by Cathryn Cade
CHAPTER FORTY
Sara ended the call to her mother, turned and looked out her window. Her eyes widened. Speak of the devil—Stick Vanko stood in the middle of her yard, clad in his usual plaid western shirt with the sleeves cut off, this one a light gray plaid, jeans and boots. His blond hair glinted in the sun as he bent his head.
He was scratching Blackie behind the dog's big, black ears and talking to him. The dog looked as if he was enjoying it, a lot. Sara knew the feeling. She wanted to lean on Stick herself, only she'd run her hands up and down those magnificent arms of his.
Sara ran a hand down over her own ensemble, a floaty peasant top of cream-and-red over a pair of cut-offs, and the red sandals with straps that tied around her ankles. Her hair was styled in tousled waves with her bang smoothed to one side, she'd added smoky eye-makeup and red lip gloss. Her earrings were kitschy dangles of red beads, and two narrow braided leather bracelets, one with beads, adorned her right wrist.
She opened her back door and leaned against the frame, tipping her head. "Decide you want my dog after all?" she called.
Man and dog turned to look at her. Blackie panted happily. Stick stilled for a second, and then straightened, his gaze traveling slowly down over her, and then back up again.
"Milaya moye," he greeted her. "You're looking very good."
A flush traveled down from her face to her chest. She smiled. "Thank you. So are you. Haircut?"
His usually long-ish, untidy hair had been trimmed, as had his beard and mustache. He still looked untamed, but in a more civilized way—which made no sense. But the man jangled her thoughts, no question about that. He also sent her hormones into overdrive as he prowled toward her.
"Da. It was time—my boys wanted to grow their hair long, like papa. Instead, I told them I'll cut mine like theirs."
Standing on her bottom step brought his face just below hers. He studied her so closely she began to tremble, deep inside.
"What?" she asked.
"You feeling okay? Does your head still hurt?"
"It's fine. Just a little bruise left. Have to be gentle with my hairbrush."
He nodded. "Good. And you had fun with your girls? Heard you laughing over here, it sounded good."
Sara's cheeks heated. God, she hoped he nor the boys had heard what they were laughing about. She cleared her throat. "It was fun. Let me just get the jacket."
"I won't take it back, Sara. It's a gift—a thank you for taking care of my boys. And for keeping them safe." He lifted his chin to her. "Lot of women, and men, would have given them up rather than be hurt, the way I'm certain he threatened you."
Sara winced. "You want the truth? I was so scared I couldn't remember the keypad combination, even after Blackie had him down on your driveway."
He shrugged. "That was after you fought him like a mama lioness. You fought well, and you won. Keep the jacket."
"But you saved my brother," she told him, moving to the edge of the top step to put her hands on his chest. "Stick, that was ... amazing. I can't believe you were there to take the phone call—and you rode straight to his rescue. You're the hero."
He shook his head at her, standing there tall, broad and solid as a rock. "That's what I do, Sara. My club's territory, my people—my responsibility."
"But, I'm not one of your people."
"You don't think so?" His gaze turned warm and lazy, and everything in Sara responded. She swayed toward him, like the trees before the breeze coming in across the prairie.
He set his big hands on her hips and pulled her the last few inches toward him. Sara leaned in, her lips parting for a kiss, but at the last second he dipped his face and buried it between her breasts. He inhaled long and deep, and growled, the vibration sending a hot thrill down through her, straight to her pussy. God, she loved the feel of his whiskers on her skin, and she loved that he enjoyed the way she smelled.
She cupped his head in her hands, running her fingers into his damp hair and writhing a little in his hold to ease the need swelling inside her.
"You don't look quite as cute as your boys—the haircut, I mean," she told him, her voice throaty. "But you'll do."
He lifted his head and gave her a look that melted her knees, leaving her pliant against him. "Good, because I want to do you, blazhinka moya. I want to know if your pussy tastes as good as your mouth ... or better."
Sara nearly whimpered—or maybe she did. Her eyes on his mouth, framed with neatly trimmed dark gold facial hair, she licked her lips. "M-maybe you better kiss me, so you can compare."
