by Tara Oakes
It gives off the whole sweet and pure vibe that brings out the bastard in me wanting to corrupt her. Not wanting to waste any of the gooey treat on my finger, I use my other hand to pull at the thin string like waistband. She lifts her hips to help, not wanting me to waste any time before getting to the good part.
The lightweight bottoms are thrown behind me blindly once I free her legs and I use my hand to push aside her knees, letting them fall out of the way.
Agonizingly slow, I move my finger to paint an “X” right above her swollen clit. “Now this is what I call dessert.”
I grab a hip in each hand and pull her roughly down an inch or two before diving in, lapping up the sticky goodness before my tongue flattens itself and makes long drawn out strokes over and over again up the scorching hot slippery track between her thighs.
Angel moans and sinks down low into the pillows as she savors each flick of my tongue. My eyes shift up to look at her heaving chest rise and fall as she squirms under the intensity of my mouth on her.
I feel the muscles of her legs tighten and release, moving to wrap them around my neck, holding me in place. “Is it sweet? Does it taste as good as you thought?”
She’s prompting me, wanting me to talk dirty to her. She fuckin’ loves it when I seduce her with my words as much as my tongue and my cock.
The lady gets what she wants. “Like a fuckin’ little peach, baby. So soft. So juicy. You like it when I eat you up like this?”
I decide it’s time to up my game a little, grabbing hold of the hard little bump at the top between her two folds, sucking it hard. She yelps in a perfect way, letting me know I’m doing exactly what she wants.
Her breaths come fast and hard, uneven and deep as if she’s searching for air. Her delicate fingers finally find their way into my hair, tugging and pulling to guide me closer to her weeping pussy.
Short bursts of air escape from above in sharp staccato. She’s almost there. I know that if I keep at it, she’ll be right where I want her in a matter of minutes but my cock is getting greedy and restless in my jeans, wanting to sink deep into this ripe, tight, little hole.
There’s only one thing that will throw her over the edge before she even knows what’s happening. While kneading and tugging on her delicate clit, I blindly trail two fingers up and into her slickness, coating and covering them in her own lube. They find the target and slide right in with each knuckle disappearing as I enter her further. Once in, I curl my fingers and press my finger pads against her front, sweeping them in a come hither motion, as if I’m practically calling her orgasm closer.
And that’s exactly what I’m doing, hitting the hidden spot that makes her come harder than anything else does.
Her knees clamp down like earmuffs on either side of me and her hips bear down on their own accord. I don’t let up, petting the little patch of nerves over and over again until she cries out and begs me to stop.
My lips release themselves from her pulsing clit as she rides the orgasm I’ve just given her, but I keep my hand still, feeling her tighten like a vice around me as her body contracts over and over with each spasm.
I feel the intensity die down, knowing she feels only the aftershocks now and know it’s safe to pull my hand out and away. She hisses deliciously as I slide my dripping fingers out.
Standing on my knees, I watch her eyes as they become heavy with satisfaction as I’m undoing my belt and pushing my heavy jeans down and out of the way. The eagerness of my impatient cock springs through my boxers and she settles her gaze on it.
A smile creeps across her lips.
Fuck yeah, she can barely hide how much she wants the dick she eyes hungrily. I use the hand full of her slick wetness to coat myself, pumping back and forth to cover every inch with her lube.
Once I’m slippery and more than ready, I push my boxers down and fall forward, catching myself in a pushup position over her. My dick is long enough to brush against her pussy even though I’m inches above her.
Her chin lifts, head coming up off the pillow to find my lips, and I take her waiting tongue while filling her mouth with my own. There’s a sharp intake of breath as she feels the intensity of the kiss.
Our lips slide against each other’s from what’s left of her own sweet nectar on my mouth. “See?” I ask as she tastes herself on my lips. “Told you. Sweet as fuckin’ sugar.”
My hips thrust forward and down at an angle to fill her in one quick swoop. She’s so goddamned wet that I meet no resistance until I’m all the way to the hilt, even though she’s still as tight as a fuckin’ virgin.
I hold myself still while buried in her, feeling every single inch of her wrapped around me. There’s nothing like this feeling, like the sense of home it gives you when you’re in your woman. It’s where you feel safe. Where you feel the true meaning of the shit people search their entire lives for.
She fits me like a glove, hugging every single bit of each of the ten inches inside her. Her hands make a hollow slapping sound as her palms slap themselves against my ass urging me on.
“Give me,” she play whines.
I pull myself out completely and push back in hard, bottoming out. Her eyes close and she licks her lips. She fuckin’ loves it when I do that. So I do it again and again before taking my cock out and slapping it a few times against her recovered clit.
“Is this what you want me to give you, baby?” I tease her.
She nods breathlessly, unable to speak. I move fast and hard, stroking my cock with her aching pussy as I pump over and over.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, her hips buck up against me, meeting me with each thrust hard enough to cause me to back out a little. I love it hard and rough, and she knows that. Yet, no matter what she tells me about it not hurting her, I wonder sometimes.
She’s a small little thing. Before her, there had been women that rode dick like a fuckin’ rodeo champ who had told me it was too much.
