by Debra Kayn
"Hang on." She removed the purse strap over her head, took out the pistol, and set the weapon on the nightstand. Dropping the bag on the floor, she quickly undid the buttons on her shirt and shrugged off the material. She turned to face him, unlatching the two hooks at the front of her bra.
"I want to pretend this isn't our first time and I'm not awkward. Cause I tend to talk a lot when I'm embarrassed, and I am embarrassed. A lot. But, I'm going to pretend this is normal and get naked, like we have sex all the time. That you've seen my body before and you're not staring—cause you're staring, Rich. That makes me feel funny, and it makes me nervous. You make me nervous cause this feels really, really good." She unzipped her jeans and hooked her thumbs underneath the waistband, grabbing her panties, too. Shimmying out of the rest of her clothes, she looked up at him as she bent over to free herself of the material. "It's been awhile, and I'd really like to touch you and be with you like it hasn't been five years since I had sex."
"That's fucked up, honey." He pulled his shirt over his head.
"You're telling me," she mumbled. She walked to him naked, pretending that she was used to men seeing her stripped vulnerable and defenseless.
He put his hands on her upper arms stopping her, and he frowned. "You can pretend and do whatever you need to do to feel good, but it's a damn shame that you haven't had sex for so long."
"That streak will end soon if you kiss me again." She slipped her arms around him and pressed her breasts against his bare chest. The skin to skin contact more wonderful and exciting than she remembered. "Please."
He slid his hand underneath her hair at her neck, and his other hand landed on her lower back, pressing her harder against him. His lips parted slightly as he lowered his head and she arched, stretching upward to make contact.
His large body surrounded and held her. She sucked on his tongue working her fingers up to his head and twining them in his long hair.
He was massive and strong.
Safe.
She wanted to know everything about him. The things the Notus members hadn't shared. And, why had it taken him so long to make a move on her after watching her for so long?
From the beginning, she'd felt him watching her. Pure curiosity at first, and then her body started warming because his eye contact lasted longer and contained more than what was polite. When he would catch himself, he looked away angry. She wanted to know why.
He pulled his mouth back and straightened. She stepped backward out of his arms and sat on the bed.
Rich ran his hand across his stomach. She bit her lip, following the line of hair down to his belt buckle. A man with chest hair always seemed more manly, tough, blunt. A don't-take-shit-from-nobody type of guy.
"I don't have a condom." Rich's gaze stayed on her breasts.
She put her arms down beside her and clenched the comforter on the bed in her fists. "I think there's one in the nightstand."
He moved to the side of the bed. She rolled and jumped to her feet in front of him, getting there before him. Her pistol sat on the top of the nightstand.
She shouldn't be worried about him taking it. He had her other pistol. But, habits were hard to break, and she felt more comfortable being able to protect herself.
Finding the wrapped condom in the drawer, she held it out to him. "Only one."
"That's all we need." He put the protection between his lips and used his hands to undo his belt and zipper. "Lay down for me, honey," he mumbled around the wrapper.
She scooted back farther on the bed and stopped. "C-can I be on top?"
Taking the condom out of his mouth, he opened and rolled on the protection. Without stopping, he turned around and sat on the bed with his jeans puddled atop his laced boots. "You can do whatever you want with me."
She rolled to her hip and pressed him down on his back, taking up his invitation. Maybe if they ever had the chance to have sex again, she'd work her way up to being comfortable underneath him, but for now, she needed to have the comfort of no restrictions. She could leave if she had to, though moving away from him was the last thing on her mind.
Rich put his hands under her arms, lifted her straight up and sat her on top of him. She planted her hands on his chest, catching her balance.
A thrill shot through her, settling between her legs.
"I'm going to touch you." He cupped her hips. "If you say stop, I'm going to stop."
She nodded. It wasn't fear of sex that had her needing to be on top. Roy Jenkins hadn't raped her.
Jenkins hadn't touched her, except to tie her hands and feet. The most contact she remembered was when he'd sliced open her shirt and carved her mother's name on her chest. She couldn't remember the time from the car crash to his house because she'd been knocked unconscious. First by hitting her head against the glass window in the vehicle and then getting punched in the face in the car.
What made her leery were the stories. The almost obsessive-compulsive assault, rape, and torment Jenkins had done to her mother, Thalia, and the other females he'd abducted and murdered. Their stories were now her stories, and she would forever have what happened to them in her head.
She had to continue living for them, with their memories, now her memories.
"Hey." Rich reached up and pulled her down until she laid on top of him. "Look at me."
She had no problems looking at him. For the last two and a half months, she'd only had him for entertainment. She dreamed about him, fantasized about him, and created some really messed up scenarios in her head about him since he started living with her.
The problem was she couldn't recognize her own reality.
Here she was as close to him as two people could be and she had the stories from Notus Motorcycle Club putting Rich up on a king's throne as their long, lost brother, and her fantasies that filled the empty minutes of the day. She was not mentally healthy—she knew that.
Most days, she couldn't even see a time in her future where she'd walk out the door without any worries or close her eyes at night and not see her mother raped and killed because Roy Jenkins put those memories inside her.
