by Susan Arden
She glanced back to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Not a damn thing.” He met her liquid golden eyes, robbing him of his sanity. So ready to tear up and drown his promise. His cock wasn’t just hard. It pulsed. Throbbing. Ready to be ridden by her.
“I want to taste you. Just like this.” Now it was his turn to kneel.
He separated her ass cheeks, giving him a phenomenal view of her sleek sex. He swiped his finger down the crevice of her ass and spread her pussy lips. God, she was wet as fuck. Soft, hot silk and he pressed his mouth to her opening, driving his tongue into Sommer as he pinched her clit. These twin actions had her crying out his name, wriggling against his face.
Rory held onto one of her hips, drawing her back to him. He wanted her wrapped around his cock, but this was a mind-altering second best. He used his teeth to nip her, scraping the stubble of his chin over her pussy, just to drive her crazy. He sucked her against his mouth, fucking her with his tongue.
She tensed, arching upward as her muscles started to quiver. Rory speared his finger into her as the walls of her pussy clenched around him. He pumped his finger harder into her until his hand was drenched.
“Lean forward, head down. Ass up,” he commanded. “And come. All over my mouth.”
Spreading her, he sucked her clit and pumped his tongue into her deep and hard. His cock throbbed as he alternated between fucking her with his tongue to lapping her juices. She soaked his mouth. Her muscles began to tremble.
In a husky voice, he asked. “Do you like this?”
She bowed her forehead to the bed. “So much,” she answered in a low, low voice.
His cock was hard enough to pound nails. He rose behind her, gazing down at the dimples over her hips, and squeezed her plump ass cheeks in his hands. He had to figure a way that they could fuck, without actually fucking. His cock stood ramrod straight from his body, throbbing unmercifully as he grazed his fingers between her legs.
So wet. So close.
Here lay heaven’s gate. All he had to do was fit his crown into her entrance. He rubbed the head of his dick between her sleek lips. Tremors ripped through his body from his muscles constricting as he struggled to keep his promise. Crystal droplets spilled from his dick making her pussy slicker. She was so soft and inviting.
Pressing forward, he hiked up her hips until she was right there. Inserting his foot between her feet, he separated her legs wider apart. He felt the hammering of his pulse in his temples as his cock throbbed. Don’t do it.
Rory gripped his cock, swiping his crown at her entrance, gliding through her wet heat. He had to stop from thrusting into Sommer, when he craved her like a drug, intoxicating his senses. The sight of her before him equaled temptation personified, driving him crazy to do as his body demanded.
His blood raced and his cock swelled—so ready to sink deep inside her.
He had to feel her glide over his crown. Just the tip, he told himself as he closed the distance between them. She felt so incredibly soft on him. The singular kind of soft that haunted him. He skimmed his cock across her pussy, grinding his back molars, his hips ready to piston.
“I’m…” He didn’t know what to say and clenched his jaw, staring at the sight of his hard-on moving in and out between her legs.
The warm, wet feel of her rode roughshod over him. It was as if the floor underneath him shifted. The sensation of letting go engulfed him. Like a powerful wave, washing over his body, arresting him of what he’d promised as he pressed forward. Her pussy met him, but she didn’t yield. He’d have to brace her and barrel forward this being her first time.
She pushed her chest off the bed, turned around, looked up into his face, and nodded. “Babe,” she whispered. “Let me.”
She slid down to the floor and gripped him around his base. Hard like he needed. She licked her enticing tongue over his head. The feel of her warm lips wrapped around his crown had him pumping his hips, driving his cock into her mouth by primal instinct. So at the edge—he’d never been this far gone. He thrust again, sliding deeper as she opened her mouth, taking him farther and exorcising a loud groan from low in his chest.
“So fucking perfect,” he rasped. “You look amazing giving me head.”
She worked her mouth, tongue, and the tips of her teeth over him. Swirling her satiny lips along his ridge, she tormented him for a beat, making the breath freeze in his lungs.
“Mmm,” she moaned sexy sounds, each one squeezing his balls.