Holy crap, had she just said that? Crazy, how swiftly he could make her yearn for him.
But from the flare of his nostrils, and the way he yanked her against him, Stick approved.
At the last second, Sara pulled her head back. "Wait. Have you been tested lately? For STIs, I mean." Because she did not care how dead-sexy he was, she was not chancing catching something, not again.
"You are smart to ask," he replied. "Yes, last week. And no, I haven't been with a woman since I was tested."
"Oh. Okay."
He reached past her to open the screen door. Before Sara quite knew what happened, they were inside her kitchen, and he was walking her backward through it, giving her the hottest, wettest kiss she'd had since ... well, since they were last together.
Something firm hit her in the back of her knees, the sofa. Stick let go of her hips to unsnap her cutoffs. The zipper parted, and he pushed them down. Sara wriggled her hips to help, and the soft denim fell to the carpet, leaving her in a pair of red hipsters which were basically a wide band of lace holding a strip of thin fabric between her legs.
"Mm, I like," he approved gutturally, leaning away from her to look as he smoothed his hands over her ass. "Now sit."
Sara sat, her legs wide open with a biker kneeling between them, his big, warm, calloused hands smoothing up her bare, trembling thighs, his gaze on what lay between them.
"Such pretty, long legs, and such a pretty pussy," he said. "You make your panties wet for me, I like this." Oh, God, there went his accent thickening the sexy way she loved.
His thumbs met on the delicate skin at the edge of her panties and Sara quivered, a tiny spasm of pleasure inside her. She was so bad.
He smirked at her, his brow quirking in devilish humor. "You like me looking at you, don't you, milaya? This is good—when I want to get you hot, I will make you spread your pretty legs for me. And no matter where we are, you'll do it."
Sara gasped. "I most certainly will not, Stick Vanko."
He leaned in, nipping at her lower lip and slid his thumbs underneath her panties, right into her swollen, slick folds. "I think you will, because you want this. Don't you?"
"Oh, my God," she whispered, and grasped his head again, kissing him hungrily. "Yes, I want this."
He kissed her back, teasing her with slow, slick caresses. "What do you want, Sara moya? This?" He twisted his hand and slid two long fingers inside her.
Sara whimpered into his mouth as he caressed her knowingly. Then he found that magical place inside her, and stroked, and just like that, she came, pleasure bursting inside her.
"Yes!" This was just sex, but holy cow, it was great sex. He set her off like fireworks.
He grunted, and lifted his head, his eyes glittering in his hard face. "Good. Now take off your top for me. I want to see your tits."
With his fingers still inside her, and him watching every move, Sara pulled her top over her head, revealing her bare torso, breasts cradled in red lace.
"Pretty," he approved. "Now pull the cups down, and play with your tits, I'll watch while I eat your pussy."
At his words, Sara spasmed around his fingers again. He grunted with approval. "Oh, blazhinka. Such a naughty, bad girl you are behind those prissy looks you like to give me. I'm gonna teach you to be very, very bad."
Then he pulled her hips forward to the edge of the sofa, and put a big hand on her middle to push her shoulders back against the sofa, so s
he was sprawled wantonly before him, a sexual offering for a big, bad, alpha, biker man.
Her face and chest burning, but her need deeper than her embarrassment, Sara pulled her bra down to free her nipples from the lace, and fingered herself for him. It felt wonderful, because he watched her do it.
"Da," he grunted. "Now, ask me nicely to eat your pussy, and make you come again."
And she did.
Then she received a gift she loved much, much more than the leather jacket, and anything else she could think of at the moment—his face between her thighs, his whiskers tickling her skin, his tongue like wet, rough velvet on her labia and clitoris. He tasted her, teased her and even thrust his tongue right inside her in a mimic of coitus, while Sara strained up toward his mouth, longing for more.
"Stick, please," she begged. "Oh, my God, please. My—my clit. Lick me there."
"If I do," he said, his deep voice vibrating against her mons. "You'll let me fuck you anyway I choose?"