"Gracie, don't think," whispered Rich.
She whispered back, "Help me."
"I'll remind you." He lowered her down his body and his cock pressed against her pussy. "Gracie."
She pushed her upper body up while she impaled herself on his cock, stretching and molding to his size. Exhaling, she said, "Rich."
Her body seized in neediness. The fullness and connection with someone else after keeping her distance from everyone in her life for so long brought emotions out of her she thought were stolen from her.
"Gracie." He patted her thigh.
Thankful for the reminder, she said, "Rich."
"I'm going to touch your pussy, honey."
She grabbed his forearm as he reached his hand down. Not to stop him, but to just...just know it was him touching her.
He rubbed his thumb over her clit. Her fingers tightened on his arm, and he stopped.
"No...no..." She squeezed him again. "That's good. Don't stop."
His cock pulsed inside of her. "It is good."
Caught up in her own pleasures, guilt hit her. She wasn't using him. That wasn't her intent. She wanted him and hoped after they had sex that he'd continue to make an effort to stay close to her, and not pull away.
Warmth built inside her. She sprawled her hands on his stomach and trailed them up to his chest, leaning forward. His eyelids lowered as he watched her, and she planted her hands on the bed and let her nipples skim his chest.
His hand slid out from between her legs, and he cupped her ass, lifting and planting her on him, over and over. She lost control. Like, she lost all control.
Rich manipulated her body into arousal and forced her attention to him.
Staring into Rich's eyes as he drove inside of her, she literally stopped breathing as an attempt to stall the pleasure. Then, Rich gave her breath right back.
She panted.
&n
bsp; Every erogenous zone pulsed.
Her pussy.
Her nipples.
Her Ass.
Her Head.
She blinked—long and heavy.
Rich raised his hands to her upper back, pulled her down and slid his beard along her temple and put his lips to her ear. "Gracie."
Her eyes fluttered. "Rich."
"Let it go." He nibbled her earlobe. "I want it."
She shoved her face into his neck and slid her arms under his shoulders, wrapping him in an embrace as her lower stomach convulsed and engulfed her in an orgasm. He shuddered underneath her, and the hand cupping the back of her head shook as he smoothed her hair over her scalp.
His breathing covered her bare shoulder. He'd done it all. And, she'd come in minutes.
She'd wanted to give him sexy, glorious, and unforgettable. None of that had happened, and yet Rich having sex with her was the most tender, beautiful, giving moment of her life.
"Rich," she mouthed, wishing she could tell him how much being with him meant to her.
Chapter 24
The sun broke through the curtains in Gracie's bedroom, allowing Rich to view the woman sleeping beside him. He extracted his arm from underneath her head and watched her face for any sign that his movements woke her up. After having sex, she'd slept fitfully, making sure she faced him on the bed as if she needed to watch his every move.
Or, maybe she wanted to stay between him and the pistol on her nightstand.
He couldn't blame her.
She had a right to be afraid of him considering her background. He had no right to have sex with her, but he regretted nothing that happened between them.
What she'd given him after they came back to her house after his night out with Notus going after Cross was nothing less than humbling. Notus's loyalty that night, covering for him, accepting his weakness, had made him weak. He couldn't tell which direction was up or down.
Then, Gracie happened to him.
He still reeled.
Gracie held her breath as she slept, and seconds later she emitted a long sigh of an exhale. He rolled out of bed. She needed someone who could wrap her in a bubble of safety and bandage the scars.
That wasn't him.
At one time, he'd been prepared to be the provider, the healer, the protector for Thalia. When she'd disappeared, he'd made promises to anyone who listened that if he found Thalia, he'd never let her go. It hadn't mattered to him if she came back hurt or a former person of her wonderful self, she was his, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her and make up for her being abducted. He never imagined the police would find her murdered and stripped of all dignity.
He hadn't known how to help himself after losing her.
Just like he had no idea what he was doing with Gracie. He only knew that by having sex with her, he'd done more harm to her than helped her.
Picking up his clothes, he quietly unlocked her bedroom door and walked out, pushing the button on the doorknob before he shut her away from his life. He stepped across the hallway into the guest bedroom and stopped, looking at the devastation he'd caused.
Everything he touched, good fucking intentions or not, ended up damaged.
He sat on the bed and stared down at the floor. His duffle bag sat where he'd left it when he came back in the middle of the night planning to drink his troubles away.
Bending over, he unzipped the bag and took out one of the whiskey bottles he'd stolen from Vavoom's Bar. He twisted off the top and brought the bottle to his nose. Inhaling deeply, the craving to drink beat out everything in his life.
His MC brothers.
Returning home.
Gracie.
He tipped back the bottle and drank. The first drink calmed him, and he took another.
And, another.
And, another.
Chapter 25
"Hang on." Gracie set the cell phone on the bathroom counter, putting her sister on hold, and turned on the blow dryer, removing the drips from her hair and yet leaving it damp.
She'd slept until nine o'clock and woke up with Rich gone from her bed. In a hurry to find him and gauge his reaction to what they'd done, she'd barely stepped out of the shower when Clara had called her.
