HIS VIRGIN VESSEL: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (War Cry MC)

by Nicole Fox

“Wait, you are okay, right, Dominic?” I asked. He did not seem to want to meet my eye–and not because he was looking at my breasts, either.

  “Yes, I am fine. The Vet stitched me up. Took some wicked painkillers and about four hours, but he managed.”

  “Good, good,” I muttered, still sensing that something was wrong. “What about Thunder? Is he okay?”

  Dominic chuckled. “He has a few broken ribs, and won’t be riding for a while, but he’ll be fine. In fact, he’s great. The Broken Spires are jubilant over their success at the Crooked Jaw compound, and they’re more-than-ready for him to take command.”

  “That’s great, Dominic,” I murmured. “But what’s wrong? Tell me. There’s something wrong.”

  He sighed, then gestured to the chairs surrounding the kitchen table. I sat, while he went to fetch a glass to pour himself some wine. I did not protest. He deserved it just as much as I did–and besides, our relationship was past having to ask for such a thing as that.

  Right?

  “Please, Dominic. What’s wrong?”

  He sighed, filled his glass to the top, drank the entire thing, and then topped himself off again before answering.

  “Erica,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Dominic

  As I rode to Erica’s place, the pain reverberating up my body from the pounding of my bike hurt almost as much as the thought of the conversation I was about to have with Erica.

  Almost.

  I had realized it when the Vet had been stitching me up, woozy from blood loss and the massive amount of morphine he had given me. I could feel the consternation in his eyes as he worked. “You’re lucky you’re retiring,” he scolded. “This will take months to heal completely. You very nearly died.”

  “That’s right!” I thought. “My retirement!” Letting the pain killers take over me, I lost myself in one of my many now familiar daydreams: Erica and I sprawled on a beach, our infant son mucking about in the sand. But no, this time, a new picture filled my mind:

  Erica, bruised and battered, in nothing but her underwear, bent over, about to be raped by La Gancho. I man whose enmity I had incurred through my own recklessness, my own stupidity. Then, what I did not see but could imagine: Erica ambushed at work, accosted and assaulted by Blade, sobbing for help on the phone I did not answer.

  Again, because of me.

  I loved her. I had no doubt of that. But that was not the problem.

  The problem was this: my life–the violence in my life–had nearly ended hers. Through no fault of her own, she had been subjected to more horrific things than many people experience in a lifetime.

  I could not put her through that. I could not join the violence of my life with the peacefulness of hers.

  And it was with this notion that I, despite the Vet’s and Thunder’s orders, clambered onto my bike and rode to Erica’s apartment.

  I arrived. The place looked so familiar and welcoming that it made my heart break to see it. Taking a deep breath to steel my resolve, I walked up to the door and rang the bell.

  There was no answer.

  And yet, she must be there. Thunder had told me that she had found a way home herself the day before. She must have managed it by now.

  I rang again. “Come on!” I called. “Erica, if you’re there, please open up!”

  I heard movement. Then, the latch to the door clicked, and it swung open.

  There she stood, naked and resplendent before me as the Birth of Venus. She gasped at the sight of me, and threw her arms around me. She smelled warm and delicious, like baked fruit.

  Oh! The sight and scent and touch of her were intoxicating. For a moment, I could barely gather my words, and I feared that my resolve would fail against her beauty and her loveliness. And yet, in a way, it compelled me.

  I could not let such a wonderful human being suffer any longer on my account.

  We chatted for a while, entered the house, got some wine, and drank, until, at last, I found the strength to speak up.

  “Erica,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  Her face paled. She knew I was serious.

  “What is it, Dominic?”

  I was so proud to see that her hand was steady on her wineglass.

  “I…” Suddenly, I found I could not articulate the words. All the prepared speeches in my head vanished, leaving me bewildered and alone. Finally, I managed these five terrible words: “I’ve come to say goodbye.”

  “Goodbye?” She echoed. Her lips were pale but set, her eyes hard. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know that I planned to retire after the heist, so…”

  “Yes, Thunder had told me,” she stated. “But I don’t understand. That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  I frowned. I could see the pain–the recognition of what I was about to say–dawning on her face, and yet, her spirit denied it. The knuckles around the stem of her glass were gripping so hard they were white.

  “Yes, it is,” I answered honestly. “I can’t do the life of the biker anymore. This last time…with you…It was just too close.”

  “Tell me about it,” she chuckled.

  “Well, I’ve come to tell you that I’m leaving. Retiring. I’ve come to say goodbye.”

  She stared at me.

  “You’re leaving? But you just got here! Where the hell do you plan to go?”

  I could sense her anger, her sense of betrayal. I did not blame her for it. In fact, I relished her brewing wrath. I felt like I deserved it.

  “Aruba had always been my first choice,” I said. “Some island with sun and sand, where everyone can just leave me alone.”