"Uh-huh," she panted. "Anyway you want, Ivan--please."
He gave a purely masculine growl of triumph, and then slowly licked up and up to her clitoris, spreading her with his thumbs so the swollen knot of nerves was wholly vulnerable to his expert touch. Then he circled it with rough precision, and thrust his fingers back inside her.
Sara gave a high wail of pleasure and let go her nipples to grasp his head, holding him to her as she convulsed, riding his hand and his mouth to ecstasy.
Afterward, he wiped his mouth on her thigh, pressed a kiss there and then straightened, already unfastening his belt as Sara watched, her body and mind singing with pleasure.
"So," he drawled. "Any way I want?"
"Well," she breathed, alarm prickling through her at the filthy glint in his eyes. "Not anal. I am not doing butt sex, even for you."
He shook his head chidingly. "Going back on your word so soon?"
She opened her mouth and sat up straight. Then she let out a yelp of shock as he pulled her forward and off the sofa, astride his thighs as he knelt there.
"No butt sex today," he told her, the glint in his eyes saying he'd been teasing her. "Today you ride me, so mount up."
She held onto his shoulders and took him inside her, frowning at him as she did so. "The rider is in charge, you big, bossy Russian. You just do your part."
He laughed at her expression. Then he filled his hands with her ass and thrust up into her, seating himself so deeply she dug her short nails into the plush pads of muscle on his traps. "Oh, I plan to, milaya. Now get busy and do yours."
But he’d stopped laughing. Both of them were still, staring into each others’ eyes. Full of him, her body surrendering to his possession in the way as old as time, Sara felt every part of her, heart and soul, yearn to surrender to his male power and strength.
He leaned in, his powerful arms closing around her, giving her a deep, wet kiss, plumbing her mouth as his cock was her body. “Milaya,” he growled against her lips, their breath panting together. “I need you to move now. Please.”
“Yes.” Her hands on his shoulders, her nipples brushing his chest, Sara moved, rising and then sliding back down on his thick, impaling cock. She moved hesitantly at first, because it had been a while since she'd been on top, and never on this much pure man. But soon, because it was he, she discovered the position was way more fun than she'd remembered, and she got busy and did her part.
Pleasure tightened deeper and deeper inside her where her pussy clasped him, stroked him, until she was whimpering, calling out her pleasure to him, and then joy imploded as she tightened around him, and she flew.
"Fuck, yeah," he grunted, surging under her. "Come for me, milaya. Just like that. Just like ... that."
He let out a groan and stiffened, gripping her bottom hard enough to leave marks. But Sara, watching his handsome, brutal face tighten with ecstasy, barely noticed. She continued to move on him until he opened his eyes, and pulled her forward against him, stroking one hand up her bare back and tipping his head back to heave a deep sigh.
Sara smiled against his throat, and licked a drop of sweat from the pale skin where his beard had covered it until today.
"Yee-hah," she murmured complacently.
He chuckled, and then smacked her bottom, just hard enough to sting.
"Ow," she protested. "What was that for?"
"For making me wait so long to have you," he said. "From now on, we'll fuck every day, at least twice. Then I'll last longer instead of losing control like a teenager, and you'll have time to come more than once."
After coming once on his mouth and again on his cock, Sara wasn't complaining, but she rolled her eyes. "Uh, excuse me? I think I have a say in how many times we do this."
He grinned at her, such a gorgeous sight she sighed happily—until he spoke again.
"Milaya moya, you like me so much I can have your panties wet in five minutes, anytime I want. So I changed my mind—some days we'll fuck a lot more."
Then he patted her ass again. "Now, get off of me. Got things to do."
"Oh, I'll get off of you," Sara snapped, doing so with a jerk. "But next time you want me to get you off, you can just whistle for it, Joystick."
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
So swiftly she had no time to draw back, Ivan’s arm shot out, and his big hand fastened around the back of her neck, in a firm grasp.
Holding her, he leaned close, his eyes fiery. "You don't call me that. You call me Ivan."
Sara knew there was no use trying to get loose, so she settled for yanking her bra back into place and crossing her arms to glower at him. "Everyone else calls you that. Why can't I?"
