Sounds of exertion escape my lips as it’s almost in my grasp.
“That’s right, baby. Give it to me,” Angel whispers before nipping my neck.
Somehow, that was just the last little push I needed to grab what I’d been hunting for, and she knew it. My limp body spills out over hers as every last bit of my need spills deep into her.
CHAPTER FIVE
“You two kiss and make up yet?” Gryff, my VP calls through the crooked, patched, closed door to my office. I thread my belt through the last loop and move to help Angel pick up the shit I threw off my desk earlier to make room for her.
“Come in,” I permit.
With a hard push of the almost broken door, Gryff steps inside and witnesses the scattered debris on the floor. I’m sure he can smell the pheromones still in the air, too. There’s no doubt that we’ve kissed and made up.
“Good,” he laughs. “When you two ain’t right, he’s a real bitch to deal with.” He nods to me while talking to Angel. “Now get your ass out here, D. We got company.”
Angel takes the papers from my hand as I turn my attention to my second in command. “Yeah? Who?”
“Cartel.”
Fuck.
~*~
By the time I reach the main room I can see that my men have quickly taken position near all the exits. The stage and pole areas are empty for once and the crowd has thinned drastically. It’s not often that shit comes right to our door, but when it does, we’ve got procedure.
There’s one last scurry to get all the women and other customers out the door before it’s closed and bolted from the inside. Angel herself has already left through the back entrance, safely on her way home by now. The last thing any of us need to worry about right now is not being able to do what would need to be done if things got ugly because of any innocent bystanders that could get caught in crossfire.
Those of us that are left are far from innocent, my own men included. We knew what we were gettin’ into when we signed up for this life. The other men in the room are even less innocent than us, if that’s even possible.
I’m actually surprised at how few of them are here, that only two of them had the balls to walk right into the lion’s den, knowing they’d be outnumbered.
It’s unmistakable who they are, though. The perfectly tailored pants and collared dress shirts stick out like a sore thumb around these parts.
Usually the only guys that come through those doors dressed in suits are either lonely married stiffs lookin’ to get a little extra lovin’ and a blowjob from the dancers that their own wives gave up on delivering to them, or someone carrying a warrant.
“All clear, D,” Gryff calls out as the front door is secured, the blinds on the windows are drawn in case there’s a Cartel sharpshooter scoping us out, and my men are spread out guarding all the exits, hands on their weapons and ready to draw them if need be.
“Mr...?” I ask, as I’ve never seen this guy before. Jimenez, the head of the Cartel, has only sent one of his men to me before. His very own lawyer and messenger Simon Aguilar. The man now standing stoically in front of me may have the same caramel colored skin, dark, nearly jet-black hair and mahogany eyes, but he is definitely not Simon Aguilar.
“Vasquez. Mateo Vazquez.” He introduces himself while I size him up. He’s taller than Auguilar was, maybe only three or so inches shorter than me. He’s got a pretty good build on him, one that I’m sure could put up a fight if it came down to it. His eyes are hard, much like my own, and I can tell he�
��s seen shit. He’s done shit. He’s probably even ordered others to do shit, judging on the stance of the guy standing protectively behind him.
Esè stands near the bar, anxiously awaiting some kind of instruction. He hasn’t been a full-patched brother for long, and with this being the first visitor we’ve had since then, I can tell that the former prospect doesn’t know quite what to do. He watches the other brothers and mimics them, scowling at our guests.
“Esè,” I decide to prompt the kid along. “Grab a couple of cold ones for us, eh?”
He’s played bartender, while I was taking care of Angel in the back. One more drink order can’t hurt. Besides, he speaks Spanish, the only one of my guys that does. It can’t hurt to having him nearby incase this shit stain in front of me decides to start talking in his native language to his backup guy.
“Bud? Corona? Miller?” I decide to be hospitable and ask the guy what his drink of choice is.
I can tell he’s a bit wary. Hell, I know I’d be if I walked into his place and was given a drink. Who knows what could be inside.
“Dos Equis.” His English is pretty good, with a thick current of an accent rippling through.
Yeah, we’ve got some of that shit lying around. “Two,” I call out to Esè.
I gesture to the round empty table centered in the old wooden floored room. He nods. I notice his goon doesn’t join us, instead, he stands back just as my own men do.
“So, Mr. Vazquez. What can I do for you? What is it Jimenez wants?” I open up the dialogue.
His hard eyes flash something at the mention of Jimenez. Something that I can’t put my finger on but seems out of place.
“I’m not here on the request of my uncle.” He informs me bluntly.
Ah! So he’s a nephew, huh? I guess this is a whole family operation that Jimenez has got goin’ on. My mind captures some long lost piece of information and my fingers twitch, begging to reach for my gun as I remember another of Jimenez’s nephews that I had the pleasure of meeting.
I sent a snap shot of that nephew’s dead body back to Jimenez after he had gone into Chisolm and caused trouble with the Kingsmen. I wonder if this man sitting opposite me now is here to claim revenge for that.
One way to find out. “Well. What is it exactly, that you’re here for, then?”
The beer bottles arrive at the table. Neither one of us moves to take one.
This could get bad real fuckin’ fast.
There’s only two of them, far outnumbered by the fraction of my guys that I’ve got here with me tonight. Surely they’re not planning an ambush outside? Not when I still have Jimenez’s daughter? Wait. Do I still have Jimenez’s daughter?
I haven’t heard a peep from Chase in a couple of hours. Could Jimenez have followed me this afternoon, learned of her location? Taken her back?
Have I lost my upper-hand, my leverage, and now it’s the end of this charade?
I need a drink.
The closest bottle will do, and I take it, popping off the small metal cap. I keep my eyes on his as I gulp down the foamy beer. It’s not my favorite, but it’ll do for now.