  She winced as if my words had stung her. “Is…that what you want?” She replied at last. “To be alone?”

  I looked her square in the eye, and told the hardest lie I have ever had to tell in my long life of criminality and deceit: “Yes.”

  Tears sprang into her eyes. This woman, who had not cried when La Gancho tormented her, who had endured so much hate and violence, was crying now.

  “Dominic Molina, you bastard!” She growled, rising to her feet and practically vibrating with injustice. “After everything that happened, everything we’ve been through together–”

  “Well, that’s the thing!” I hollered back, surprised to find myself on my feet as well. “All we’ve been through together! Erica, you’ve been shot at, hit, kidnapped, tortured, and you would have been raped if Blade hadn’t gone crazy!”

  “Yes!” She roared. “Would have! You want to know why Blade stabbed the Hook? Because I tricked him, that’s why! I planned and I lied and I fooled him! I am part of the reason we’re both alive, and now you want to leave me?”

  I blinked. I had not known that Erica had had any part in deceiving Blade. Thunder hadn’t talked about it. I was so impressed with her, but I fought the feeling down. I needed to concentrate.

  “It’s not that I want to leave you!” I shouted. “It’s that I have to! Look, Erica. You’ve almost died–and worse—because of me. I couldn’t live with myself if something bad were to happen to you and it was my fault.”

  She stared. Her initial anger seemed to be evaporating, to be replaced by a steady flush of offense. I did not relax. It was still dangerous–just as dangerous as boiling water is moments after it’s been taken off the flame. Yes, the bubbles are gone, but the liquid is still hot enough to melt flesh.

  “Yes,” Erica said. She sat back down calmly, rationally. “I have gone through hell with you, Dominic, so you owe me more than a goodbye.”

  “Well…” I started, but could articulate nothing further.

  “Well, tell me this, at least,” she continued. “Do you respect me?”

  “What?”

  “Do you respect me? Trust me? Think highly of me?”

  “Of course I do, Erica!” I exclaimed. “You’re the most kick-ass woman I know!”

  I sensed a trap, but could do nothing to avoid it.

  Erica sc
owled. “Well then,” she said, “don’t you think the most kick-ass woman you know merits a choice in the fucking matter?”

  I stared at her, open-mouthed. “Of course,” I managed at last. “And if you were to choose, what would be your choice?”

  She stood, this time slowly and deliberately. She walked towards me, her muscular hips swaying with resolve. And then, mindful of my terrible wounds, she stood behind me and wrapped her arms around my neck. Her cheek touched mine, and she whispered, “To never, ever, be apart from you again.”

  Her words sent a thrilling in my heart like a physical vibration. I whispered, “Even…even if it leads to violence?”

  She kissed my ear. “I am not afraid of violence. What I am afraid of, most of all, is losing you.”

  “Really?”

  She kissed me again, taking my hand and placing it on her breast. “Really,” she murmured.

  I stood, and took her into my arms. Her breasts pushed against the gleaming leather of my jacket.

  “It’s new,” she commented, feathering a glossy zipper with her finger.

  “Yeah,” I chuckled. “I had to replace the old one. I fact, I heard a certain someone tore the thing up just to steal a jackknife…”

  She laughed, and we held onto each other, enjoying the thrumming of each other’s bodies, the scent of each other’s flesh.

  At last, I felt a stirring within me. It was part of my love for her, but a very specific aspect of that love.

  “To the bedroom?” I requested.

  “To the bedroom.”

  # # #

  Of course, Erica was already naked. Her voluptuous hips, tiny waist, and milk-white skin all combined to make her body looked like an elegant pitcher of cream. I, of course, needed to catch up a bit, but my body was still so sore that removing my clothes was difficult.

  “Here,” she chuckled. “Let me help.”

  Soon, between the two of us, we managed to strip me naked. Then, still kissing, I pulled her down into bed.

  My body ached. I wanted so to please her, but I was afraid that, after everything I’d been through, that I wasn’t strong enough. I think she sensed my worry, for she laid me back upon the pillow and murmured, “This time, let me handle it.”

  I smiled. Erica could handle anything.

  She kissed me. Her tongue was warm and soft, and her hands explored the outline of my chest as her lips explored mine. She was gentle. The wounds beneath the bandages were still fresh. And yet, within a minute, I felt my erection blooming, huge and hard.

  Erica reached down and wrapped her hands around it. Her fingers were cool, their touch electrifying.

  “I so missed you,” she murmured. Firmly, she closed her fingers in a loop, and rubbed them up and down the length of my shaft.

  “Oh, yeah…” I groaned. After so much pain, to feel pleasure was incredibly intoxicating. Lazily, I reached out and plucked at her dangling breast, like one might caress a fruit hanging from a tree limb. She gasped, and I squeezed harder.

