Fire & Dark (The Night Horde SoCal Book 3)

by Susan Fanetti

  Taking his hands, she walked backward to the bed. When she bumped up against it, she dropped his hands and slid up onto the mattress, keeping eye contact as she did so.

  He followed right with her, easing up along her side, one hand sliding up her body as he settled next to her. “Fuck,” he murmured, clutching her thigh. “You are like nothing I’ve ever felt before.” He dipped his head and sucked a nipple between his teeth, and at the same time he slid a hand between her legs, groaning as his fingers moved slickly through her ready wet. He pushed a finger inside her, and when she moaned and rolled her hips toward that touch, he added another, pushing into her with some force.

  The way she liked. She spread her legs wide, encouraging him, and whispered, “Fuck yeah, come on.”

  Pulling his fingers out, he turned his attention to her clit, rolling and rubbing and pinching with his rough fingers until her nerves were frayed and on fire. All the while, he suckled her breasts, moving back and forth, his beard lightly abrading her skin. When she knew she was on the express to an orgasm and she’d thrown her arms back and grabbed her wrought-iron headboard in her hands, he released her nipple and lifted up to look down at her. She met his eyes, and at that moment, he slid his fingers back inside her and fucked her hard and fast—so hard and fast—with his hand.

  “Oh my fucking GOD!” she gasp-screamed, the sound practically inhuman even to her own distracted ears.

  “You like it hard, baby?” His eyes glittered with heat.

  “Yes, fuck yes,” she grunted. And then he went even harder. He took her right up to the point of pain, her favorite place to be, and when she came, she flailed and shook so hard that the headboard slammed into the wall over and over. As the orgasm finally crested and crashed, she curled into Connor, grabbing at him, biting down on his shoulder.

  When it was over, she had trouble making her body unclench. With that gravelly chuckle he had, Connor eased her off of him and back down to the bed. “You okay?”

  Before she could answer, there was a violent knocking on the wall, and Connor looked up at it, surprised.

  But Pilar laughed. “That’s Mrs. Lee. Our bedrooms share a wall. We probably woke her up.”

  He looked back down at her, his brow creased. “This isn’t a house?”

  “Duplex. She’s got the back half.”

  “Ah. Sorry, Mrs. Lee!” he yelled.

  She laughed and slapped his arm. “Stop!”

  “Well, it pays to be polite.” He licked the fingers of the hand he’d fucked her with. “Mmm. You taste great, Cordero.”

  She liked the sound of her last name in his voice even more than her first name. Damn. As hard as he’d just made her come, she was ready to go again. But when he moved downward, headed for a more complete taste, she grabbed his head. “No. I want cock.”

  Again with the sex chuckle. “You got it. Just need a condom.”

  She grabbed his arm before he could move off of her. “In that drawer right there.”

  Nodding, he reached over and opened her nightstand drawer. And his eyebrows went up.

  She wasn’t surprised; she knew what she was letting him see, and it hadn’t been a mistake to let him.

  He pulled the box of condoms out and peeled one off the strip. “Oh, baby. I think I want to see more of you. Because I’d like to root around in that drawer.”

  That was okay by her. But for now, she simply smiled and spread her legs.

  When he got the condom on, he lay between her legs and fed himself into her right away. And then he gathered her up and rolled over, putting her on top. It surprised her; he’d been take-charge in all their fucking so far. She pushed up, away from his chest, and he closed his hands around her hips.

  “Ride me like you stole me, Cordero.” With that, he smacked her ass. “C’mon. Giddy-up.”

  Still take-charge, then. But she liked it. Damn. She was getting into deep woods with this guy. She knew it, but it felt too good to care.

  She rode him hard, using his cock shamelessly to bring herself off in another crashing explosion that had Mrs. Lee pounding on the wall again. When Connor made an enormous growling sound and tried to sit up, she pushed down on his shoulders and held him there, fucking him harder, finding another peak for herself.

  He stopped trying to sit up, and grabbed her breasts instead, pulling sharply on her nipples, and she did come again, this time with him. He left her breasts to grab her hips again, and his head bent back, and the muscles of his neck and shoulders bunched hugely. Her hips ached from the pressure of his fingers.

  By the time they were both finished, Pilar was completely fucking exhausted and practically fell off of him, dropping over to the side, leaving her legs in a tangle with his. They lay there, their panting breaths loud in the room.

  As they calmed, she could feel a familiar but still strange tension coiling into the air. The post-coital tension of the casual fuck. Another reason she didn’t bring casual fucks home—it was obvious that the end of the fuck was the end of the encounter when they were up against a wall in a bar restroom, or back in the storeroom at The Deck. In her own house, though, that line wasn’t so clear.

  But what if Connor wasn’t a casual fuck? Was he? She wanted to see him more. And he’d made noises like he wanted the same thing.

  “I’ll get out of your hair in a sec,” he said, taking a deep breath and patting her thigh.

