by Layla Wolfe
He could see fever eating away at her. How else to explain why she said what she said? “You’re a smoking hot piece of man candy. I wanted you the second you busted into Ford’s office, Lytton. You’ve got me all excited and stimulated. I’ve never met a man like you.”
He had to smile at that. “Even in exotic Africa? Must be a lot of intrepid, interesting guys there.”
June said in a rush, “Not as glamorous as you. You’re banging hot. You already live a wild, outlaw sort of life up here in the mountains. You don’t need Ford’s club to prove you’re bad.”
It was time to move to tweaking her nipples—hard. June winced, but Lytton knew her pussy was clenching with need. Her fat tits were outthrust with her shoulder blades pressed together like that. It was true, Lytton’s prick had been up like a hammer for a while now, straining against the buttons of his jeans, constricted inside his tight boxer briefs. June leaned her bound fists, her butt, back against the wooden garden frame and graced Lytton with her giant, pleading eyes. He knew he pushed her limits when he slapped her big, lush boob, making ripples like a stone thrown into a still pond. She looked confused, unsure how to feel, unsure if she was being abused or teased.
He purred, “You’re a fine hottie, June. I could just eat you up.” That was his first fucking lie. Lytton was always in it for himself. He could care less if the woman got off, so why would he bother eating her pussy? He knew it aroused women, though, so he usually flung his words around lightly. “You like it when I slap your tit like this? Your chest is getting red. I want to see my handprint on your tit.”
Not waiting for a response to his rhetorical question, Lytton viciously yanked her top down by the neckline. The tits he’d been longing to get an eyeful of popped out, white and pristine. They glowed eerily under the greenhouse’s dome. Before his brain could stop him, he found himself bending at the knees to slurp one of the sweet kernels into his mouth.
“Ah!” June’s gasp was about two octaves higher now as she squirmed to climb up the wooden frame. “Oh, dear God Lytton, you’re tantalizing me to death! I’m going to scream, Lytton, I swear to God I’m going to scream if you keep teasing me like this!”
Would he have to gag her? The bandana he had tied around his neck always came in handy for that, among other things. But for some reason, Lytton liked to hear her frenzied response. He moved his mouth to the other nip, noshing and biting there while pulling and twisting her other nipple between his fingers.
One octave higher seemed impossible, but she reached it with a wild mélange of English and what must have been Swahili. “Lytton! Kafirwe salama! Mkundu! Stop driving me insane! Zaidi, zaidi! I swear if you don’t fuck me now I’m going to scream so loud your whore at the house will hear me!”
He was beyond pleased by her reaction. She was a sensitive, someone who felt things more acutely than most. It probably didn’t hurt that, as he suspected, she was probably not terribly experienced with men. This idea sort of turned him on, the thought that she was somewhat innocent. It meant he could corrupt her, mold her into the shape he wanted.
But he had no rubbers on him, so he did the next best thing. Detaching his mouth from her nipple with a loud sucking sound, Lytton stood tall, holding her at arm’s length. She was flushed, her pupils dilated with fever and lust. Her head wobbled on her neck as she tried to focus on his eyes. Lytton used his suave, reassuring Dom’s voice to keep her steady.
And he kept her excited and attentive by moving his hand to his belt buckle. Her eyes wavered to his crotch when he took a big handful of his erection and squeezed sensuously. “Would you like to service me, little one? Would you give me the honor of pleasuring me with your sweet little mouth?”
He could tell he’d had her at “would.” The sweet little gullible woman was instantly on her knees before he’d even had a chance to unsheathe his cock. With her hands bound behind her, all she could do was seek his cock with her mouth, and it was fun to see her bobbing her head this way and that like a seal with a ball on its nose.
She was skilled, though, once she sucked down his length. All the fine hairs stood out on the backs of Lytton’s thighs and gooseflesh peppered his chest, stiffening his nipples. He tore off his plaid shirt and flung it, raising the white wifebeater up his abdomen so he could admire the sight. Hands-free, June suckled his fat tool admirably, with an enthusiasm that couldn’t have been solely caused by the fever. No, she was truly, genuinely gulping his long prick down her throat.