  “I see your hands are fine then,” she muttered, and then began kissing my neck.

  Her kisses wandered. They started at my throat, then meandered downward, to my collarbone, my chest, and eventually my abdomen. Even though I was bandaged, and I could feel each press of her lips with exquisite, wonderful clarity, as if the heavy padding didn’t even exist.

  She nuzzled down between my legs. Her hands massaged my inner thighs, warm and muscular. And then, her kisses found my cock.

  “Oh!” I gasped. It was incredible! I had had my cock sucked a thousand times in this lifetime, but this time–maybe it was the shared experiences we’d had. Maybe it was the comparison between this wonderful, simple pleasure, and the agony which I had been subjected to. Whatever it was, within minutes of her tender, strong, and stroking attention, I felt myself building to a climax.

  I cupped her chin, and nudged her to look up at me.

  “Hold it a moment,” I rasped.

  She grinned. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?”

  “Yes!” I grunted, as she threatened to close my tip between her lips once again. “But I don’t want to finish yet! I want to take care of you!”

  She tittered, and then leaned down to give each of my balls a lick. “You already have,” she murmured. Then, she resumed her pleasuring.

  I felt a powerful, joyous rebellion surge up in me. “Oh, no you don’t!” I thought. I would not allow this to end just on her terms. I wanted our terms.

  So, with a massive surge of effort, terrible to my recently stitched wounds and my ringing head, I hoisted her up and spun her under me.

  Within seconds, my cock was inside her. She was soaking wet, aroused by the act of pleasuring me. I kissed her, breathing in her scent, and began.

  This time, our lovemaking was not like any other time before it. It was not a frenzied, thrusting brawl to achieve multiple orgasms. It was slow and deliberate and passionate, longing not just for climax but for closeness–to feel the two of us connected.

  As we would be, I sensed, for the rest of our lives.

  We entwined with each other, her legs around my back, my arms cupping her head to my mouth. With every motion of my hips, her mouth opened in ecstasy, uttering quiet, exultant little moans. She did not scream. The moment was too solemn, too sacred for screaming.

  Her breasts rubbed against my chest. My manhood slid in and out of her, relishing every inch of her precious center. Her skin tasted like sugar. Her breaths like the sighing of angels. We were the perfect match: me, tough, rugged, and muscular; and her, strong and feminine, creamy, soft. Our cores mirrored this, too. She soothed my battered soul, while I strengthened her battered heart.

  I reached climax, and I saw her eyes roll back in pure joy as she felt me release inside her. After each pumping thrust, I slowed, until I was still on top of her, panting and feeling myself slip back between my legs. With a smile and a kiss, and a locking of the eyes that lasted for an eternity, I slid off of her. Instantly, like she had done it a million times before, she nestled right into the hollow of my shoulder, and I cupped my arm around her.

  We fell asleep like this, arms around each other, soaking in our love.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dominic

  The next morning, I was awoken early by a phone call. Bleary-eyed, stiff, yet feeling like a cat fat from warm milk, I fumbled around a bit before I was able to locate my cell and answer it.

  It was Thunder.

  “We found him,” was all he said.

  I grinned.

  Stirring from the bed, I rose and dressed without showering. I needed to act quickly. This, however, woke Erica up, and she glared at me, annoyed.

  “I thought we’d be done with all this, now that we were together!” She complained.

  I leaned down and kissed her beautiful, glowering, puffy-eyed face. “Just one last duty as president,” I said. “And then, I am all yours. Fully and completely.”

  “Yeah, you’d better be,” she growled, before rolling over and going back to sleep. I smiled. Nothing fazed this woman. Nothing.

  Trying to be respectful, I winced into my heavy biker boots and zipped up my jacket. Though I was healing, my back felt as cracked and dry as an old roadway in the blaring sun. Still, I am proud to say that I was able to manage it without disturbing Erica further.

  I grabbed a bagel from the kitchen, ate it in three quick bites, and slipped quietly from the house.

  There was nothing I could do about the roar of my motorcycle as it sprang to life. For me, the sound was invigorating–like a fresh cup of coffee and morning sex. The sound of it thundered through the air like my excitement thundered through my veins.

  One final mission. One final duty. And a wonderfully pleasant duty it was.

  I met Thunder at the compound. He, too, was covered in bandages–mostly around his waist, where he had a couple of broken ribs–but he still grinned broadly at the sight of me.

  “You have a good night, eh?
” He asked, a devilish look on his face.

  “Exquisite,” I shot back, resisting the urge to stick out my tongue at him. He chuckled. “So where are we going?”

  “The turnout, past exit 32,” he said. I smiled. The turnout was a barren, desolate wasteland of a place, deep in the desert and miles from civilization or even the main road. It was perfect for our purposes. We mounted our bikes and revved the engines.

  “You ready, El Presidente?” He hollered over the noise.