“Don’t hold back, Dawson. Please,” she begs.
How the fuck did I get so lucky? How did I find the one chick that can take it as hard as I can give it?
I’ll never know the answer to that question and it don’t really matter.
I found her and never fuckin’ letting go.
I may be in the thick of it right now, like a goddamned beast of an animal enjoying the spoils of a hunt but I know to hold back, if only for the baby’s sake. I put my own need aside and practice just a hint of restraint to be able to give her a little taste of what she wants without driving myself crazy that I could be doing harm to the kid. To my kid. To my boy.
“I love you, Angel. I fucking love you to death,” I whisper in her ear as my dick shows her how sincere my words are.
“I love you too, baby. Now shut up and fuck me,” she manages to get out between pants.
Her words are nearly enough to make me come on the spot, but I know I can do better.
She wants me to fuck her?
She wants it rough?
My hand tangles its way into her hair and grabs hold of a thick handful, twisting and pulling until I have her attention. She wants me to shut up and fuck her?
Fine.
But, I’m gonna let my eyes say everything I need to say to her then.
~*~
“You tired babe?” I ask as Angel yawns while snuggling closer back into me.
I’m spooning her from behind, my body following the curve of her body, fitting together perfectly where my hand can rest on her small belly, splayed out over it, protecting it.
“A little.” Bullshit. Her voice is a dead giveaway that she’s exhausted.
All those books she’s been reading keep telling her to get more rest and even nap if she needs to. At least that’s what I get out of the parts she reads aloud to me. Yet, I swear, she’s doing more now than she ever has before even though I get pissed sometimes that she’s not taking it easier.
“So you made a new friend tonight, huh?” I rattle of random thoughts to pass the time
before we both fall asleep.
My hand tickles the skin of her outer hip mindlessly.
“Who?” She asks, only half interested.
I forgot the woman’s name already. I just remember she was a little uptight. Usually, we don’t condone our women going outside the club, making friends with perfect strangers, but I’m beginning to see that may not be realistic now that Sasha’s making friends of her own.
Chick’s talk. I don’t want Angel to be the odd mom out and feel weird around school shit. Our kind get enough sideway glances and dirty looks because of the leather and the bikes. Angel don’t need anything else adding to that when dealing with these other moms.
“You know… what’s her name? Sasha’s little friend’s mom,” I describe the woman,
Angel holds her breath. I can feel it. “What? What is it?”
She’s quiet for a second or two. “I don’t think I’m the type of woman she would want to call a friend.”
I exhale. For as long as I’ve known her, Angel hasn’t fully understood how perfect she is and how lucky other people are to have her. I had hoped it would get better by now, but that last statement shows me it hasn’t.
“Oh? And why’s that? Because you’re not stuck-up, and pretentious enough for her? Or you think she’s shallow enough not to have a friend that is sexier and hotter than she is?”
Angel gives a weak laugh. “You know damn well why. I’m not exactly in her league.”
I can’t wait to hear what type of bullshit reasoning she gives for this one. I swear, chicks are crazy sometimes.
“She’s a mom. She’s probably in the fucking P.T.A. I’ll bet she doesn’t curse and she definitely has never been on the back of a bike before. What do we have in common? Nothing.”
I’ve had just about enough of this. My hand pushes against her, forcing her to roll over and face me. She fights me half-heartedly. Once on her back, I spread my large hand over the warm skin of her stomach.
“You are a mom. You wanna join the fuckin P.T.A.? Then join it. Run the goddamned thing. Just don’t sell yourself short,” I make my case.
Angel rolls her eyes. “Sasha’s always going to be the one who lives with her aunt and uncle. She’s always gonna be different and—”
“That’s what’s got you all upset? The fact that you didn’t push her out yourself?” I know how much Angel loves that little girl. It never occurred to me that something like this would eat away at her.
Maybe it’s because I have my club and think of each of them like a brother even though we don’t share blood. I know first hand that family has nothing to do with who shares your name or who’s on your birth certificate.
Apparently Angel doesn’t see it the same way.
“Then let’s do something about it.” I propose a solution. There’s only one way to solve this. “You want her to be your kid? Then let’s make it happen. Adopt her. Make it all official and shit.”
She rolls her eyes again. Mmmmm. If we weren’t having such a serious conversation, I’d throw her sexy ass over my knee for it.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t adopt her. She already has a mom, even though it’s a piss poor junkie version of a poor excuse for a parent. Forget it, okay? I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m exhausted.”
I know when to push and when not to. Angel can get bitchy when I press her on shit like this.
“Fine. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” I kiss her, silently apologizing for bringing up a topic that clearly hurts her so much.
She rolls back over and backs into me until our flesh is pressed up tightly against one another.
It kills me to see her torn up about something like this. Neither of us speaks, instead we lie still, silent, although I know we’re both still thinking about it. Her, because I know when something bothers her to the point that this obviously does, she obsesses over it.
And me, I can’t help but think of ways to fix it.
That’s what I do. If something bothers my woman… I fix it.
CHAPTER SIX
STITCH
“You’re gonna return this shit, right?” I’m doubtful I’ll ever see the tools I’m handing over again.
