The Traitor’s Baby: Reaper’s Hearts MC

by Nicole Fox

  “Fuck, fuck,” he groans, his hand on my head.

  I grab his hand and push it, urging him to choke me harder.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  I nudge his hand again. I trust him; I want to be close to him. I want us to join bodies, to relinquish control completely. He’s admitted he cried; he’s opened himself to me. I trust him now, perhaps more than I should.

  He doesn’t need me to urge him again. He grabs the back of my head and forces me down on his cock. I prop my hands on his belly, gripping the muscle as he fucks my face. He pulls his cock out of me, holds the tip between my lips as I gasp for breath, pre-come and spit sliding onto him, and then pumps his cock into me again. I force my head down as he pumps his hips up, taking the length of him, the room full of choking and growling and gurgling noises, sounds which would be off-putting usually but are dirty and nasty and sexy now. I dig my fingernails into his abs, liking it when he flinches from the pain. He bleeds and chokes me even more for angering him. There’s something vicious in us. Then he lets go of my head and I sit back, gasping, wiping spit and pre-come from around my mouth.

  “I need to see you naked,” he says, standing up and tearing at his own clothes. “I need to see those pert fuckin’ tits and that round fuckin’ ass. I need to see that fuckin’ pussy.”

  I stand up. He’s completely naked now. I run my finger between his pectorals down to his cock, and then shove him in the belly. “Sit down and be a good boy, then.”

  He strokes his cock casually, watching me. The lust in his eyes is captivating. It is in my control. I strut away from him, slowly removing my clothes, pulling my shirt over my head and unclipping my bra with one hand, and then bend over and slide my pants and my panties down at the same time, wriggling my ass. I look over my shoulder and see his face, utterly captive to me. When I’m fully naked I bend all the way over, touching my toes.

  “Goddamn,” he mutters. “I need you.”

  I go the bedroom door, hand resting on the handle, and hold the pose for a moment, feeling sexy and somehow dangerous. “Come and get me.” I push the door open.

  He chases me like a wolf, growling under his breath. I go to the bed and sit down, my legs folded.

  “Give me that fucking cock,” I say, unable to stop myself.

  He walks over to me, hip-height with my head, and I take his cock again, massaging his balls and sucking and then scratching my fingernails down his thighs. Adrenaline runs through my body as much as lust. My nipples are hard and the hairs all over my body stand up. I get the feeling that something important is happening, something that will change me, and that somewhere within the nastiness there’s some emotion. It’s confusing and hard to pinpoint, but the textured nature of it makes it all the more compelling. After sucking him, I lie on my back and part my legs, aiming my toes at the wall.

  “I want you,” I say, biting my lip. My breathing comes too fast. I can’t control it. “I need you inside of me.”

  He leans over me, looking into my eyes. By the way his eyes lock onto my face, I can tell he’s never looked a woman in the eye during sex before. There’s some awkwardness in him, and there’s some awkwardness in me—I’ve never claimed to be the most well-adjusted person—but we push through it. Then something clicks. It’s like our gazes really connect, slot into place. We become one even before he enters me. I reach down and take his cock in my hand, guiding him to my aching pussy.

  He thrusts up, his back arching, his arm muscles tensing either side of my head. His cock spears into me, opening my pussy and pushing all the way to the deepest recesses of me. There is no pain this time, just a flood of warmth and tingling. I grab onto his arms and look into his eyes, determined not to close my eyes or look away. He stares back at me and starts to thrust slowly, his hair hanging almost at my face, the very tips of it tickling my nose. I move my hands from his arms to his back, gripping the powerful muscle. Waves move through the muscles with each thrust, rippling.

  “You’re so damn beautiful,” he moans, and kisses me.

  I kiss him back, a little tentatively at first. I have never kissed a man during sex. But then our tongues meet and any hesitation evaporates. I push my tongue into his mouth, clashing as our bodies clash. He pumps harder and harder, and I slide up and down on the bed, the sheets sticking to my sweaty back. I grip his thighs with my legs and pull him inside of me, driving down onto his cock as our teeth click and our tongues war. His cock pounds into me steadily, hitting my sweet spot over and over, triggering miniature detonations with each thrust. He lifts one hand and cups my breasts, tweaking my nipple, pulling it softly, and then breaks off the kiss and hunches over so that he can suck them. He sucks them greedily as we fuck, pulling on them a little too tightly, blood rushing to them, engorging them.

  I don’t close my eyes, won’t look away, as the orgasm grows inside of me. I feel it spreading out from the length of him, starting as heat contained within his cock like some powerful machine. Each movement of the machine sends kinetic energy through me, trammeling everything else until only his cock exists. He bites my neck, kisses it, heightening the pleasure. Everything is hot; everything is touched by his heat. Detonation after detonation, getting larger until it’s all I can do to stop from screaming. I lock my ankles behind him, urging him harder and deeper inside of me. I want all of him. I want us to be so close we don’t know where each of us starts and each of us ends.

  “Fuck, fuck,” I moan. I bite his lip and moan wordlessly.