“Sommer,” he hissed sharply.
“Fuck my mouth.” Again she swallowed him—his cock, his lust, his need to join with her and he let go in trying to control himself. She tightened her lips over him and he fisted her ponytail.
“Swallow me,” he grunted to his dirty talking girlfriend as she let him own her mouth. “Just. Like. That!”
Sommer raked her nails along his thighs, drawing out his pleasure and tangling the mind-jarring sensation shooting through him with tinges of erotic pain. With his lust spiked, he craved deeper. Harder.
“Take all of me,” he commanded her, holding her face between his palms.
At the back of her throat, she groaned in approval. Drawing him into the recesses of her hot wet mouth, she sucked his head and slid her ruby lips up his shaft. She captured his nuts in her warm palms, setting fire to his senses. Electrical darts flickered at the base of his spine. Not yet.
Ramping up the intensity, he thrust forcefully, grinding his cock in Sommer’s mouth and he was there. No way to back off. He rocked his hips, his calves scorching, and his need to jet close to detonating. Fucking her mouth, he thrust deeper, moving faster.
Faster.
Faster.
“Sommer!” He released with a hurling force and his whole body convulsed. Again he jolted, and Sommer swallowed, sucking him hard as he fired into her mouth. A ricochet reaction. Every cell in his body contracted, drawing the essence of this woman into him. His body jerked and he held her face, grunting in satisfaction, flying high with one thought. In short order, he had to have Sommer, all of her—all the fucking way.
Chapter 19
Sommer walked into the Shreveport casino dressed in her usual gambling garb: a wig and cheap clothing. No one batted an eye as she made her way to the slot machines. No one realized, she was the woman who’d set off a smoke bomb in another casino to avert a disaster. Bell had taught Sommer a hundred tricks to avoid arrest.
There were ten casinos in Shreveport and this was the tenth and last one she’d visit forever. She wore sunglasses and a brunette pageboy wig this week and Clay paid her no mind as he sat at one of the seven blackjack tables on the lower floor.
Wearing a black silk blouse, skintight jeans, and a pair leopard slingback pumps, Sommer leaned against the slot machine and inserted nickel after nickel, staring at the screen, seemingly engrossed in her own world. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
Over the last six months, she’d been through a crash course on how to unobtrusively enter a casino and close in on the blackjack table where Clayton played. As he switched tables, she switched slot machines. Of course there were time delays—each one different. All orchestrated and memorized. She had the floorplan marked out prior to arriving.
In the beginning, she had to spend an inordinate amount of time in Deputy Demento’s company as he hammered into her by way of threats and rote memory exercises how to play her part. In a metal building out on some derelict farm, he’d staged a micro version of a casino with several slot machines and blackjack tables. Bell had blindfolded and brought Sommer there in the back of his squad car. The first couple of times, she’d nearly succumbed to a panic attack, not trusting him as her imagination tortured her with scenarios.
She’d quickly learned Bell wasn’t into her beyond support personnel. His sicko tastes were far creepier, and as he liked to remind Sommer, legal as long he didn’t undertake his gratification in public.
Wearing an ankle shackle, she
practiced using the casino simulations he had rigged up. The windows were painted black and he locked the door from the outside. Bell would leave her to visit the dilapidated barn out back. She forced herself not to think about what he was up to dressed in a black hooded robe. Other people came. Cars, trucks, and motorcycles arrived and parked nearby. The conversation was muted, yet distinguishable as men’s voices.
They always chanted in a language she hadn’t understood. Didn’t want to understand. Sometimes animals squealed. Then silence, or more chanting. Sommer hadn’t dared to call out for help.
By compartmentalizing her thoughts, she’d learned to function and not cave. Caving wasn’t an option. Bell had threatened if she ever crossed him, he’d make her participate, photograph her and unleash the images everywhere. He had photographs of a woman who laundered his money that he made her look at. But by worse and why she didn’t doubt he was evil personified, he’d subjected the woman he’d married to the same tortured existence. Sommer imagined his wife lived in a nightmare worse than hell.
