I watch horrified as he lifts the bottle of alcohol in his hand and pours it into the other, then coats his dick with it. He reaches for my thigh with his sticky hand and tugs me forward. I try to push away, but he pulls me down onto his cock with a growl.
“Free,” I whimper.
He shakes his head. “Need this, Whitley. Need you,” he mutters.
His eyes have changed, again, the vulnerability is back. I don’t know what any of this means, or why he’s behaving this way, but I don’t argue with him. I roll my hips, lifting and lowering onto his cock until it’s no longer the alcohol that’s lubricating us.
Free fists the shirt I’m wearing in his grip at my hip, his eyes focused on his lap as he continues to take pull after pull from his drink. He’s trying to drown himself, and I wish I knew why. I wish that I could help him because right now, it seems like he needs to unload on someone.
“Do you know how sexy it is when you take me, Kitten? Goddamn, watching your sweet little cunt take my cock, it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced,” he slurs.
His words send a shiver up my spine and I move a little faster and harder. I grind against him on each down stroke, feeling him against my clit. My breath hitches each time I sink down, as I try to stay quiet, fully aware that we’re in a common room and anyone could walk by and see us.
Placing my hand on his chest, I feel his hair against my fingertips. My head drops back as I use that to anchor myself and fuck him harder. I’m fucking him too, he’s not looking anywhere but between my legs, and I’m focused on the ceiling as I just feel him move inside of me.
I’m so close, but he’s not touching me, and I need it, I need more to come. “Touch me, Free, please,” I beg.
He chuckles, it sounds heartless, soulless, nothing like what I’m used to hearing from him. I lift my head and look forward, watching as he lifts his gaze to my own. “Make yourself come,” he barks. “You need to learn how, Whitley.”
I don’t understand why he’s saying that, why I need to learn how to do anything, but I’m too wound up to think about it. Reaching between my legs with one hand, my nails dig into his chest with the other as I touch myself.
With two fingers, I rub circles against my clit like he does, my eyes closing as I concentrate on bringing myself to climax. When I finally arrive, I let out a low whine as my pussy clamps down, and my hips jerk.
Free’s grip stays firm at my shirt and he lifts his hips a few times before I hear him groan. His cock grows a bit larger, stretching me even more and then I feel the spurts of his release fill me. My arm shakes as I attempt to hold myself up, but then it gives out and I collapse against his chest, my face nuzzling his neck.
I feel his throat work as I assume he swallows yet another drink of liquor. My face heats, and I’m sure it’s bright red as I think about the fact that he was drinking booze the entire time we were intimate. He doesn’t caress me like usual, in fact, he doesn’t even touch me.
Lifting my head from his neck, I look down at him. His expression is completely unreadable. I wait for him to speak. He doesn’t say anything, he just looks at me, tipping his head to the side. He purses his lips together, then finally kills the silence.
“Go on back to bed,” he orders. I shake my head, moving my hand from his chest to wrap around the side of his neck. His eyes stay, unblinking, staring as he watches me. “It wasn’t a suggestion, Whitley.”
“You don’t have to talk to me, but will you please come back with me?” I ask, no, more like plead with him.
He looks over my shoulder, then back at me. He doesn’t speak, instead, I hear a thud as he drops his bottle on the floor and then he stands. He’s still buried inside of me, so I quickly wrap my arms around his shoulders, and my legs around his waist. One of his hands grabs hold of his jeans and slowly he walks back toward his room, our room.
Once we’re past the threshold, he slams the door closed. I wait for him to set me down on my feet, but he doesn’t. He walks over to the bed, laying me down. I release my hold on his shoulders as his hands span my outer thighs. He squeezes them, his eyes looking between us again, instead of anywhere near my face.
“I’ve never wanted to be inside of another woman as much as I do you, Whitley. Your cunt is—mine,” he murmurs.
His brows are knit together, and he has a slight frown on his face like he doesn’t want to think that way. Wrapping my hands around his wrists, I squeeze. His eyes slowly lift to mine and the sadness in them overwhelms me.
“Let’s go to sleep, Free,” I offer with a small smile.
