by Lena Pierce
I lean onto one elbow, my hand over my mouth. I’m not going to explain myself to this girl.
She waits for me to talk, and when I don’t, she sits back in her seat with a huff. “I’m not some whore, you know.”
“Never said you were,” I answer.
“You treated me like one,” she says.
“It was a political move, nothing more.” I answer. “And you don’t get to make the rules.”
“Why, because I’m your prisoner? Or was I supposed to be a guest? I’m just not sure there’s a difference.”
“Does your father let you talk to him that way?” I ask.
“What way?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Disrespectfully.”
She opens her mouth and then shuts it. Takes a swig of her wine. Leans forward. “Seems like I can say whatever the fuck I want, since I’m the one being pawned like a game piece. You need me, and you can’t get whatever it is you want if I’m harmed.”
“There are many ways to hurt someone, Tanner,” I say. “I’d be careful if I were you.”
# # #
Tanner
I’m pissing him off; I know I am. But I feel like this is an act he puts on, this asshole you-need-to-respect-me bullshit.
Fact is, I’d rather give two hundred public blowjobs than go back and marry Kit. I don’t need Griz to know that, but that’s how I feel. Mostly. I’m still kind of mortified about having to do that in front of my dad’s guys. I’m also weirded out about how much I liked it. But if I really want to keep it simple, I felt really stifled in my dad’s overprotective world. I wanted to get out, and Spike offered me the opportunity to do just that. So the more Griz does to keep me out of Kit’s hands, the better. I’m sure that makes me sound nuts, but there you have it.
I stand up and wander around the table to where Griz sits. He’s still in his club colors, still dressed in head-to-toe black. I stand in front of him as he stares up at me, face like stone, showing nothing. His jaw twitches like he’s annoyed.
I climb onto his lap, straddling him. I’m not wearing any underwear, so my bare pussy rubs against the thick material of his jeans. I’m so wet already; this small little thing nearly sends me over the edge. Our eyes lock as I put my hands in his wavy hair, rubbing against him.
As I lean in to kiss him, he turns away. I try not to feel rejected. I shouldn’t feel rejected, because his massive cock is hard between my legs, indicating that he’s responding just the way I want. But kissing is an intimacy, and his refusal to lock lips with me only means that he doesn’t yet think of me as anyone worth connecting with on that level.
Oh, well, I’ll just settle for running my tongue and lips along his neck. My hands rest on his shoulders; I work one down his chest, across his abs, over the hardness of his cock. All while I rock against him, the wetness and want growing.
“I could come like this,” I breathe into his ear.
He picks me up as he stands, his big hands on my bare ass, and lays me on a nearby, empty table. He keeps our hips connected as he rips at my dress, exposing my tits. His mouth is on them in an instant, breath hot against my pebbled nipples. He sucks and bites and I feel like I might combust. My hips rise, still moving against his covered erection.
He works my tits as I dry hump him like some teen in a basement. When I come, I’m shocked. I cry out and he covers my mouth with his hand.
“Chef will think you don’t like the food,” he says, his eyebrows arching just once, playfully, a remarkably endearing thing from such a serious man.
He pulls my dress back up, covering my breasts once more, but leaves my pussy exposed, my legs open for him as I lie on the table.
“One taste,” he says, holding up an index finger as he leans in, his bearded face between my legs.
As his tongue slides along my folds, I nearly melt. But before I can really enjoy the sensation, he pulls away, helping me upright, pulling my dress down, leading my back to my chair.
When Chef brings our next course, there’s no sign that we’ve just engaged in one very weird make-out session. She places our salads in front of us and we compliment her on the soup.
My abdomen is heavy with want. I can hardly eat for being so aroused. I keep watching Griz for some sign that this will continue after dinner, but he’s stoic as always. I want to scream from frustration.
“Why this multi-course dinner like we’re on a date?” I ask after spending two courses in silence. Chef has just brought out a bowl of chocolate mousse and I damn near might have another orgasm from the sheer deliciousness.
“I thought you deserved a reward for your performance out there.”
“So you force me to suck you off, then you placate me with food?” I ask.
“Did you feel forced?” he asked. “Think about it and let me know.”
“I … I mean … you did order me to do it,” I say.
“Did you like it?” he asks.
“That’s irrelevant,” I answer.
“It’s not.”
I grind my teeth together. This man is beyond frustrating.
“Did you like it?” he asks again.
I bite the inside of my lip and let a breath out through my nose. “Yes. Yes, I liked it. I liked it more than I’d like to admit, but there you go. But just because I liked it doesn’t mean I consented to doing it.”
He sits back in his chair, his eyelids heavy. I don’t know if this is from all the wine he’s had, or from the orgasm he gave me, or from the memory of my mouth on his cock, but it’s a sexy look for him. One that makes me want to go for round two—crowd of onlookers or not.
