The Traitor’s Baby: Reaper’s Hearts MC

by Nicole Fox

  “Why are you here?” she asks. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you are. But the way we left things last time . . . I thought that was it, Fink. And now . . .”

  I explain about the shootout.

  “Oh my God.” She gasps. “I can’t believe they’d do that!”

  “Taunt a tiger enough, Nancy, and anything can happen. But the boss might be tryin’ to make some kind of peace, so that’ll be good.” I sip the wine, as red as blood. “I was going to ask you if I could lie low here for a couple of days. I know it seems like a lot—”

  “Yes,” she interrupts, her cheeks wine-red, her lips blood-red. “The answer is yes.”

  “I thought I’d have to twist your arm.”

  “Nope, no arm-twisting necessary. You can have the couch. I have some spare sheets.”

  “Okay,” I say, watching her, looking at her full breasts, her legs begging to be grabbed, thinking of all the animal things I’d like to do to her. I’m getting hard just thinking about it.

  She sees me looking but doesn’t tell me to stop, just blushes at me and takes a sip of her wine. “Are you hungry?”

  “I could eat.”

  “I have some pizzas in the freezer.”

  “Pizza sounds fine.”

  She puts the pizzas in the oven and then we eat, and drink, and talk about nothing in particular. After the pizzas I lift my arm and she climbs into me, resting her head on my shoulder as we watch TV. We watch half of Catch Me if You Can and then Nancy yawns and stands up, stretching her arms above her head in a way that pushes her breasts out. “I’m beat. Let me get you those sheets.”

  “Okay.”

  She makes up the couch for me and then goes into her bedroom, closing the door. I sit on the couch for a couple of minutes, staring at a vacuum advertisement on the TV, and then I can’t help myself any longer. She’s too hot, too damn sexy, too much of the woman of my dreams for me to just sit here. I go to her bedroom door and open it slowly, making sure I make some noise so she knows I’m coming.

  She stands with her back to me, shirtless, her tank top in her hands, her bra hanging loosely, the clip undone. “What are you doing?” she whispers, her voice trembling with lust.

  “I think you know,” I say, kicking the door closed behind me.

  Chapter Ten

  Nancy

  I tremble like crazy as Fink walks across the room to me. I don’t turn, just listen: listen to his breathing and the rustle of his clothes. And then I smell: oil, whisky, wine, and a musk of manly sweat which drives my hormones wild. He pauses directly behind me, so close I can almost feel him, and then places his hands on my bare shoulders.

  “I need you,” he says. “And I reckon you want this, Nancy.”

  “You’re wrong,” I say. “I need this just as much as you do.”

  I take a step back, pressing my ass into his crotch. His cock goes hard for me at once, pressing through his jeans. I grind up and down on it, loving the feeling of that denim-trapped rod pressing against my flesh.

  “You were waiting for me,” he says, his breath oh-so-warm on my neck.

  I wriggle some more, dragging my ass cheeks up and down his pants, his cock getting harder. I sense that he wants to tear me to pieces. That’s how it feels: an animal presence desperate to break free. I sense that he wants to devour me. I have experienced pale imitations of this before, over-excited boys trying to emulate what they watched in some cheesy porn flick. But this is different. This is real. Fink is a predator and I am his prey, and because that notion doesn’t seem ridiculous with Fink, I buy into it. I am hooked. I am his prey, and I want to be. I want it so bad my nipples are hard and my clit throbs, my pussy lips tingle, my hole screams for attention.

  “Waiting for you,” I whisper, arching my back and pushing my ass out, with force, into his crotch.

  “You keep doing that, you’ll give a man ideas.” He growls as he moves his hand around my body, up my belly and to my breasts. He massages them, losing himself in the act of rubbing them, tweaking my nipples softly and then harder, squeezing them together and looking over my shoulder, staring down at them with a wicked smile on his face and a wicked glint in his eye.

  “Oh, fuck,” I moan, as he bites down on my neck. “Fuck, fuck.”