  “You can stay if you want.” Fuck, saying that scared the shit out of her. But it was what she wanted, and she made a point not to quibble when she wanted something.

  He lifted his head. “You sure? I thought you had work.”

  “I do. You’d have to get up and out when I get up. But if you want to crash, I’m good with it.”

  With his head still up at that odd angle, he stared at her. She was uncomfortable and getting defensive before he smiled.

  “Okay, Cordero. I’ll crash with you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The sound of an old-fashioned alarm clock, the Big Ben kind with bells on the top, dragged Connor out of a deep sleep. Cracking one eye open, he saw the fuzzy image of a woman sitting up and reaching for something.

  The noise blissfully stopped just as he recognized Pilar and remembered that he was sleeping in her bed.

  An unusual development, to wake in the morning in a woman’s bed. Usually, he made a point to bring his little bunnies back to the clubhouse. This chick was rocking his world a mite.

  She turned to him and pushed his hip. “Hey. You awake?”

  Opening his eyes fully, he stretched and reached out to twist a hank of her wild hair around his finger. “Yeah. Morning.”

  “Morning. I got to get going. So you do, too.” With that, she pushed his hand away, tossed the sheet back, and stood up. She grabbed at something on her nightstand and then put her hands in her hair—oh, she was pulling the mop back into a ponytail.

  The next thing she did shook the last of the sleep right out of Connor’s head. Naked, she walked to her doorway and leapt up, catching a bar installed near the top. Her house—duplex—was old, with high ceilings and tall doors. That bar was pretty high off the floor. She had decent ups for a girl.

  As he lay there, watching, she started doing pull-ups, totally naked. Christ almighty, she had muscle tone. Her back and shoulders flexed and rolled in ways he’d never seen a woman’s body do before. His hand eased over his belly, under the sheet, and grabbed hold of the part of his body that found her exertions most interesting. After a few seconds, he realized he was jacking himself off in rhythm with each pull-up.

  He hadn’t noticed before now, but she had another tattoo, at the small of her back. On any other woman, he’d call ink there a tramp stamp. But Pilar—no, she wanted him to call her Cordero—Cordero had a firefighter’s cross there. That cross had a particular name, and Connor knew that somewhere in the reaches of his head he knew it. To distract himself—he wanted to see if he could get her to let him in before he left, and he didn’t want to fuck up her she
ets—he searched for the name.

  Maltese Cross. That was it. Cordero had a Maltese Cross at the small of her back. Too badass to be a tramp stamp. But Connor grinned at the irony of putting a symbol of that kind of strength—of heroism—in the place of a so-called ‘tramp stamp.’

  Unwilling to let go of his cock, but needing more distraction, he looked around her bedroom. She had eclectic taste, for sure. All of her color choices were bold, and a lot of her furniture was just plain weird. There was a table in her living room that looked like photos had been glued all over it and then shellacked. And a chest in here had the rough texture of raw granite, but it was clearly made of wood.

  Both the living room and the bedroom were painted a warm yellow. All the woodwork trim was white. Her iron bed, with ornate headboard and footboard, was painted blood red. Dark reds and blues seemed to feature prominently. She had lots of strange and funky knickknacks and artwork. It was a cozy, weird little house.

  Finishing her set, she dropped back to the floor and turned around. She wasn’t breathing heavily, but her bronze skin had a faint sheen to it.

  First thing she noticed was what Connor’s hand was doing. When she lifted an eyebrow at him, he let go of his cock, which was near to screaming for some relief. “Wanna help me out with that?”

  She walked to her dresser. “Dude, no. I told you. Up and out. I need to get a run in and shower before work. You need to go.” She opened a drawer and pulled out some clothes.

  As she shimmied into a pair of form-fitting running shorts, he sighed. He could almost feel his balls turning blue. Rubbing his hand over the empty space in the bed where she belonged, he said, “I could work you out right here.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, sex isn’t that great for exercise.”

  “The way we fuck, it is.”

  She stopped in the act of grabbing one of her sport bra things, with her hand still in the drawer, and grinned at him. For second, his cock got all hopeful. But she shook her head. “No. You gotta go.”

  “Fine,” he sighed, and stood to look around for his jeans. They’d tossed their clothes all over the room last night. He found them and stepped into them, wedging his protesting cock down into the denim, and Cordero bent over and dug a pair of running shoes out from under her bed.

  Damn, that ass. He couldn’t resist—he reached out and gave it a swat, and she jackknifed up and swiveled around. He gave her an impish grin, and she returned it. “Dios mio. Get dressed, you fool.”

  Seeing her resolve, he got dressed.

  She walked him to the door, on her way out for her run. Before she opened the door, though, he caught her hand and pulled it around his waist. “I want to see you again.”

  At first, her eyes went soft, and she smiled a smile he found encouraging. Then something moved across her face like a shadow in shifting light, and she stepped back.