Gryff shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah. I mean, what the fuck am I gonna do with ‘em? Keep ‘em? I mean, who even uses half the crap in here anyway?”
It’s ironic that he’s come here looking to bum some tools off me because he obviously doesn’t have any of his own, yet doesn’t see the practicality in owning any.
“Oh, I don’t know… people who actually build and fix shit, maybe? What self respecting man doesn’t own a toolbox?” I throw a box of screws over to him. If he doesn’t have tools, he sure as hell doesn’t have screws.
The box rattles as he catches it mid-air. “The kind that don’t build shit. If Uno hadn’t been such a pussy then there’s no way Dawson would be making me build the dump tank and I wouldn’t need to borrow this shit. So, thank Uno.”
A scary thought crosses my mind as I scan my shelves looking for whatever other power tool he may need for his project. He’s right. He doesn’t build shit. The man lives in a brand new house that still has stickers on the goddamned windows because he’s too fuckin’ lazy to take ‘em off. I’ll bet my Harley he doesn’t even have a goddamned screwdriver of his own.
A man like that, has no business using some of this equipment, especially since it’s mine and he’s probably gonna either break it or hurt himself. Not to mention, I’m going to be highly suspicious of the structural integrity of whatever he winds up with at the end.
No way in hell is it gonna be able to hold water like it needs to and probably won’t even be able to handle the body weight of the person stuck inside. I don’t know what Dawson was thinking when he ordered Gryff to do this, but let’s just say it’s not gonna work out well.
“Tell you what… I’m the only brother with a decent tool shed. I got nothin’ to do for the next day or two other than helpin’ Baby with the kid.” I can see his eyes grow round and interested. Too interested. “You bring the beer and the shit to throw on the grill and we can build this thing here. I’m not having it on my conscience that it falls apart and hurts someone ‘cause you don’t know the difference between a damn nut and a bolt.”
I have a sneaky suspicion I’m being played, that Gryff knew exactly what was gonna happen.
He laughs and grabs his junk. “I know all I need to know about nuts, right here, boy. The ladies fuckin’ love it.”
I snicker to myself. Yeah, they fuckin’ love it alright. Until they realize the prick those nuts are attached to ain’t got much else to offer other than a bed for the night. I don’t even pay attention to the chicks that rotate in and out of Gryff’s life anymore. It’s not worth it. I know I’ll never see the same one twice.
“You buy all the materials, too.” No way in hell am I footing the bill for this shit. He broke it last year, then he can pay for the new one this year. I take the drafting pencil on the nearest shelf and begin to scribble a list of lumber and supplies. If I’m the one doin’ most of the work here, then I’m gonna milk it for all it’s worth, adding a shit ton more to the list than I really need.
“Here,” I hand over the scrap of paper with writing on both sides. “Get a few cases of Bud and some steaks for the grill, too.”
Gryff doesn’t even put up an argument while taking the list. He does hesitate before moving, however. “Sure. No problem, brother. Uhm… one question, though. Where do I get this shit?”
He’s got to be kidding me, right?
“Call Uno. Tell his ass to get over here and he can go get the shit with you. Dawson told you two to do this thing together? Then neither one of you are getting off the hook and pawning it all off on me.” Lord help me. This is going to be a shit show.
~*~
Second to the sound of a nice tailpipe on a Harley, the sound of a screw gun is like music to my ears. It relaxes me. Soothes me almost.
One of the only saving graces whi
le I was locked up in the pen was being able to work in the prison wood shop. Of course they’d never let us have power tools and we had to do everything the old-fashioned way by hand, but I didn’t mind. For whatever time I was working on some piece of shit broken desk or fixin’ doors or whatever menial shit they had me doin’, it was less time I had to spend thinking about how much I missed the things that really mattered. My woman. My club. My bike. My tools.
Baby once said I treated the things in my tool shed like a woman treated the shoes in her closet. Whatever the fuck that means. All I know is a man’s tools say somethin’ about the man himself.
It says he can take care of shit. It says he can turn random things into something.
Growing up, my pop had an old rusted metal tool box where the hinges creaked when you opened the lid. Didn’t matter though, because once you saw what was inside, it was like looking at the Holy Grail. That shit sparkled in the sunlight, it was so damn pristine and clean.
Every tool in there had a place, every nail, every screw, every washer had a home.
Any time Ma would complain that somethin’ was broken, it was like a small miracle for pop. He’d get up from his beat-up recliner, go fetch his tool box and pretend it was some sort of inconvenience that he was gonna be missing some of his TV show, but we all knew he was happier than a pig in shit to be able to work with his hands.
He was a truck driver by trade, and so other than fixing flats, pumping gas, and tinkering under the hood every once in a while, the only use his hands were for most of the day was to be wrapped around the steering wheel or fiddling with the remote control at home.
In another life, my pop would have been a carpenter. He always talked about how that’s what he was meant to be. But, life had other plans. For however poor we were when I was growin’ up, his folks had been twice as poor. Going to trade school and learning the craft hadn’t been much of an option for him. He needed to get out there and make some real money fast to help take care of his responsibilities.