  “You like this?” he whispers, before biting me again.

  “Yes, yes.”

  He grabs me by the shoulders and flips me around so that I’m facing him, and then shoves me back onto the bed. I lie there, staring up at him as he undoes his belt and the button on his jeans. My heart is beating so heavily, I can hardly think. My eyes are locked on his crotch, waiting. I’ve never wanted to see a man’s cock so desperately before, so hungrily. My attention has never been so captured. He pulls down his jeans and underwear.

  His cock springs up.

  My first instinct is fear.

  It’s ten inches, maybe ten and a half, and thick. It’s the thickest cock I’ve ever laid eyes on, so thick that it makes me wonder if it will fit inside of me. A vein twists around it like a vine on a tree trunk, and that’s what it is, I reflect: a thick, dominating tree trunk.

  He steps forward and pulls me up by my wrists.

  “Suck,” he says, his tone one of command.

  If any other man said suck in that tone of voice I’d slap him across the prick and tell him to get some manners. Or I’d lose the moment and tell him I’m not in the mood anymore. But Fink is different. Fink is too powerful, too commanding. With him, it doesn’t seem like some lame act. So not only do I suck, but I want to suck. I bring my mouth to his cock, opening it so wide my jaw hurts, and suck as deep as I can, which is still only about halfway down his immense length.

  He places his hand on my head, staring down at me with mad, lust-crazed eyes. “I’m going to fuck your face,” he says. It isn’t a question. “Tap out if it gets too much. Do you understand?”

  It’s difficult to nod with his massive cock pinning me, but I manage it.

  I’ve never had my face fucked before. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why I enjoy it with Fink. I grip onto his legs and brace myself, and he grabs my head and starts pumping. He forces his cock all the way to the back of my throat, the tip choking me. He moans and I gag, cough, spit, and pre-come spills out of my mouth. He fucks my face faster, harder, until I’m coughing and gagging and spitting uncontrollably. His moaning urges me on. His moans are pure animal pleasure, pure dominating pleasure, and they’re what make me push my mouth further down his cock, all the way until my nose is pressed flat against his abs. We do this for a few minutes and then he pulls out and yanks me to my feet.

  “I need you,” I say. “I need to taste that fuckin’ pussy.”

  He falls to his knees, shoves me, and yanks down my pajama bottoms. He splits my legs roughly, grabbing onto my thighs so that his fingers leave red marks on my skin, and brings his face to my pussy. I’m already wet and eager, but when he drags his tongue up my lips toward my clit, I get so wet I can hardly believe it. I’ve never been this wet, soaking, drenched, so wet I’m self-conscious he’ll find it weird. But he doesn’t. If anything, he likes it even more. He licks up and down my wet lips and then comes to my clit, licking around it slowly, teasing me.

  I make an urging noise, nudging him with my knee. He ignores me and keeps up his cruel teasing, his tongue brushing just near my clit, brushing it slightly, and then moving away, leaving me hornier than ever. He does this for a minute or so, but it feels like a decade. I nudge him more than once and he just goes on ignoring me.

  “Baby,” I moan. “Oh, baby, please.”

  He gives me what I want, pressing his mouth against my clit, not just kissing it but making out with it, pulling on it with his lips and then sucking it, and finally licking it so fast, it’s like he’s turned snake-tongued. He grab his head, grabbing onto his short hair and tWolfing my hips against his mouth, the pleasure exploding from being withheld for so long and in such a teasing way. I close my eyes and moan, a singsong moan that fills
the room.

  Then Fink pulls away, looking up between my legs with that wicked smirk on his face. “So, do you wanna be fucked?” He gives my thigh a squeeze.

  “Yes,” I moan, pussy yelling at me now: “Get me a fucking cock or a fucking tongue or I’ll kill you!”