  He thrusts into me with all his strength, throwing his body into it. The orgasm pauses for a moment as though teasing me, and then it unleashes. Pleasure like I have never felt before tears through me, owns me, obliterates me. I try and keep my eyes on Logan but they go blurry with tears. All I see are his eyes, ice-white through the blurriness. I bring my locked feet under his ass, tugging on him, angling my hips and taking the entire length of him, all ten inches of his rock-solid cock impaling me, my orgasm releasing in fiery waves that surge through my body. I twist and I buck on his cock, taking every ounce of pleasure. I know I’m screaming because my throat hurts, but I cannot hear it. All I hear is the orgasm, white noise in my ears, and all I see is waves like the shimmering of a desert horizon with Logan’s eyes, watching, hungry for my euphoria, sharing in it.

  Just when I think the orgasm has spent its last pleasure, another wave hits me and I realize it isn’t even halfway done yet. It’s like there’s an infinite reservoir of power in his cock, transferring endlessly to my body. The orgasm is so intense it stings a little, as if I can only just take pleasure like this. I drive with even more force onto his cock, my ass cheeks crushing his balls, which feel big and ready to burst.

  When the orgasm finally passes I kiss him, and that’s how he knows that he can release. He groans loudly and pushes up, sliding his length somehow deeper, and then emptying everything inside of me: not just his come but his nerves and his awkwardness, until all that’s left is pleasure and closeness. He pushes my breasts together and holds his cock within me until it begins to grow soft, resting atop me, and only then takes it out.

  He makes to roll aside but I grab him, holding him on top, and we lie like that for a long time. It feels good to have him atop me like this, crushing me so that I can only just breathe. I feel buried by him, his come pooling around my thighs. I kiss him on the cheek, thinking that now would be the perfect moment to tell him about our baby.

  But then he rolls aside and the moment passes. I try to summon the words, but instead I end up crawling across the bed and laying my head against his chest, listening to his musical heartbeat.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Logan

  I wake to Cora looking down at me. The sun has barely risen, her face framed in dim yellow light.

  “Are you watching me sleep?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “I would never do that. I’m not some kind of freak.”

  “Right, of course not. You’re not a freak at all. Last night you were completel
y normal. I don’t reckon you ever do anything freaky.”

  “What?” She tosses her head in imitation of some red-carpet starlet from the fifties. “You saying a woman can’t brutally mouth-fuck a man and then make tender love to him? What’s so wrong with that?”

  Both of us laugh, and then she leans up. “I have something to admit. You didn’t wake up naturally just now. I was blowing on your face.”

  “You were … what the fuck’s the matter with you?” I nudge her in the belly, smiling when she tenses up and slaps my hand away. “What time is it?”

  “It’s half past five in the morning.”

  “Cora. I admitted I cried, didn’t I? I’m pretty damn sure I admitted that. So if this is some sort of punishment … seriously, though, why the fuck have you woken me up at half past five?”

  “I need to get some clothes,” she says. “I have work at ten and—”

  “You can’t go to work,” I cut in.

  She flinches. After a moment she shakes her head slowly. “I can’t just sit around here,” she says. “I just can’t. I’ll go crazy. The only way I’ve stayed sane since Mom, since Dad, is by keeping busy. Anyway, I’ve missed enough work as it is.”

  “Why’ve you missed work?” I ask.

  She flinches again. I wonder if there’s something she’s not telling me, or if she’s just annoyed with all the questions. “I’ve been ill. Nothing serious.”

  “Oh.”

  She folds her arms. “But I’m going to work. I know, I know. It’s dangerous. Those men are after me. Fine. But I’ll go crazy if I don’t go in. And I might lose my job. I know it must seem crazy to you, since I have this huge fortune waiting for me if I’d just trick some poor sap into marrying me and having a baby with me, but this job actually means something. It means that I’m … well, I’m the sort of person who goes to work. That’s what it means.”

  “What would happen if I told you that I won’t let you go to work, that I’d stop you if necessary?”

  “I’d find a way to go,” she says stubbornly.

  I sigh, standing up. “I thought you’d say that. Sometimes I feel like I know you pretty well, Cora. You like history and you like singing, you’re tough as leather but you’ve got a kind streak in you, too. Then you go off like this and I feel like I’m getting to know you all over again. I never guessed you’d be this goddamn stubborn. Let me make some calls. I need to arrange to have your workplace guarded. What’s the address?”

  She gives it to me and I call up Spider. “Hey, boss,” he says.

  For a second I want to correct him, tell him to stop calling me that. It’s a thought I often get when one of the guys calls me boss, which is what everybody called Dad for years. Calling me boss is like saying I’m a decent replacement for Dad, that I can fill his shoes and do all the shit he used to do. I guess that’s the point, but it still makes me nervous.

  “Boss?” Spider prompts.

  “Yeah. I need you to get a couple of the guys together for a guard detail. They need to watch a woman called Cora Ash. She’s tallish …” I give the description and the address. “They need to stay there all day, watch all the exits and make sure nothin’ happens to her. Understood?”

