by Zahra Girard
On it’s own, going back to her place wouldn’t be too bad because they have that flash lounge with the free alcohol and we’d probably end up fucking. But I want to put a real smile on her face. I want the confident, fiery Maria back.
She’s everything I dream about in a woman. Everything I want in an old lady. I want to take away her cares and her pain. The least I can do is remind her of how much she means to me.
“Ok, fine,” she says, relenting.
We make quick work of things at the grocery store. And then I get the treat of seeing the confused look on her face as we pull into the driveway of some nice, modern-looking home right next to the river. It’s a two-storey home, with bay windows and brick accents and a perfectly-trimmed front yard.
“What the hell are we doing here?” she says, and then, seeing the homeowner waiting in the driveway, continues. “And who the hell is this guy?”
I get off my bike and walk over to the guy. I give him a handful of cash — enough for tonight and a little extra for him taking us in at the last minute — and get the keys from him.
“Seriously, Ozzy, what is this?” she says, again. There’s a note of suspicious happiness in her voice.
I open the door, point to the couch, wink at her, and say one word: “Sit.”
She shoves me.
“I’m not a dog. What’s going on?”
“Can’t you just let a bloke be nice to you for once? This house is ours for tonight. So sit down, I’ll get you a drink, and then you keep out of the kitchen for a while, alright? I’m not fucking around here. I’m just trying to give you a night to relax cause you seem like you’ve had a shit day. I want you to be happy. So let me fucking take care of you. Got it?”
She breaks out in a grin and it is a sight to see. “Deal.”
Maria settles in on a couch in the living room and I pour her a glass of wine and leave the bottle with her. It’s a nice house, overall. Nothing too fancy, but everything is new, modern, and the furniture and style of the house is all decorated like a hotel. It’s pretty clear the owner just keeps the house around for renting out.
I kiss her, remind her to relax, and then I head into the kitchen.
Dinner takes me a while. I don’t usually cook — Sam’s more than happy to feed most of the guys in the club — so it takes me a while to remember all the steps to my mum’s recipe. It’s one I’ve made a couple times, and seen made by my mum more times than I can count.
Finally, I’m done and I’m calling Maria into the kitchen.
“Holy shit, Ozzy,” she says, carrying the empty wine bottle and wearing a surprised look on her face. “How the hell did you cook all this?”
Man, the look on her face makes my chest puff up with pride. There are few things I wouldn’t do for her.
“It’s my mum’s recipe,” I start. “Whenever my dad had a really bad day, she’d make this for him. I must’ve watched her make this a hundred times when I was growing up. It was one of my favorites, too. Roast rack of lamb, potatoes — though she usually makes kumera — and a nice bit of salad. Sometimes I make lamb like this when I miss home.”
She gapes at me.
“You can cook?”
I shrug, grinning so much I must look like a fool. “Maybe. Yeah.”
The wan, worn look that was on her face earlier is gone. She’s bright now. Buoyant and beaming. Even if the food is shit — which, it might turn out to be since I haven’t cooked in a while — it’ll all be worth it just to make her feel better for a little while.
This woman is carrying so much on her shoulders. The least she deserves is a bit of a break.
She sets her empty wine bottle in the recycling, pulls a second one from our grocery bag, and fills our glasses. She smiles at me. That bright, charming smile that I remember from before all this shit started going down between us.
It’s beautiful.
That lovely woman comes to stand by side and kisses me on the cheek.
“Thank you.”
* * * * *
Dinner’s a quick, peaceful thing. She tucks into the food in a way that is almost flattering. We don’t talk much at first; we chat a bit about unimportant stuff and I avoid asking any questions that might put her back into that dark mood she was in before.
But it doesn’t last for long. Few good things do.
“Ozzy, I need to know something: how much illegal stuff is the club involved in?” she says, slowly, measuring out her words.
This feels too much like a test.
“It isn’t so easy to answer as that,” I say, carefully. “There’s a whole lot of grey. You can’t just draw a line and say everything on one side is illegal and everything on the other isn’t.”
She frowns. “Isn’t that the whole point of ‘illegal’ versus ‘legal’?”
“Sometimes the illegal thing can have a better outcome than the legal thing. Look at what you’re trying to do with your client. He could hurt a lot of good people if he implicates my club. We might not be the cleanest operation around, but we help a lot of people in our town and there’s a lot of worse shit we keep out.”
Her fork quietly screes across her plate, and her eyes trace it’s path.
I hate feeling this doubt from her; the only way we make it out of this whole messy situation is if we trust each other and work together; I protect her — I keep the club at bay — and she keeps the club from being implicated.
That’s how it has to work. Or else a whole lot of people will wind up dead.
“Do you really know that this is the better way?”
“There isn’t a bit of doubt in my mind. I know my family, they won’t go down easy. And I know what kind of criminal groups are out there, just waiting to move in to our territory,” I say. “What’s gotten in to you? Is he threatening you?”
“It’s nothing — let’s head upstairs,” she says, setting her silverware down on her empty plate.
I grin. I know what that means.