He nods once, slowly easing himself out of my body. He doesn’t take more than just one step back though. He lifts his hand and his finger trails through my center. “I didn’t wrap up,” he says, but he’s more talking to himself.
My heart starts to race as I think about his words and the repercussions of them. He shoves his finger inside of me and I automatically jerk from the sudden intrusion. “Maybe I’ll give a fuck tomorrow,” he shrugs as his finger slides in and out of me.
He stumbles backward, his hand falling from between my legs and he lifts his chin toward the head of the bed. I roll over and crawl toward the pillow, slipping beneath the sheets when I do. My eyes are focused on Free as he kicks his jeans off, then makes his way to the opposite side and flops down on the bed, on top of the covers.
Within seconds of his head hitting the pillow, I hear his soft snores fill the room. I don’t know what just happened, or why it happened, but there is so much more to Free than I imagined. I thought that we could go forward, starting our lives from now, and learning nothing about our pasts, but I’m not so sure that’s possible anymore.
Curling my legs up, I turn my back to him, and I close my eyes. I need to figure out a way to make him open up to me. Especially if we’re going to be in a relationship for what appears to be a long period of time.
I don’t sleep the rest of the early morning, I lie there with my eyes closed listening to him snore and trying to think of a way to earn his trust and his secrets.
FREE
I grunt, rolling over to my back and trying to open my eyes. It hurts. Goddamn, I got fucked up last night. Lifting my hand, it feels like my arm is in slow motion as I press my palm against my forehead. Fuck. Something warm and heavy presses against my side and I slowly turn my head to see the top of Whitley’s dark hair in my view.
Shifting, I wrap my hand around her hip, squeezing. She stirs and lifts her head, her eyes looking into my own. “Morning, baby,” she says with a yawn. She looks tired as fuck, and that’s when the memories of the night before slam into me.
I feel like a fucking asshole. Not only did I fuck her bareback, I used whiskey as lube and treated her like one of the clubwhores. Yet, here she is calling me baby and looking at me like I’m someone fuckin’ special. Sliding my hand from her hip, I wrap it around the back of her neck, squeezing it gently as my offered apology.
Lowering my head, I brush my lips across hers, then lie back down. I need something to eat, I need to feed this goddamn hangover. “I need food, Kitten,” I croak.
“I can try to make something in the kitchen for you,” she offers, keeping her voice at a whisper.
I shake my head, then hiss from the heavy feeling. My head fucking pounds and my mouth is so goddamn dry I could drink an entire pitcher of water and I’m not sure it would be enough. “We’ll go out,” I grunt, my voice hoarse.
She shakes her head, her pretty wild hair flying all around. “No, Free. Let me cook for you, there’s food in that big ass kitchen, isn’t there?” she asks.
My fingers flex against her neck. “Yeah, Kitten. There’s food,” I say.
Whitley’s lips turn up into a smile and she nods. “Then I’ll cook something. Just because Zachary had women there to cook, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to make a little breakfast. I’ll get dressed and go down. Meet me whenever you’re ready.”
Leaving her neck, I slide my hand down to her ass, squeezing her. �
��You cook just like this, in my shirt, Kitten.”
“Well, I’ll at least put panties on,” she grumbles, trying to wriggle out of my grasp but I don’t let her. I keep a firm grip on her ass.
Lowering my face, I look into her eyes and firmly state. “No, you’ll go down just like this. I want your pussy smelling like me, you in my shirt, and your hair wild from my fingers. I want every single fucking man in this building to know that you’re mine.”
Whitley blinks, then I watch as her face turns pink. “You don’t think anyone could smell…”
I snort. “Kitten, those fuckers can smell pussy a mile away, clean, dirty, claimed, and free. Doesn’t matter, their noses are attuned, and your pussy smells like me right now. Let’s keep it that way.”
“That’s gross,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
Lifting my hand, I lightly tap her ass. “May be gross, but it’s fuckin’ true. Now be a good kitty and make me some hangover food,” I wink, releasing her.