I want him to tell me he liked it, too. That he wants me. That he’ll claim me for real now.
But he doesn’t. He stands and says one of his guys will escort me back to the room.
And then he leaves.
# # #
Griz
Feeling that girl come just from that little interaction was almost my undoing. It took literally every ounce of self-control I have to stop myself from jamming my cock straight into her smooth wet pussy.
As I wander around the club property, I interact with a few of my guys, thankful for the distraction. A few share updates on deals; one shows me a picture of his old lady and their new baby. It makes me think of Shannon as a baby, of myself as a young, single, grieving father.
I have to leave quickly, patting him on the back and promising him a congratulatory cigar. But I need to get away because these are the moments when it’s the worst. It’s these in-between moments, when the hallways are quiet and the guys have a minute to share their lives, that I think of Giselle.
Giselle was a sex worker. She was also beautiful and caring and my first love. My only love, I guess, other than my daughter. She looked like a fucking supermodel with her long black hair and exotic eyes. I met her when I was a cock-strong teenager, full of piss and vinegar and eager to get my rocks off as often as possible. She was actually a few years older than me, and it wasn’t until she came to see me with a black eye when I was maybe twenty that I realized how much I cared for her.
She kept working, and I kept paying her for sex, but the time in between was more than that. And as I started working my way through the ranks and building my business, I promised her I’d get her out of that life. I wanted to fill her with babies and give her a house with a white picket fence, because that’s what dumbass boys in love promise to people they love.
When she did get pregnant, I took half my savings and paid off her pimp, telling him she was mine and he was to stay away or end up with a bullet in his head. I meant it, too, and he left with a few choice words and a bag of money, but he kept his word and he never bothered her again.
It was Giselle who was dead within the year, dead from complications having Shannon. I had raced her to the hospital, the whole time arguing about baby names. She liked Shannon, and I wanted something else—a name I can’t even remember nowadays, but felt worth fighting for in the moment.
She told me she hated me about fourteen times during labor. I loved her even more as I watched what she went through, and when Shannon was born, her father was, too. They say it’s like that for men, that the father is born with the baby. And as I cut the cord and asked questions about her weight and length, Giselle flatlined.
Her heart just couldn’t take it. She never got a chance to hold her baby.
I killed the pimp a few days after her death, just because I could. I’d have killed seven more people if my sister hadn’t forced me to stay with Shannon, to be a father. I wasn’t good at it. I drank a lot and I needed a lot of guidance. I hated being a father because I was doing it without the woman I loved.
But Shannon means everything to me now. I would literally pull someone’s balls off with my bare hands if they hurt her. I know Draven must feel the same, and that’s why I can’t fully claim his daughter like some common whore. I need her to be able to go home, if she wants to, and claiming her means something in our world. If I claim her and then send her home, it will mark her as damaged. If I claim her and keep her, then she’s mine to manage.
I know I’m just using her, making a point, staking a claim so I can make the most of this shit situation Spike created. But I need to send her home. After I get Draven’s club out of my borders. After I get him to cede land that should be mine anyway. I’ve got to find a way to allow her to go home with her honor intact.
This whole situation really pisses me off. I’m angry. Angry because I’ve let myself brood over Giselle. She’s been dead five years and I rarely allow myself to think about her. Angry about Spike and this garbage behavior out of him lately. Angry for not being a better father. Angry for wanting this young woman when I have too many other things to worry about right now.
When I walk in on a group of club members in a brawl, I toss my kutte and T-shirt to the side and join the melee.
A roundhouse kick to the kidney lands squarely, pitching me forward. I recover right off the bat and turn to find Spike there, grinning ear to ear.
“Welcome back, boss.”
“What, you haven’t had enough?” I ask.
We dance around each other, oblivious to the rest of the fighting around us. This is pretty normal at the club—guys need to let off some steam after tense deals go down. I usually don’t participate, but fuck if this asshole hasn’t pissed me off enough for me to come out swinging. Add in the girl and I am a nuclear bomb ready to drop.
“Enjoy getting your fuck stick licked out there, boss?” Spike asks as he punches at my jaw. I duck and land one to his gut instead. He wheezes, but manages to say, “She’s a pretty little cunt, isn’t she? You should be thanking me.”
It bothers me more than I would ever admit to hear him call Tanner a cunt. I punch him in the jaw for it, and he lands a knee to my lower abdomen.
“If you don’t claim that little bitch for real, I certainly will,” Spike says. “My old lady don’t mind when I get a little side ass.”
I’ve got him by the throat in an instant, lifting him into the air and throwing him like a bag of grain. He hits a nearby table and scrambles to his feet.