And, hard as it is, shake my head.
“There’s more.”
“You’re joking.”
“I damn well am not. I told you, I cook up a feed like this when I’m missing home and there’s one thing that a kiwi meal wouldn’t be complete without: pav.”
“Pav? What the hell is a ‘pav’?”
“It’s a cake kinda thing. Like a merengue.”
“You mean the dance? What does a cake have to do with dancing?”
I shake my head. “No, I mean that fluffy kind of egg-white thing.”
“That’s a meringue.”
“Well, it’s that. It was invented in New Zealand. It’s a real treat. Australian’s like to say they created it, but they’re just being lying cunts when they say that.”
“Bit of harsh language there to use over some cake.”
“Try it, first. Pavlova is part of our national heritage. This is serious shit.”
“It’s just cake. Why fight over it?”
I raise my hand, lifting up two fingers. “For one thing, it’s really, really good. For another, Australians are always trying to pull that shit because they’re a bigger country, so they think they can bully us kiwis around. That and they’re jealous that we always kick their asses in rugby.”
“Again, a lot of trouble over some cake.”
“Just try it, ok?”
I head to the oven, where the pavlova’s been cooling all through dinner. I take it out, then take out a bowl of whipped cream I’d been keeping in the fridge, along with some fresh cut strawberries and kiwis. I cover the top of the pavlova with whipped cream and the berries, arranging them in an alternating pattern that looks pretty for something that a bloke like me put together, and then I add some more whipped cream to it.
I cut a generous slice of the light-as-air pavlova and put it in front of Maria.
She takes one bite and then gives me a serious look. “New Zealanders really invented this?”
I nod.
“And Australians want to take this pa
rt of your heritage from you?” she says.
“They do.”
“Fuck them. They’re evil.”
“Exactly.”
We eat almost the entire pavlova, leaving just enough to be breakfast tomorrow. The entire second bottle of wine goes down, and we break open a third and finish that, too. By the end, she’s truly smiling. And laughing. And cursing in the kind of way she does when she’s honestly happy.
I’d missed this part of her, the mix of sweetness and fire that is so unique to her. I forget about the doubts, the questions — it’s natural, with all the stress she’s under. I trust her. And I am thrilled to see her happy again.
“So how the hell did you get mixed up in all this, Ozzy?” she says, swirling the last swig of wine around in her glass and staring at me.
“What do you mean?”
“How did you wind up with an MC in some small town in Washington?”
I shrug. “I met them, I prospected, then I joined. It’s pretty straightforward, really. Same as they do for all the guys.”
She frowns at me. “Are you fucking with me? I ask you for your history with the club and you give me eight words?”
“No, I’m not taking the piss here. You asked me how I joined, and I told you.”
“You are fucking with me,” she insists.
“No,” I say, pausing, thinking. “I reckon you want to know why I joined, is that it?”
“Fucking duh,” she says, her words a bit slurred from the wine.
“That’s pretty straightforward, too: they’re decent guys,” I say. “Yeah, they’re not saints or anything — the only saints I’ve met were an MC out of Eugene and they’re a bunch of fucking bastards — but my brothers do their best. We do a lot of good. For the community and each other. Besides, it’s not like I can get some regular job, considering my Visa expired about five or six years ago, so I’m technically here illegally.”
She blinks. “I just don’t understand you.”
“I don’t think I’m that complicated of a bloke. I think simple is a really hard to thing to get to in life — there’s so much going on, so many complications. When you can actually achieve it, you need to do everything you have to keep it that way. So, for me, I love riding, I love my family, I love a bit of action,” I say. I pause for a moment, there’s something I’ve wanted to tell her since I’ve gotten to know her, and now feels like the time. I look her in the eyes. “And I love you.”
That swish of wine she’s been swirling in her glass disappears down her throat, followed by a clack as she slams her empty wineglass on the table.
“Simple, huh?” she says. “Then I’ll make this simple for you: upstairs. Now.”
* * * * *
We kiss our way upstairs, which is more difficult than it sounds. It’s hard to walk and kiss someone at the same time, when all your hands and lips and every part of you wants to focus on exploring someone else’s body. And what a body she has.
About a third of the way up, I lose my patience with walking. I want her up to the bedroom — now.
“What are you doing?” she yelps, laughing, as I pick her up and carry her.
She squirms a bit in my grip, making me hold her tighter.
“This is safer — we might fall, otherwise, and the only thing I’m falling for is you.”
“Do you hear yourself right now?”
“Blame it on the fucking wine. I don’t give a damn,” I say.
I know it’s a cheesy line, but she brings it out of me and, better yet, she buys it, kissing my neck and shoulders while I haul her upstairs. We step in the bedroom and I set her down. Right away, she leaps back into my arms, fervently pressing her lips to mine.
She tastes sweet. Like berries, wine, and something else that I can’t quite place, but that is so indescribably her that it drives me crazy.
She’s everything I want.
My heart races for her, and her kisses make me shake with desire. I’ve never felt for a woman like I do for her.
“Thank you for tonight,” she says, her hot breath against my ear making me shiver.