He shook his head at her. "You're not everyone else, so no. My brothers call me that. You call me that again, I'll spank your sweet ass." He twisted enough to pull a bandanna from his back pocket, and dealt with the condom.
"Oh, no you will not—Joystick." The instant the word left her mouth, Sara knew it was a mistake.
He gave her a fierce, flashing smile and flipped her over his thighs, face down, bottom up.
"Ivan! You let me go!" Sara shrieked, squirming and grabbing at him. She grasped a handful of his shirt and yanked. It flew open, the snaps popping. His hand settled between her shoulder-blades, holding her in place with his left hand.
With his right, he smacked her bottom, once, twice. It stung, although that didn't last. It wasn't that he was hurting her at all, it was that he was man-handling her.
"Now, are you going to mind?" he asked, petting her bottom as if he owned it.
"No!" she growled, and punched him in the ribs, as hard as she could with a sideways blow. Ow, that hurt her hand more than him, she was sure.
He grunted and then helped her sit up. He was chuckling again as he watched her scramble to her feet and back away from him.
"I can't believe your friends think you are too uptight," he told her. "You have everyone fooled, don't you? Except me. I know you're a lioness. My lioness."
Sara tossed her head to get her tousled hair out of her face and gave him the foulest glare of which she was capable. "I hope you enjoyed that, Ivan, because you can forget your fucking every day—you'll be lucky to have me again in a month."
He levered himself to his feet, and fastened his jeans, his eyes twinkling. "Such language, Ms. Cannon. By the way, I was right. Your pussy tastes as sweet as your mouth."
Then he sauntered out her front door, shirt hanging open, hair still tousled from her fingers.
“Jackass!” she shouted after him. Sara's fingers twitched with the urge to throw something at the back of his head, but she told herself she didn't want to break any of her things on his thick skull, so she settled for gathering up her clothing and stomping up the stairs to take another shower.
He might be a hero for saving Seth, and for sending his men to rescue her from her attacker, but he was still a big biker ass-hat.
When she was showered, hair fixed and made-up—again—Sara donned her cute outfit, although this time
with fresh panties. Then she grabbed her navy hobo bag and headed out.
She drove the Caddy, and as she cruised down their shared drive to the county road, she lifted her chin haughtily. So Ivan Vanko had given her great sex and claimed that he wasn't going to touch other women, that didn't mean he had any claim on her. She was her own woman.
When she pulled to a stop in the street in front of Langley Leatherworks, Brad himself opened the front door of his shop and stepped outside. His brown hair was tied back, and he wore a beat-up leather apron over his snug Henley and jeans. He grinned at her as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
"A pretty woman in a classic car," he said. "Now that's a day-maker."
Sara grinned back at him. "Isn't she a beauty? She was my Gran's, now she's mine."
He peered into the interior and whistled low. "Original owner, or re-done?"
"Grandpa bought her new, and since he drove his pickup trucks, and Gran was a housewife, not that many miles on her."
"The car, you mean," he said, a quiver in his voice.
Sara snickered. "Oh, my God. I did mean the car. Gran passed at ninety-three."
He held open his shop door for her. "Maybe sometime you'll take me for a spin."
"I'd love to," she agreed.
By the time she left his shop, she had a new beveling knife—because she never, ever again wanted to see the one she'd used on the kidnapper, and hoped it was long gone—a new piece of soft, black leather big enough to make a vest or bag, two new leaf punches and a dinner date for the following evening.
And if her tummy jumped nervously as she thought of Ivan's reaction to her seeing another man, she tossed her hair and ignored it. What she did and who she saw was none of his darn business.
So of course he chose that afternoon to send the boys over with an irresistible invitation.
It was five o'clock. Another hot afternoon, and Sara was curled in one of the loungers in the shade with a big tumbler of Crystal Light at her side, Blackie at her feet in the grass, her tablet on her lap. She was deep in contemplation of her finances, and just how long she could afford to live as she was without getting a job. About another six months, without delving into her 401K, which she refused to do.