I watch as she slides off of the bed, tugging my shirt down over her body. It barely covers her plump ass, making my cock harden at the sight.
After breakfast I plan on fucking her before she gets her mark, then I’m going to fuck her again. Maybe even a third or fourth time by the end of the day. I’m so goddamn addicted to her sweet cunt.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHITLEY
With my head turned to the side, my eyes closed tightly, and a needle making painful strokes against my shoulder, I try to breathe. We arrived at the tattoo parlor less than thirty minutes ago and with just a few words exchanged, the artist began.
I have no idea what is being permanently marked into my skin, but to be honest, it doesn’t matter. Apparently, this has little to do with me at all. This entire thing is for Free, and for his brothers.
I don’t know how long I lie here, my eyes closed as I inhale and exhale through the stinging feeling of the needle against my skin. It isn’t until I feel a hand on my arm, squeezing me gently with a shake, that I finally open my eyes.
The tattoo artist is smiling down at me. I suddenly feel shitty, because I didn’t even bother learning his name. I’ve been so lost inside of my own head, thinking about my life and the changes that are happening at a speed that is too much for me. I want to be able to go with this flow, to just accept everything that Free throws at me without question. However, I feel so lost right now—lost, scared, alone and overwhelmed.
“All done, babe,” the artist announces. “Wanna take a look?”
Twisting my head around, I look back at Free, as if to ask his permission and he lifts his chin as a silent go ahead. Holding my shirt against my chest, I sit up. Following the artist to a full-length mirror, I turn my back toward it as he holds out a handheld mirror.
I close my eyes, taking in a deep breath, then opening them. My shoulder simply says Free, in a thick scroll cursive font. “Now, you want to add some flowers or designs, maybe some henna work like Hayden did, you let me know. But for now, I think this will do,” he explains.
Studying the shiny black scroll, I take it all in.
Everything.
Every single thing.
I belong to him, completely now. His name is on my body, and I’m his. I thought that I would hate the letters on sight, but I don’t. I feel almost, proud.
My brows knit together, and I turn my head to look over at Free. He’s standing across from me, his eyes focused on the reflection of his name in the mirror, his arms crossed over his chest and his legs spread wide. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t immediately, and my stomach starts to clench with worry. Maybe he’s already having second thoughts.
The artist walks away, the sound of his boots on the floor, my only sign as I can’t take my eyes off of Free’s. Holding my breath, Free slowly makes his way toward me. One of his hands wraps around my waist, his fingers callused and warm against my bare flesh. His other hand takes its place at the back of my neck, where it seems he fully enjoys holding me.
Free’s nose slides alongside my own, his lips pressing against mine. I gasp as his tongue enters my mouth and he lets out a long groan. Swallowing his sounds, I arch closer toward him, but his hand against my neck flexes, holding me hostage in my spot.
Slowly, he breaks our kiss, his teeth nipping my bottom lip before he completely lifts his mouth from mine. “You’re mine, now, Whitley,” he announces.
I nod. “I know,” I agree.
He makes a noise that sounds like a grunt in the back of his throat. “I’m not a good man. Never will be. I’m not a hero even though I took you out of that house like I was. I’m going to fuck up, every goddamn day I’m sure, but Whitley, I’ll always protect you—always.”
Reaching up, I wrap the hand not holding my shirt, around his shoulder. My eyes meet his, and I refuse to look away or to allow him to. “You may not think you’re a hero, but you are, Free. I’m going to mess up too. I haven’t been on my own, I don’t know what I’m doing, and for the past three years, I’ve been in a crazy cult. There is no way I’m not going to screw up on a daily basis,” I smile.
He lowers his chin, pressing his forehead against my own and exhales, closing his eyes. “You’re my Old Lady now, Kitten. Mine. I’m going to try really fucking hard to do right by you,” he murmurs.
“Me too, Free,” I rasp.
I wish I knew his name, his real name. Calling him by only Free doesn’t feel intimate. It’s not a nickname like Kitten, or Kitty. It’s a name his friends gave him, but I’m his woman, sharing his life.