She picked up the phone. "Okay, I'm back."
"Why the late start?"
Warmth filled her stomach. "I didn't go right to bed after we got home from your house. Are you going to the bar today?"
"Not until five o'clock. I told Peyton I'd come in and stock for the night crowd, so he doesn't have to be pulled away from the grill." Clara yelled to Wayne that his boots were in the living room and then said, "Do you want to go in with me? I can pick you up. I think the guys are planning on coming in for dinner...or at least Wayne will be since I don't plan on cooking dinner tonight. Plus, Wayne said the trouble surrounding Rich is over, so he's free to come and go. You don't have to stay home with him."
Gracie unscrewed her mascara with her lips, put the tube on the counter and took the lash applicator out of her mouth and outlined her eyes. "Text me an hour before you go, and I'll let you know if I'm going to show up."
It would depend on what Rich planned to do later. If he wanted to stay home, she'd stay with him. She looked in the mirror. The others must believe Rich would stay in St. John's. She wasn't so sure. After last night, she hoped so.
"What's going on, sis?" asked Clara.
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
"No, I'm not." She blinked into the mirror, inspecting her lashes. "I don't know what is going on. That's the truth."
Clara sighed. "I hate this. I feel like we're drifting apart."
"A lot is going on, but I'm here for you, and I know you're there for me." Gracie looked at the lash brush in her hand. "Hang on, again."
She set the phone down, put the brush back in the tube, and tossed it in the drawer before picking up the cell. Avoiding the mirror, she said, "I slept with Rich."
"No."
"Yeah." She walked back into the bedroom and glanced at the door. "It's not a big deal."
"It's a huge deal, Gracie. You don't know a thing about him." Clara lowered her voice. "Wayne doesn't believe he's going to stay in St. John's."
Gracie's stomach rolled. She pressed a hand to her middle. "I thought since they were letting him have his freedom, they thought—"
"He'd stay?" Clara sighed. "Wayne said it was time to let Rich control his own life. But, if you've slept with him, I should tell—"
"No." She groaned. "Don't tell Wayne anything. What we did doesn't matter."
It mattered. It meant everything to her.
"And, you're okay with a one-night stand or has it been more?"
"Just once." She sat on the bed and slipped on her shoes. "You're thinking too much of it. Every man we've fooled around with, we've told each other. You told me about you and Wayne right away."
"It was different for us."
"Not really." She stood and walked to the door, unlocking the knob, and stepping out into the hallway. "But, I don't want to..."
Her heart pounded. Rich's bedroom door was wide open, and there were white, chalky boot prints all over the carpet leading into the room.
"Clara," she whispered. "I'll call you b—"
"Wait. What's wrong?"
She stepped into the bedroom, shocked at the mess. There were too many broken holes in the sheetrocked walls for her to count. Three walls were completely destroyed.
One of the closet doors hung off the track. Her head pounded. There was blood splatter on the eggshell white paint of the headboard of the bed.
She grabbed her throat. "I-I think Wayne needs to come over."
"Okay. Okay." The panic in Clara's voice did nothing to soothe her own fear. "Are you safe?"
She nodded. "I think so. I need to find Rich."
"He's gone?"
Her sister's questions only made the situation more urgent. "I don't know. Just send Wayne over here. Fast. I'm going to l
et you go."
"Wait—"
She disconnected the call and picked up Rich's duffle on the floor. Would he have left without his bag? Besides his motorcycle, it was the only thing he had in his possession when he'd arrived in St. John's. She looked inside. His extra clothes still folded and clean from when she'd set them on the stairs after doing laundry.
No, he wouldn't leave her alone in the house, unprotected, without telling her first. She looked around the destroyed room again. All the noise, banging, and muffled groans that came from him during the night were now understood. He'd been busting up her room and destroying everything.
She tossed the duffle on the unmade bed and stepped toward the door. Her sneaker collided with something on the floor and she stumbled. Looking down, the strength in her spine fled and she sagged.
An empty whiskey bottle on the floor struck disappointment in her.
"God," she muttered, hurrying out of the room, hoping the bottle was left over from before she moved back home and not from her falling asleep after having sex and not keeping an eye on him.
Halfway down the stairs, the rumble of motorcycles arriving at her house accelerated her worry and brought the reality of the situation to the surface. Rich was an alcoholic who'd run out on his club.
Not only run out but deliberately stayed away for over twenty-five years. Why had she believed they could make plans together for this evening?
He'd never shared his reasons for staying away, and there was no hint that he wanted the others to know what he'd been doing all those years alone.
She jumped the last couple of steps and almost fell when her legs weakened at the sight before her.
Rich lay sprawled out on the couch, another empty whiskey bottle on the floor beside him. She gawked, not knowing whether to breathe in relief that he'd stayed or go yank him off the sofa and tell him how he majorly screwed up by drinking again.
Banging on the door stopped her from reacting. She walked over and unlocked the multiple locks, opened the door, and then swung her arm out to show Wayne, Thad, Glen, and Chuck, the state of her roommate.