“That little girl’s got you all in a twist,” Spike sneers. “This club don’t need no pussy for a leader, David. Just get it hard and jam it in. Take her like you need to and claim what’s yours.”
The way he says my real name, like it’s a sickness in his mouth—it makes me see red. I fly toward him, knocking him to the ground, my knee on his chest as I pummel his face for the second time in less than 48 hours.
“Watch yourself,” I growl. “Unless you want to end up buried out back.”
This time I don’t need my guys to pull me off. I manage to pull back, leaving him lying motionless on the floor. I stalk off, telling one of my club members to make sure he’s breathing. Part of me hopes he’s not.
As I walk down the hall, I’m tempted to head out, to go to Cary’s place. I’d give anything to curl up with my daughter, to hear her breathing. But I can’t. Spike is too volatile, and the situation with Tanner and the Grave Robbers is likely to hit a crescendo soon.
I pull out my phone as I near the bedroom, calling Cary’s number. When she answers, I have to tell her I can’t come home tonight. Or any time soon, for that matter. It’s not safe. Draven will now know Tanner is here. He’ll look for any way to get me and that includes taking my daughter, the way he thinks I’ve taken his.
# # #
Tanner
He bangs through the door, throws his kutte and T-shirt to the floor and stomps into the bathroom, starting the shower and pulling the door so that it’s only slightly ajar. No acknowledgement of me whatsoever as I lie in one of his T-shirts on the bed, reading another nasty romance novel.
I tiptoe to the door, hoping to figure out where he went and what he did after leaving me in the dining room alone. It surprised me so much to be left without a guard. I almost walked straight out the front door.
It’s just that … Kit wants me to marry him. He’s twice my age and not at all my type. It weirds me out. If I go back, he’ll discipline me for having allowed myself to become Griz’ whore. I’ve seen it, when girls have left the club to go to another, only to come back begging for forgiveness or protection.
And the thought of him on top of me, his cock in me … it turns my stomach.
I listen as Griz apologizes to someone on the other end of the phone. From the soft tone of his voice, I gather it’s his daughter and it breaks my heart to know she expects him home, but he won’t come.
After he hangs up, I give it a minute and then poke my head in, only to find him sitting on the edge of the tub, head in his hands. It’s a rare moment of vulnerability he’s showing me. The fact that he told me about his daughter at all is huge, and now he’s allowing me to see him like this?
I fall to my knees in front of him, not caring that I’m naked under the soft, white T-shirt I stole from his drawer. I put my hands on his cheeks and he looks at me with suspicious, narrowed eyes. Fuck, this guy is beautiful.
“You think you come off as this bad ass, this horrible person,” I say. “You’re not a bad person.”
He pulls away from my touch, stands, takes control once more. “You don’t know fuck all about me, little girl.”
“I’m not a little girl,” I say.
He examines his knuckles, swollen and bloody again, and shakes out his hands. I take the opportunity to touch his chiseled chest, running my hands all over him. He puts his hands over mine and stops me.
“Knock it off,” he warns, his voice gruff.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you don’t want this,” he says. “This place is a fucking shit show and someone is going to die before things settle down again. Might be your dad. Might be me.”
“He’s a reasonable man,” I say. “Let me tell him you’ve been kind to me.”
“Kind?” he scoffs.
“You could have raped me. You didn’t. You could have hurt me. You didn’t. That’s more than many others would do,” I say, feeling naïve for saying it.
He uses it against me. “You think because I didn’t beat you or stick my cock in you … that counts as kindness? What the fuck’s wrong with your meter?”
“It’s just that ...”
He makes a disgruntled noise and says, “Get some sleep.”
He pulls off his boots and socks and follows with his pants. I nearly salivate over the sight of his naked body. Into the shower he goes, slamming the glass door and closing his eyes as he dips under the water.
“Fuck this,” I say under my breath, pulling open the door and stepping inside with him. He watches as the water soaks the shirt, becoming transparent, exposing the outline of my breasts all the way down to below my navel. I run my fingertips over my nipples and they pebble for me.
“This is my choice,” I say.
“Well, it’s not mine,” he says roughly. “Get out.”
I pull the shirt over my head and stand with
my hands on my hips. “No.”
He spins me around so he’s got my back against his abdomen again. He seems to like to do this when he’s trying to project power. It’s like looking at my face humanizes me more and forces him to think of me as a woman and not an object.
I push away from him, out of his grasp, spinning back around. I grab his cock, huge and erect, and start massaging it. He growls, low and menacing.
He tries to ignore me as I play, but I can see the lust in his eyes. I step closer, still rubbing his dick, and allow my breasts to rub against his chest. He looks down at me and I take the opportunity to stand on tiptoes, my lips meeting his.