“My cousin.” He finally speaks. “I’m here about my cousin Catarina.”
I know better than to let my guard down.
“I want to make sure she’s all right, that she is being taken care of properly,” he adds.
Hmm. Interesting. We’ve had the girl for nearly three weeks now, and not one single person from the other side has even asked if she was still breathing. Not until now, that is. I was beginning to think we were being played.
I suck the small bit of foam that’s left on my top lip. “She’s fine. Saw her myself not long ago.”
“What proof do I have that she hasn’t been… hurt?” He’s blunt.
My lip twitches and I fight back a snarl. I know what he’s insinuating. My men get enough pussy on their own, they don’t need to go taking it from where it’s not offered willingly. Not even from a hostage with nowhere to run. That’s one of the reasons I chose Chase for this assignment. He may be the club enforcer and could break a neck with his bare hands, but he’s also got three sisters.
He may not be the type of guy to go opening car doors and shit for a chick, but he’s definitely not the type to go disrespecting one. Especially after the crap that this Catarina girl has done to him in the last few weeks. He still is able to keep his cool.
I may have found a way out of this whole fucked up mess by getting Chase to get that girl in his bed, but it sure won’t be by forcing her.
“She’s fine. Never better. I’ll make sure to send a time-stamped photo the next time I see her—”
“I want to talk to her,” he interrupts me with a demand.
I sit back. I didn’t realize we were negotiating here. Jimenez hasn’t expressed an interest in negotiating. Instead, he’s simply backed off and released some of the threats he had over us. I wonder what’s changed.
“We all want things,” I reply.
Mateo Vazquez doesn’t flinch. He clearly wasn’t expecting me to give in so easily. “What can I do to see that some of those wants are met?”
He gets right to the point, doesn’t he?
“I got a guy. Stich. He’s jammed up on some charges, sittin’ in the pen for another year and half or more,” I begin.
He laughs bitterly, scanning the room filled with Slayers. “I’m sure your men are used to it.”
Asshole.
“This is the guy who your uncle put a hit on. He’s got a kid comin’ any day. I think the least your uncle could do is get him an early release in time to see his kid, since he was responsible for puttin’ a blade in the guy’s chest. Don’t you?” I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to get Stitch sprung from that hellhole. This is just it.
“What makes you think we have that kind of clout?” He wonders.
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “You were able to get the Feds to call off their investigation of my club after you tried to plant drugs in my clubhouse. You’ve got someone high up on your payroll in order to do that. I’m sure you’ve got a federal judge that can grant a release or a Governor to grant a pardon.”
By the looks of his nonexistent reaction, he’s got both.
“And what do I get in return for getting your friend released?” He wants to know what’s in it for him.
I don’t plan on giving much up. Truthfully, I don’t have much to give up. Not until Chase gets that girl under him.
“You can talk to her.” I toss him a crumb.
No dice. “I want to see her. Not just talk to her.”
We stare each other down. I don’t see a way out of this although I’m tryin’ like hell to find one. “Fine. You get him released and you can see her.”
His beer must be warming by now, but he finally moves to take it. “Deal.” He holds it up to toast. “But, until then, I want you to give this to her.” A plain piece of folded paper is slid across the table. “I didn’t bother putting it in an envelope. I knew you’ll just read it anyway.”
He’s right. I will. Can’t risk him giving her any plans to help aid her own rescue, now can I?
“Deal.” I use what’s left in my emptying bottle to clank it against his own bottle.
~*~
CAT
“You’re not expecting me to cook for you again, are you?” I’m suspicious.
This is the second time in two days he’s asked for to me to come out of my room, my cell really, and into the rest of this old wooden cabin that is my prison.
The first time, last night, I’d had to cook us something edible for dinner because he wasn’t capable of it. Even though it was spicy as hell, he’d practically finished the whole pot of chili. Apparently, spicy or not, he likes my cooking. I hope he’s not expecting me to become an indentured servant around here and make it a habit.
“Nah. The boys brought food. Just come out and walk around a bit.” He seems sincere, although I should know better than to try and trust him.
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nbsp; Just because we’d shared some sort of connection or whatever that was, last night, it doesn’t change the fact that he’d kidnapped me! He’s a criminal, a self professed outlaw, just like my father. I hate father. I should hate Chase, too.
I did hate him up until yesterday. Now I seem to have to remind myself of why I did in the first place.
“I don’t suppose you’ll leave me alone if I decline, will you?” I don’t know why I just said that. I want to get out of this room, to look at something that isn’t these boring four walls that I stare at all day, but I don’t want him to know that. I don’t want him to think I want the company even though I couldn’t get to sleep for hours last night, lying here, thinking about our conversation over and over again. Thinking about what I saw right before I closed my bedroom door on him, the huge tent-like projection near his groin.
He knows I saw it. I know he did. And I think he liked how it threw me off tilt.
“Just get your little ass out here and stop fighting just to fight,” he calls me out, seeing through my faux bitchiness.
“Fine.” I dismiss him. “I’ll come out when I’m ready.”
He rolls his eyes, the eyes that I couldn’t get out of my mind last night, and that I’m pretty sure found a way into my dreams.
Once he closes the bedroom door behind him leaving me alone, I toss onto my back and throw my arm over my eyes, abandoning the book I’m re-reading for the fourth time. There were only a handful of them on the dresser and I’ve managed to read them all in the days I’ve been holed up in here.
No. I tell myself. I can’t be nice to him. I can’t let myself buy that he’s being nice to me. He’s using me, using me against father. He’s no better than father, controlling what I do and how I do it. I’m nothing more than a pawn to either of them.
I had heard the group of motorcycles pulling up earlier. Usually it’s just one. One roaring tailpipe. Dawson. I’d met him a few times. He brings me clothes, and he brings us groceries to us.