  “This is nothing, right? We’re messing around is all.”

  He didn’t like that she’d said that, and he didn’t like that he didn’t like it. When his reaction pulled him up a bit, it took him a half-second too long to respond. Just enough for her to take another step back and give him a wary look.

  He caught her hand before she could move any farther away. “Yeah, absolutely. I want to fuck you again, play with some of the toys you’ve got in that drawer, but that’s it. In fact, I’m probably going to grab some pussy as soon as I get to the clubhouse. I got me a set of blue balls this morning, thanks to you and your Playboy Centerfold Workout. How many reps was that, anyway?”

  Her smile returned. “Fifty.”

  “Nice. I could top that, of course. Double it, even.”

  “Yeah. We’ll test that theory someday. But not now. C’mon, dude. Time to go.” She pushed him to the side and opened her door.

  He was on his bike and headed back to the clubhouse before he realized that they hadn’t exchanged numbers. Exchanging numbers wasn’t a thing he did, so it hadn’t occurred to him.

  Oh well. He knew where she lived and worked, and she knew the same about him. They’d figure it out.

  In the meantime, he definitely needed to grab some club pussy, if anybody was still around and conscious from last night. He needed to get both of his heads straight this morning.

  ~oOo~

  Meeting on a Sunday was unusual. The shop was closed on Sunday, and the Horde tended to use that day to chill out and recover from the weekend. But they had big business to discuss—on more than one front.

  So the club was arrayed around the table, several of the guys looking like they could use a nap. Connor felt pretty refreshed, however. He’d been up early, but he’d slept hard. Cordero’s bed was comfortable, with a nice, firm mattress.

  And when he’d gotten back to the clubhouse, he’d found Fawn, one of the newer girls, in the kitchen, cleaning up. She’d reset his heads nicely. After he sent her on her way, he’d slept another couple of hours and had a hot shower. There was something to be said for rising early.

  Not a lot, but something.

  “Let’s get to the business we all know about first: La Zorra’s job. Trick—you got anything for us?”

  Trick sat forward. “Yeah. I went out to Demon and Faith’s place and knocked the rust off. I’m sharp again. With my M25, I can hit the center of the ribbon on a can of PBR at nine hundred yards.”

  “Nine hundred yards?” J.R. interjected. “That’s…about half a mile!”

  “Yes, it is,” Trick’s answer was matter-of-fact, despite the staggering impressiveness of his claim. “Of course, I was in the desert, no obstacles. I won’t have the luxury of that distance in downtown L.A.”

  “From a rooftop, though, we could set you up a couple of blocks off.” Sherlock swiped his fingers on his tablet and put a map of the Los Angeles financial district on the back wall, which they kept blank and white for that purpose. “In about a week and a half, Cartwright is going to be speaking at a lunchtime event in Pershing Square, which is this green space here, just on the southeast edge of the financial district.” As he spoke, a red line circled a little rectangle of park on the map. “Here’s where they’ll set him up.” A new picture came up as an inset overlaid on the map, showing an odd, purplish-blue monolith with green space and concrete benches around it. A short red line appeared as Sherlock indicated where Cartwright would stand.

  “This building”—another photo came up over the map, this of a tall, but otherwise nondescript glass box of a skyscraper—“is four blocks away. Well within your range, T. Here’s the line of sight from its roof.” The photo that came up this time showed a direct view to the park, apparently from that weird building. The next photo showed the same view on zoom, with a red ‘X,’ which was apparently where Trick’s target would be standing.

  From his seat near the head of the table, Connor could see Trick studying all the images closely. Trick looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock. “You got a street view of that distance, too?”

  “Hold on.” The projected image went dark, and Sherlock swiped and tapped at his tablet. As he worked he said, “You know there’s no clear shot from street level.”

  “I know, Trick answered. “Not what I’m interested in.”

  After a couple of minutes, the back wall lit up again, and Sherlock put several images up in a grid. “Best I can do—street view of the route between the points, and the view in all directions around the building.”

  “Good. That’s what I wanted.” Trick leaned forward and studied the images. The rest of the Horde sat quietly and looked, too. Connor assumed they were doing what he was doing: trying to figure out what Trick was looking for.

  Finally, shaking his head, Trick turned back to the table. “There are cameras everywhere. We’re being spied on every time we turn around, and people just let it happen. We should be burning the place down over shit like that.” Connor could sense the general eye-roll around the table as it seemed like Trick had a rant building, but he let his quiet outrage drop and looked at Sherlock, askin
g simply, “Can you do something about all those?”

  Bart was the one who answered him. “To an extent. We can loop dead space into some and obscure others, but if we interfere with too many, that itself could raise a flag. It’s the financial district. Those fuckers are paranoid. Typical crooks, always sure everybody else is crooked. So we need to get you close before we start messing with the surveillance.”

  “Which is where we hit our first snag,” Sherlock added.