Bell enjoyed the fear he incited. He relished telling Sommer in a monotone, “It won’t matter if I’m arrested and sent away for thirty years. You’ll always be tainted as true believer.” He was right. Nothing would ever erase the vile shadow of Satanism from her existence. His threat to baptize her in blood wasn’t an idle threat. The other things Bell and his fellow believers did, was too horrible to think about.
Her hands started to shake and closed her eyes. Stop, Sommer told herself. As if a curtain was drawn, she pushed down the memories of Bell’s farm. Taking a cleansing breath, she opened her eyes. Okay, it was time.
Efficiently, she moved to the next slot machine two minutes before Clay was due to rotate. Dammit, the slot machine was occupied so she picked another, a row to the east.
Sommer manned her post. Robotically, she performed: insert a nickel. Pull the handle. Watch the screen. Over and over and over, this is what she did, pacing herself by ordering drinks or sometimes something to eat. She never spoke to anyone and avoided unnecessary eye contact. She didn’t dodge people but never let her gaze linger on anyone or any spot. Within an hour or two, they eventually were in close proximity and using technology thanks to the Giles County Sheriff’s Department, she was wired and he wore a receiver.
Sommer picked up her cup and rotated. It was showtime and she was on. Her nerves were strung tighter than normal. Operating as if she wore blinders, she refused to attend to the sights and sounds—distractions. There couldn’t be any screw ups.
Counting cards to bring down the house was her game and Sommer was a pro. It was an old ruse but one Bell had concocted, updated, and ran to win in weekly visits to casinos in Louisiana, Oklahoma, and Arkansas. In lieu of her mom being hauled in for trumped up charges, Sommer had to work off what Deputy Demento deemed a ‘just penalty.’ In reality, she’d learned that Bell trolled for victims: anyone with an obsession for details. A tattoo artist? No one had to be a brain surgeon to figure out, it was a requirement for the job. Being exposed to the stress of her mom’s condition and her father’s abandonment made her immune the grind. Bell provided the last ingredient and that was discipline by way of practice. Hours and hours until she was too numb to be sickened and only wanted her freedom. Wanted to be so far away from Bell, she’d never have to see him again. It was the underlying reason of why she wanted Rory with all her heart and wanted to escape Annona. She was torn and it was easier not to think. To just be.
The table had three players including Clay. The jock sweating bullets to Clay’s left showed his first card. Queen of hearts. Ah, it was the second Q that could prove a bitch and she noted the values. Set up on the sidelines, it was a no-brainer for Sommer to use her cell phone app and the micro camera on Bell to scan the cards of each player and assess a value. Patience was more than a virtue. It was part and parcel in stage one of counting cards. The Jersey housewife to his right with her acrylic nails, fake books and false eyelashes seemed more interested in scoring with Bell than at blackjack.
The next part had Sommer’s stomach twisted in knots, keeping a running tally of each card in play. This was a small table and easy. Clay’s winnings would go up and down. But toward the end, when he accrued chips in spades, so would the crowds. She used a code and a small pad of paper. But she couldn’t scribble out notes—security roamed the casino floor on the lookout for card counters.
Sitting back, she dropped another nickel into the slot, and as she went to record the new values of the cards dealt, the lights on the slot machine flashed. After all the times she’d played the slots, this was the first time she’d won. The machine spat out a receipt and she showed no emotion. Bell never paid attention to what occurred behind him. Other slot players won and not once had he turned. Breaking concentration was tantamount to breaking his cover. Dressed in a polo and dark slacks, he wore his hair slicked back making his gaunt face even more jackal-like. His long thin fingers deftly picked up his cards.
She had a Bluetooth ear piece and couldn’t mute it. He chatted amicably, flirted when necessary, and she rolled her eyes. He dealt with deciphering the tells and body language of those at the table and she couldn’t have cared less except if he lost, he blamed her. She lived for the day, this would be nothing but a horrible memory and it was so close, she could almost taste it. Seated in this casino, she was near to giddy as the hours rolled by and Clay was on his last hand. The fake pine perfumed scented air was noxious and permeated her clothing, her hair, and her thoughts.