  “Sure,” Spider says. He sounds like he wants to ask some questions, maybe why I’ve suddenly taken such a liking to a woman I’ve never mentioned before, but he doesn’t press the issue.

  I hang up the phone and turn to Cora. “Let’s take you shopping, you spoiled brat.”

  She giggles and we get dressed. About an hour later we ride back to my apartment with two bags full of clothes bought from the twenty-four-hour supermarket at the other end of town. Cora goes into the bedroom and starts messing around with the clothes like women do, and I sit on the couch drinking coffee, wondering what steps to take today. I need to try and fix this shit with the mafia. I want to follow this path with Cora—last night was incredible; it was like I was a person, she really made me feel that way—but I can’t with this Moretti shit hanging over our heads. She emerges from the bedroom wearing a white shirt and black trousers, throwing a pose.

  “How do I look?”

  She has her knee raised, her pants tight around her ass.

  “I reckon you better stop doing that before I lose control.”

  “Maybe I want you to.” She skips across the room, pressing her hand down on my crotch.

  Neither of us puts up much of a fight. We dance the same routine as last night, kissing, biting, growling, sinking into each other.

  “Okay, seriously now,” she says, putting her clothes back on. “I’m going to be late.”

  I take her down to my bike, giving her the helmet and my leather, and then ride her to the dentist’s office. I’m not happy about this, but I don’t see that I have another option. She’ll just sneak out and put herself in danger. This way at least I can make sure she’s relatively safe. I’m lying to myself; there is another option. I could keep her prisoner. But I don’t want that for selfish reasons. I couldn’t stand the way she’d look at me. She climbs from the bike and takes off the helmet, kissing me on the forehead.

  “See you later,” she says, and it’s almost like I have a girlfriend.

  I check in with the guys, one posted at the front and one at the back. Then I ride away to handle my business.

  I call one of my police contacts and twist his arm a little. We’ve got shit on a few cops, and this one is no different. He likes to fuck around on his wife on the weekends, tell her some fairytale about how he’s going to a police conference and then spend the weekend snorting buckets of coke and screwing anybody he can get his hands on. After I threaten him a couple of times he tells me that Moretti is holed up in a bar downtown.

  I hang up and kick my bike to life, riding down the beach past the weightlifters and the dog-walkers, stopping outside the bar. It’s a dingy place, a squat gray building nestled between two abandoned storefronts, one of which is being worked on by construction workers. I check my pistol and approach the building confidently. If there’s one thing I’ve learned dealing with other gangs, it’s that a man can never show fear to another man. Maybe with a woman it’s all right, or it can be all right, but not when there’s a group of bloody men ready to turn to violence. So I walk up to the bar like I haven’t got a thing in the world to fear, even if I know that death might be waiting for me. The door is grimy, covered in what might be oil, might be blood. Music plays from inside. A couple of men laugh.

  I knock and step back, waiting.

  A peephole slides open in the door, two brown eyes study me, and then the peephole slides closed. A moment later the door whines open and a mafia kid looks me up and down, eighteen, all golden jewelry and slicked-back hair.

  “I’m here for Moretti,” I say.

  “You wanna see the boss?”

  “I wanna see the boss,” I confirm.

  “You got a death wish or somethin’?”

  “Maybe so. But to be honest, kid, that ain’t any of your fucking business. So why don’t you take me to him so that the men can talk.”

  He don’t like that any, and I can’t blame him. It wasn’t so long ago I was eighteen myself. Any time some older bastard spoke to me like that I thought I might snap. But I see it in his face: the rising violence and then the falling defeat. He shrugs and nods me in. Absurdly, considering the circumstances, I feel a little guilty. We walk down narrow hallways until we arrive at a bar area. The floor is sticky, the carpet riddled with holes and covered with chewing gum. The wallpaper on the walls has mostly chipped away; in some places the wall gives way to the next room, flashes of beds and bathrooms.

  The kid takes me into the main bar area and nods to a tall, skinny man with an eagle-like nose and long spider-leg fingers. The bar is full of men and women, strippers sitting on laps and dancing at tables, fat old men pawing at them and eager young men doing the same. The music cuts short when they spot me. All at once the men stand up, going for their guns. I stand straight, my face composed,
not letting a moment of fear pass across my face, even though I’d be fuckin’ insane not to feel fear at a moment like this.

  I swallow and then call across the now-silent bar, “The president of the Demon Riders is here to talk to the boss. I heard that Moretti was a tough guy. But maybe I heard wrong. Maybe he’s the sort of fella to have a man killed who comes here in peace.”

  That gets to him. His spider-leg fingers clamp together and then release. He nods to one of his men. I raise my arms as he pats me down. He takes my gun and then touches my jacket, as if he’s going to take that off, too.

  “You wanna lose a hand?” I say to the guy. “You can take this jacket off my corpse, but that’s it. You ain’t getting it otherwise.”

  The man looks to Moretti, who shrugs. He steps away from me and I walk across the bar with dozens of eyes locked on me.