And quickly driving Lytton past the point of no return.
He tried holding her off. He gripped her shoulders and tried backing her off his dick. “Whoa, there. Whoa.” But because his tone wasn’t sincere—he didn’t really want her slowing down—she must not have been convinced, and she was soon lapping him into oblivious bliss.
Lytton ejaculated down her throat with volcanic force—as though he hadn’t just come a few times that morning. His body froze into one rock solid unit as his dick pulsed, emptying milky jism into her hot mouth.
Son of a bitch. This girl can suck.
Lytton jumped and twitched as she continued loving his cock with her mouth. Instant regret flooded him. Regret wasn’t a concept or feeling Lytton was familiar with, but he identified it as such. He had used this poor woman for his own selfish ends. Normally that wasn’t an idea that filled him with much sorrow, either. He had callously, selfishly used her to A, wreak revenge on Ford, and B, get off. What sort of an asshole had he become?
He had had no intention in the world of giving her any pleasure. He never did when he enacted a scene. As she detached her mouth, smacking her lips with satisfaction, Lytton grabbed her by the biceps and lifted her. When her eyes met his, he saw that fever was causing her eyeballs to swim in her head. Pressing the back of his hand to her forehead, he knew she was unreasonably hot, even for just having given an enthusiastic blowjob in a greenhouse.
“I’m putting you to bed. After taking your temperature.” This caring, nursing attitude was foreign to Lytton, and he was glad when someone yanked the greenhouse door open. His associate Tobiah stormed in then—he’d been storming a lot lately.
“Typical, just fucking typical!” Tobiah yelled. He stalked the way Lytton imagined a scarecrow would stalk, all loose-jointed and flappy, like a crazed shorebird. “I leave you alone for one fucking minute and suddenly Cropper Illuminati is your father and you’re patching into The Bare Bones? Lyt, we don’t need that biker element drawing attention to our enterprise. If I wanted more attention, I would’ve just had someone sky write ‘free weed’ over our farm. Why don’t we just hold a Stan Lee comic book signing here as well?”
Lytton didn’t let go of June’s shoulders. She was regarding Tobiah with detached amusement, as though he were the day’s headliner entertainment. “Toby, I didn’t patch into the Bones. That would require a year of heavy service as a Prospect.”
Tobiah stood on one jiggly leg, kicking the other out like an antsy dog. “Really? Really? All this, and that is what you took from it? Not the part about Cropper Illuminati being your father? God damn!” Tobiah looked to June for support, pointing at Lytton as though he were amazing. “Amazing, isn’t he? A brilliant pot farmer, yet somehow oddly determined to run our business into the ground with his shenanigans. And you. Look at you. Standing here having a business-related discussion with your dick hanging out.”
Lytton had honestly forgotten his dick was hanging out, so he stuffed it back into his pants. He also politely untied June’s hands from behind her back. “Listen, Tobiah. It’s not my fucking fault. Those fucktard Cutlasses who busted on in here told me about Cropper Illuminati, and I went to The Bare Bones’ clubhouse to confirm it.”
“They’re not convinced yet,” June added, “but he did a DNA test that should come back in a few days.”
“DNA, my, my,” said Tobiah. “We’re getting fancy. Well, what are you hoping to gain with this new association of yours? I don’t want to distribute through their stupid Joint Effort, if that�
�s what you’re aiming at. You already have me almost convinced to sell through those hoodlum Cutlasses. I don’t need two rival gangs fighting over our Young Man Blue and knifing each other in our grow room. If I had to choose, I’d pick The Cutlasses any day. At least they haven’t committed fratricide yet…that we know of.”
Lytton was confused. What was Tobiah referring to? “Fratricide? Who killed their father?”
Tobiah guffawed. His big hawk’s nose stuck out from underneath the solid bowl of his haircut. Tobiah had been a nerdy MIT mechanical engineer when Lytton had handpicked him to help run his operation. He still wore a Klingon belt buckle on his white vinyl belt, colorful low-rise pants, and Converse sneakers. “I’m referring to your illustrious half-brother, Ford. It’s a well-known secret that he personally murdered your father. The papers said it was all gang warfare-related, but the scuttlebutt on the street is that Ford was down in that desert near Nogales.” Lytton must have been wearing an aghast expression, for all the humor fell from Tobiah’s face. “You didn’t…hear…?”