  He stands up and then reaches down and flips me over so I’m on my hands and knees. A thrill runs through me. This is exactly the way for us to fuck. We’ve become animals, consumed with each other. I grab the sheets in bunches and stick my ass out, baring my pussy for him, waiting for that ten-inch polearm to press against me, and then slide inside of me.

  He places his hands on my ass cheeks, sending tingles around my hips and to my pussy, and then brings his cock to my pussy. He brushes it against my clit at first, moving it up and down, near my hole, away from my hole. But my pussy is too wet for him. He slides it up, and his cock slides inside of me.

  “Fuck. Oh, fuck.”

  His thick cock splits me apart. I don’t know if what I’m feeling is pleasure or pain for the first half-minute as he slides his massive cock deeper and deeper inside of me, finally touching my sweet spot where his enlarged head pushes hard. I push back, grasping for pleasure, and finally the pain drifts away as my pussy loosens, flooding with warmth. I relax into the feeling and then push back again, bucking on him.

  “You’ll take it hard, Nancy,” he says. And again, it’s not a question.

  I moan in agreement.

  I do. I take it hard.

  Grabbing onto my ass cheeks so that I’ll know there’ll be red handprints there later, he slides his cock deep inside of me and then out, deep inside and out, getting harder with each thrust, like the momentum of a bull charging downhill. His cock slams into my sweet spot with the force of an oil derrick, the regularity of a machine capable of cracking the earth. His hips are powerful, so powerful that each time he slams into me, I’m thrown forward onto the bed, once or twice getting a mouthful of sheet. I keep thinking: this is Fink, the oil-flecked biker, the oil-flecked biker is buried balls-deep inside of me.

  I buck harder, sliding up and down the length of him, both of us meeting in the middle as though we’ve fucked dozens of times before. We find a rhythm like good musicians find a rhythm, feeling out the music, exploring it, and then settling into it and losing ourselves in the tune. He grunts and growls and I moan and scream, screaming louder as he fucks me harder.

  “Grab my hair,” I moan, something I’ve never asked for before.

  He doesn’t hesitate, grabbing my hair in a bunch in his fist and yanking on it as he drills me. He tugs on my scalp, yanking my head back, and that’s what does it more than anything: that, and his impressive girth, stretching me open. A thousand tingles attack my pussy, my nipples, my scalp, a thousand triggers, any of which could lead to an explosion. When the explosion hits, I’m not ready. It takes me by complete surprise,

  I collapse forward on the bed, face buried in the sheers, my screams stifled. My pussy goes tight for a split second and then the pleasure erupts, loosening me, the orgasm punching me in the gut with the violence of a fist. I reach back for Fink; he grabs my wrists, pulling me toward his cock, fucking me all the harder as the orgasm roils through me, consuming every single inch of me. I come over and over, time warping, releasing a quickfire of explosive pleasure onto his ramming cock. I twist my hips, adjusting my pussy on him, and he hits the exact right spot at the exact right time, and another orgasm explodes. I ride the wave of pleasure, barely aware of my moaning anymore, barely aware of anything but for the pleasure deep inside of me.

  When the orgasm passes, I hear him, my Fink, my animal, moaning loudly and clawing at my ass cheeks as though falling.

  “Yes, yes,” I moan, grinding up and down. “Yes, baby. Oh, yes.”

  He comes inside of me, letting out an animal roar and collapsing onto my back, his torso laid flat against me, his mouth near my ear, panting. We stay like that for a time, his cock wilting inside of me, his come spilling down my thighs onto the bed, both of us breathing slower and slower as we recover from the mad fucking.

  Then we lie down on the bed, too spent to do much else, my head resting on his chest. I don’t mean to fall asleep. It’s still early. We could have sex again, or talk, or anything. But I feel too contented and I can’t stop myself. No sooner has the prospect of sleep appeared than the reality has replaced it.

  I sleep, dreaming of clawing hands and rhythmic thrusting.