Shouldn’t I know his real name? I decide not to ruin the moment by asking him. He made it clear he wasn’t going to tell me, but I hope that he’ll trust me enough one day to let me inside, let me past his walls.
“Let him cover that shit up, and we’ll get going,” he grumbles, taking a few steps back from me.
I nod, watching as the tattoo artist makes his way back toward us. It takes him a couple minutes to cover the tattoo with plastic and tape it to my skin, then he gives me instructions on how to take care of it before he disappears into the back again.
“Get dressed, I’ll go pay him and shit,” Free instructs.
I hurry and dress, hissing when my bra strap meets the newly marked skin. Deciding to leave it off, I carefully pull my shirt over my head and ball my bra up in my hand. Free appears a few minutes later, his eyes glancing to my breasts, then back up at me.
He smirks, reaching out to touch my nipple, pinching it slightly. “Kitten, you can’t go braless, your tits are too fuckin’ big for that. I love it, but the rest of the men in the world will too, put your bra on.”
“The strap hurt on my shoulder, I can’t wear it,” I confess, looking down at my feet.
Free chuckles, sliding his arm around my neck, tugging me against his side as he begins to walk toward the door, my feet being forced to move as well. Together we walk out of the building and toward his parked bike.
I watch as he straddles his machine before I climb up behind him. Wrapping my arms around his waist, he takes my bra from my hand and shoves it down the front of his shirt. I open my mouth to say something, but he starts the engine and it drowns out any sound that I could possibly make, and that he could no doubt hear.
Gripping his shirt at the waist, I hold on as I press my chest against his leather vest covered back. He drives directly back to the clubhouse, and I’m a bit surprised, but I don’t complain. He said he wanted to look at houses, or apartments or whatever, but since everyone can tell I’m braless, I’ve decided going back to the clubhouse is a much better idea. I’ll just lock myself in his room until I can wear a bra again.
The parking lot has a few more bikes than it did when we left, but is otherwise quiet. I don’t know what they do here all day long, and why none of them go to regular jobs, but I decide it’s none of my business. Just like it was none of my business what happened at the compound.
It’s probably wrong of me, but I’m not going to bite the hand that f
eeds me. The Notorious Devils seem much less evil than the Aryans, and I don’t see them abusing women and children the way Zachary’s group did. So, I choose to live in oblivion. Maybe one day I’ll find out, and be angry, upset, or maybe not even give a fuck. But for today, I choose to be blind.
Free cuts his engine and turns his head around. “Go to my room, strip and get on your hands and knees in the middle of the bed. I want to fuck you with my tattoo in view,” he orders.
A thrill shimmies up my spine at his directions. I quickly throw my leg off of his bike and stand in front of him, holding out my hand for my bra. Free looks from my hand, to my face, arching a brow in question.
“My bra,” I mutter, my face heating.
Free reaches for my hip, sliding his hand around to my ass, and giving me a rough squeeze. “I’ll bring it up to you, Kitten, hurry up now,” he rumbles.
I clench my hands into fists, turning from him and I do as he asks. I hurry. I know my face is bright ass red as I walk through the clubhouse. Looking at my feet, I shuffle as quickly as I can toward his room. All I can imagine is every single eye on me, and my breasts as they sway and move beneath my shirt.
Now, that Free’s said that, about me going braless, I’ll never be able to go without one again. This morning I didn’t wear one into the kitchen, and he didn’t think it was all that important. I even talked to a couple of the guys as I made eggs and bacon. Never once did I imagine they were looking at my breasts, now I assume they’ve all seen my nipples peak beneath my shirt, and I’m mortified.
Once I’m safely in his room, I do as he asked. I strip down to nothing and crawl onto the bed. Spreading my knees apart, I bend over placing my elbows on the mattress and drop my head. I feel exposed, nervous, and a little excited all at the same time.
Being with Free, it makes me feel well—free. I don’t know why he has the name he does, but I know that he makes me feel that way. There’s something in the way he sees me, and it could be just because nobody has really seen me in years. I don’t know, but I don’t really want to question it either.
Flamed with Courage: Notorious Devils (Cash Bar Book 3) Page 10