“Hear what?” barked Lytton. “That’s lowdown, shitty gossip! Why the fuck would Ford kill his own father? They were business partners! They’d worked closely together for ten, fifteen years!”
Tobiah shrugged. “Who knows what goes on in the brains of mindless thugs?”
Lytton took three long strides toward Tobiah to jab a finger into his bony chest. “Hey! That’s my fucking father and brother you’re talking, asshat. They’ve seen the dark side of riding.” He almost added “and lived,” but Cropper hadn’t lived, so he stopped himself.
“You want me to take it back? How can I take back the truth?”
“What proof do you have? It’s just malicious rumor unless you’ve got a fucking videotape showing Ford actually icing the old man.” Lytton couldn’t believe it. The newspapers had said that during a routine heist of a truck full of illegal Mexican immigrants, something had gone south. The bodies of Cropper, as well as another Bare Bones guy and a member of some rival Baal’s Minion’s club, these were all discovered close to each other next to the smoldering hulk of the truck. All of the Mexicans, of course, were toast.
Tobiah spread his hands wide. “Of course I don’t have evidence, Lyt. It’s just common scuttlebutt.”
Lytton was surprised when June spoke up. Suddenly she was next to him, leaning against him for support. “I heard that too, Lytton. Speed told me the rumor. It’s just a rumor. Don’t pay any attention to it. There’s no evidence Ford was even down in that desert.”
June’s words soothed him, and reminded him that she was sick. For one of the first times ever, Lytton took his focus off himself and placed it on someone else. He put an arm around her. “I’m getting you inside the house, June. Tobiah, this is June Shellmound, Ford’s sister-in-law. She not just some pass-around, not just one of my subs. And she’s sick. What is it you’ve got?”
“Malaria, I think.”
“Malaria.” Lytton started walking her toward the door. “How do you cure malaria?”
“Well, I took the Malarone, but the mosquitoes must’ve been resistant. Maybe I could get ahold of some doxycycline.”
“Okay, I’m taking you to the hospital in Flagstaff.”
“Oh, please don’t. I don’t have any insurance.”
“I’ll pay for it. It happened on my watch.”
Tobiah said as they exited the greenhouse, “That’s one thing you can say for Lytton. He takes responsibility for things. Things might be completely shady, self-centered, and egotistical disasters caused by his own narcissistic revels, but at least he owns up to them.”
“Thanks for the endorsement, Tobiah. Can I take your cage?” Tobiah had a square Toyota Camry that would never get anyone pulled over and handed a Fast Riding Award. June was so ill she might fall off the pussy pad of his ride.
“Sure. And listen, sorry about what I said about your brother. You’re right, it’s all just hearsay. Ford was certainly never charged with any murder. More than likely it was that other goon who took out Cropper.”
“Turk was in that desert too,” June slurred. He had to get her some drugs, stat.
“Who’s Turk?”
“He runs the weed dispensary in P & E.”
“Pure and Easy? A Joint Effort? That guy was there when my father died?”
“Right, Turk. He’s not Turkish, though. Hey, you don’t happen to have any potato chips in your house, do you?”
Tobiah said, “There are some Kettle Chips on the kitchen table.” He giggled. “She must have the munchies just from being inside the greenhouse.”
Lytton found himself surprisingly not resenting having to take his newfound squeeze to the hospital in town. He knew it would have irritated him no end having to take any of his other women, his slaves. This one, he couldn’t even classify as a slave. He didn’t want to.
Already, June Shellmound was so much more to Lytton. What was eerie was, it didn’t feel that alien to him. He was already starting to accept it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JUNE
I easily found The Hip Quiver, P & E’s downtown archery range that did double duty as law offices for The Bare Bones’ consigliore, Slushy McGill. I had to walk past about fifteen shooting lanes where Boy Scouts and other earnest fans of archery movies shot their arrows into the overhead light banks, the column in the middle of the room, and the Hunger Games and Brave posters.