“My pleasure.”
I’ve got my hands on her back, toying with the clasp of her bra under her shirt.
“Let me help you,” she says, stepping back, Fingers reaching for the buttons on her shirt.
I watch her. Just watch. It’s a jaw-dropping sight — every inch of her is luscious sensuality. Button-up blouse open and black bra offset against her pale skin, skin shining in the moonlight streaming through the windows, red hair tousled and framing her smiling face, pants sliding down to rest in a heap by her ankles, toned, smooth thighs, and eyes lit up with wine and good food and need.
She tosses the shirt away.
I can’t wait for her to finish the job.
I need her. Now.
My lips seek out her soft neck. My fingers free the clasp to her bra. Moving her shoulders, she shrugs the bra off and it falls to the floor between us. Maria’s a sight that almost stops my heart.
“What is a gorgeous woman like you doing with a bloke like me?”
She arches an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“You’re nothing like any woman I’ve been with before. Except for the club, I don’t trust anyone like I trust you.”
She beams. “Shut up and kiss me.”
I start at her lips, but I can’t stay there long. The rest of her body calls to me. A soft moan escapes her lips as I kiss her chest and trail my tongue around her tits. Pale tits, perky pink nipples, freckles and goosebumps rising on her chest. Fucking delicious.
I shove her backwards onto the bed behind her, drawing a surprised shout from her lips that lasts just a second before I pounce on her, silencing her cries with a kiss.
Perched above her, I reach down and undo the belt of my jeans, then the zipper. She helps, reaching inside my pants to pull my achingly-hard cock free.
Right away, she wraps her lips around it.
I moan. Overcome by pleasure.
“God damn, that feels good.”
A gentle suck — a slow, stroking pull and a set of beautiful brown eyes looking up at me while she worships my cock. I’m in heaven.
She runs the length of my shaft with her tongue, kissing and licking it up and down while her hands caress my balls.
“I want to make you feel good,” she whispers. “I want to please you like you deserve.”
She wraps her delicate fingers around my shaft. One slow stroke has blood surging in my cock and my balls boiling.
“Tell me what you want,” she whispers against my cock.
“I want your mouth. I want to fuck your throat.”
“Yes, sir,” she moans, taking every inch of my cock down her throat.
The tight walls of her throat close around my cock, enveloping it. Every moan vibrates against my dick. My breath catches in my throat. I can’t fight the urges building inside me, I can’t fight the need to take more of her.
She’s there beneath me, looking up at me with those bright brown eyes.
Submissive. Willing.
Begging me to use her.
I grab her by the hair.
“I need more,” I growl.
“I’m all yours.”
I hold her still, take her further, fuck her tight, willing throat.
She moans in ecstasy and the sensation against my rock-hard dick is pure bliss. My cock twitches as pleasure overwhelms my body and I pull back for a second, popping my dick out of her mouth.
I take a deep breath. Fighting to quell the surging sensations inside me that threaten to make me pop.
“More,” she says, mouth open, leaning forward to try and suck me back inside.
She squirms in my grip — my hands still holding tight to her hair — and wiggles underneath me. Her hands clasp around my ass and pull my hips forward. Beautiful plump lips wrap around my cock.
She smiles. Grins at me with my hard dick in her mouth.
“I love the taste of you.”
> There’s no more fighting it. I want it. She wants it.
Again and again, I thrust into her throat, my balls boiling and ready to shoot while she moans beneath me, begging for me to let loose in her mouth.
I shut my eyes.
“I’m so close.”
Her hands tighten around my ass and I lose myself in the feeling of her warm mouth and tight throat.
I let go of her hair — I can’t control my hands as ecstasy rips through my body and I let loose inside her. A delighted, muffled gasp bursts from her full mouth.
I barely hear it. Eyes shut, mouth open, I groan as I empty myself into her.
I open my eyes in time to see her swallow. Smiling. Every last drop, gone.
The world seems to wobble a bit — she’s drained me to the core — and a teasing look flickers across her face.
“You’re not done, yet, are you?” she whispers.
I look down at her, my eyes drinking in her naked body. I stay hard, lust pounding in my dick.
“Not even close,” I growl.
I’m not going to be satisfied until she’s riding me, with her tight pussy clenching around my cock as she comes.
I stand up for a second, tossing my remaining clothes aside. Then I lower myself back down and nearly rip her panties to pieces pulling them off. She is glistening wet and I cannot wait to taste her.
My tongue brushes her for the first time and it’s even more intoxicating than it was last night. Soft, sweet, sensual. Her.
“More,” she moans. “I love your tongue.”
I shut my eyes and breath in, savoring the scent of her. It’s bliss.
I kiss her, exploring the folds of her wet pussy with my lips and tongue. Beneath me, she moans — open-mouthed at first, until she sits up and motions for me to lay sideways.
“Give me your cock. I want your cock in my mouth while you lick my pussy.”
Fuck, she’s insatiable.
Who am I to say no to a woman like her?
I lick her, gently teasing her clit until it’s full and ready for my tongue.