  I wake to an empty bed, sunlight shining on my face. I walk around my apartment, calling Fink’s name like he might be hiding under the couch. I don’t find him. He’s gone. He woke up in the middle of the night and snuck out on me. I want to be angry, but more than anything I’m confused. Confused by this enigmatic man, the type of man who’ll say he wants to lie low for a few days and then leave after . . . after what? After he’s gotten what he wanted? I hope that’s not true, but I can’t deny that it’s possible. It wouldn’t be the first time I misread somebody.

  I sit on the couch, drinking coffee, watching morning TV, wondering if I’ll ever be able to pin Fink Foster down.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nancy

  The park outside my window has turned brown. From up here in my stuffy office, it looks like a world of brown, interspersed here and there with patches of green. Kids play in the fallen leaves, kicking them into the air so that they settle like oversized dust. I watch them as I always watch them, wishing I had kids of my own and hating the idea at the same time. Kids bring happiness; kids bring out the worst in people. Kids bring joy; kids turn sheriffs into raging, violent assholes.

  It’s three o’clock and work is dragging. Everything has been dragging lately. Dad is getting even worse, sometimes calling me at ten in the morning so blasted out of his head I can barely understand him. Mom has called me perhaps fifty times, begging me to come to California. And Fink has disappeared out of my life. It’s been a month and he hasn’t tried to contact me. I won’t go to The Mermaid looking for him again. I’ve put myself out there once. And Michaels might be there, waiting.

  The only positive I can salvage from this past month is that the vandalism and violence between the bikers and the police seems to have stopped, at least its public side. At least I can tell myself when I lie awake at night, thinking of Fink, that I’m not thinking of a dead man.

  I try and get on with my work, put my head down and comb over the document, wanting to find the person who invented legal jargon and string him up by his hands. Latin and over-complicated sentence structure and blah-blah-blah until I want to scream to bring some life into this stuffy office. Five past three, ten past three, fifteen past three. I look at the clock so often it’s like time is hardly moving at all. I just want to go home and take a bath and maybe touch myself even though I’ll feel rotten about it afterwards.

  I click onto the calendar on my computer, idly, just for something to do which will bring me that much closer to home time. But something strange happens as I study it. A warning signal flashes in my mind, the same kind of warning signal that flashes when I’ve left the water running or the stove on, rushing back up to my apartment to prevent a flood or a fire . . .

  “Shit,” I mutter, wondering how I could be so doughy-headed. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “Shit?” Janine says, leaning over my desk, looking annoyingly cool and chic and in, and to make it worse, she doesn’t even seem to realize how cool and chic and in she looks.

  “I’m busy,” I say.

  “Excuse me.” She holds her hands up, walking away.

  I stand up and make for the exit, head pounding, belly aching, toes curling, world burning. I’m the biggest idiot in the goddamn world. I’m the biggest fool who ever lived.

  “Hey!”

  I turn. It’s my boss, Mr. Smithson. He’s a big-bellied big-voiced big-thumbed man, his big thumbs always hooked through his belt loops like he’s a rancher. “I need that Peterson proof by five. Where are you going?”

  I ask mysel
f: do I want to lose my job over this? The answer is, I don’t know, but at the same time, the idea of sitting up there for another hour without knowing . . . but my job . . . I curse myself. My whole life, sitting on the fence, my whole life, unable to make a decision, my whole life, seeing the best in people. My whole life, given over to commitment as though commitment is the Holy Grail, and I have to stay committed to everything forever even if I don’t enjoy it, even if it does me harm.

  “I have an emergency,” I say, walking away before Mr. Smithson and his big voice can stop me.

  I pace across the parking lot, aware that I might have just cost myself my job and not all that bothered about it, and climb into my car. I drive away from the building and the park to the nearest convenience store, tongue feeling too big in my mouth, so big and unwieldy that it’s difficult to make small talk with the cashier. I wonder if the kind-faced old lady will judge me for buying a pregnancy test, but she just scans it through with my toilet paper, chocolate, and cereal (purchased for camouflage).