The Hip Quiver had only been set up to launder money for the club. Turk used to manage it back in the day, but since he’d moved on to the weed dispensary, some unknown Prospect named Kneecap ran it. I passed through the showroom area where compound bows, quivers, and shafts were for sale in order to find Slushy’s office. I assumed The Bare Bones were his only client, so he didn’t need to advertise his services outside of the club.
The DNA test had come back. I knew by the ceremonious pomp they were making of it what the result was. Madison had texted me earlier that morning to come down to Slushy’s office for a family meeting. I was still at Lytton’s recovering from the bout of malaria, so he scooted me down to P & E on the back of his Softail. After three days languishing in Lytton’s bed, I was strong enough now to ride one up to Pure and Easy.
It sounds a lot more fun than it really was, “three days in Lytton’s bed.” He had adhered to strict sick-person guidelines and was actually quite caring and loving with me. After his initial rough dominance of me in the greenhouse, once he realized how sick I was, he did a one-eighty. We got the drugs I needed, and I sank into a deep slumber for the first two days, tossing and turning when the fever spiked. I recall Lytton sitting next to me on the bed, laying a cold washcloth on my forehead, over my eyeballs. That felt like heaven.
When I started to improve, I’d sit up in bed, noticing things around me. I was wearing one of his button-down plaid shirts. He must have put that on me. The room was light and airy and surprisingly tidy for a man. I thought at first maybe it was Tobiah’s room, until I saw a copy of Men’s Health magazine on the floor. Coming back from a trip to the can, I even took a peek at a bookshelf. The predictable chemistry things like Uncle Tungsten and Periodic Tales: The Curious Lives of the Elements were there alongside dry and thick chemistry manuals. I was amused to see Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I knew Ford was highly literate. I wondered if he’d be happy to know his brother was also.
But when I got the text from Maddy, I had to return to P & E.
“Keep my shirt,” Lytton had insisted. “You sweated through your shirt when your fever was high.”
There was no more attempt at even a kiss, and I began to despair that I’d just had another one night stand. That would be even more embarrassing and intolerable if and when Lytton proved to be Ford’s real brother and I was forced into social contact with him. The whole way back to P & E with my tits once again pressed to his strong, warm back, I felt like sobbing. The fever had wracked my brain and I felt like I’d been through the wringer on the tail end of one very long-a
ss, bad hallucinogenic dream.
No one had yet invited Lytton to the meeting, and I tried not to meet his eyes when I dismounted from his bike. “Well, thanks for everything,” I said listlessly, swinging my purse, looking at the sidewalk.
But Lytton dismounted too, coming around to my side. He lifted my chin in his fingers, forcing me to look at him. “I want you to know, June. I’m not normally this big of an asshole. Well, yes, maybe I am, normally. But with you I feel different. No matter what happens in there, I want you to know I had a good time with you. I’m glad we met.”
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? It sounded like the brush-off of some fucking shallow lothario, some user. He did kiss me then, tenderly and chastely. No lusty tongue action for that chemist. I was in a confused fog when I walked into Slushy’s office. What were Lytton’s intentions? Was he basing his choice on the DNA test results? Suddenly my whole future hung in the balance of that fucking spit in a cup.
Ford, Madison, and Turk were hunched over in chairs with their hands clasped between their knees, listening to Slushy lecture them as he waved a pen. Slushy looked like the sort of bad comb-over guy who would still wear a three-piece suit to a job behind an archery range even if no one else was going to see him all day long. His dress shirt was chartreuse green, a matching handkerchief in his jacket pocket, and his tie a psychedelic mash-up.
He was saying, “You can listen to me or not. People like to ignore good advice. But I’m saying that in the eyes of the law, half-brothers have the same legal rights as full brothers.” He smacked a palm on his desk. “I’m telling you, Ford, two words. Nail salon. Was I right about the zombies? I was right about the zombies.”
“You were right about the zombies.” Ford spoke above his tented fingers. “Too right. Faux Pas is raking it in hand over fist on that video game. So my existing will covers me, then? Everything goes to Maddy, Fidelia, and Turk.”