Outside was dark and—the man to Bell’s right slammed his hand down and cursed. The rest of the players were women, typical Bell move. Sommer shot a glance across to the table, wondering if a drink had spilled.
“What the fuck is going on!” The man launched into a tirade. Before one of the pit bosses could get to the table, the man accused Bell of doing something fishy and then pointed a finger at the dealer. “And you? You’re practically falling all over yourself every time this prick says boo!”
This situation was one that Bell had prepped her for and why they drove separately. As each of the players were escorted to private rooms in the back, Sommer collected her belongings, including her receipt. Outwardly, she appeared to be just another slot player who’d decided to pack it up. Perfect ploy and it was over.
Now, she’d invest herself in the perfect truth.
Chapter 20
Throughout the week, Rory had been occupied with the last part of the cattle drive, and then dealing with his property. Sommer kept busy being on parent duty. She hadn’t heard from Bell, nor had she seen him lurking about. The fact that officially she was done, didn’t feel real without the closure of hearing those words from Deputy Demento’s sick thin lips.
For once, Momma’s mental state actually gave Sommer something to concentrate on other than slamming her head against the wall in frustration and panic. Bell ate up other people’s fear. Was he toying with her and about to reveal something worse he had in mind? His vile nature in how he shackled his wife, the mother of his children into a life of demented servitude while he slithered invisibly.
No matter what Sommer did, the nagging need to check her cell to see if Bell had sent a message didn’t die down. Coupled with her worry on her mom—her anxiety level escalated. She stayed at home when she could to keep an eye on Momma. Aunt Belinda pitched in as well. In the early evenings, she helped Momma out in the garden and after dinner, they played bridge. Although she spoke with Rory all the time, she missed him. And now that missing him included being haunted by the overpowering sensation of his ability to dominate her. His warm breath, his gravelly tone, and how he pinned her in place using his body. He’d touched her, intimately in ways she’d never imagined possible.
Clock watching ceased when a group of bridesmaids showed up on Wednesday at the Tattooed Rose. Seven women who were eager to do something a little racy that didn’t involve going to Dallas. Four tattoos and three piercings later, Sommer’s day was done.<
br />
Thursday came and went. Only one tattoo customer. A small heart hidden on the woman’s derrière. Done in thirty minutes. Sommer’s confusion grew with her restlessness, so she got busy, working on her shirts; cutting, knotting, and adding more photos of them to her Etsy account.
Then Friday rolled around and here she sat with her ear buds in place, her iPod cranked, and her last customer nearly finished. She patted the puffy ink lines, spreading out over the skin on her client’s shoulders. Standing up, she studied her work: an intricate set of tattooed wings. The guy had called yesterday and said he’d seen her work on Hellhound’s site.
Daria, his girlfriend who’d come with him, got up as well. “The wings look awesome. Better than the guitarist’s. You freehanded these designs?”
“Part. Wanted this set to be different.” Sommer smiled, pointing to the interlocking bands and picked up a new gun for shading, and adjusted the settings on her ink machine.
“So cool.” Daria was about to touch the tattoo but Sommer reached out swiftly.
“Can’t touch. Not yet,” she said. When her client tried to lift upward, she moved and stopped him. “Not so fast. A little more, just a touch up, and then you’re through.”
“Daria, do ya dig it?” he asked.
“So much.” Daria took out her phone and took a picture. “See for yourself.”
Her client stared at the screen of his girlfriend’s cell and then unleashed a huge smile. “Babe, post it.”
Second tat in a week to get posted. Apparently, someone had tagged her in the Facebook photo post as the ink artist for Vince’s new tat. She would check out the Hellhound’s band site later and see for herself. Thinking of Vince, her mind drifted to Ivy, and Sommer suddenly realized, this was the first time in months that she wasn’t in the midst of a slew of rapid fire texts between her, Ivy, and Jen. Her chest tightened and she chewed the side of her mouth, laying down the last couple lines on the tattoo.