by Anne Marsh
“No.” She gives a little laugh and steps inside. “It’s an all-night event.”
I step in after her and lock the door. She’s got one of those stupid little chains I could snap with my bare hands, but I slide that in place, too. Got a small arsenal in my jacket. She’s as safe as I can make her.
“You want to talk about it?”
She sniffs the watermelon drink and then licks the edge of the cup. The bartender added some kind of sugar shit on the edge, plus an umbrella and a stick of cherries. Pretty sure he put that there to fuck with me, but Poppy’s face eases some. She’s stalling, but I’ll let her.
“This is good,” she says.
I snort.
“Pure sugar,” I tell her. “Maybe some food coloring that’s gonna turn your kidneys unnatural colors. But I’m pleased you’re pleased, babe.”
While she drinks, I take my chance to look around. Didn’t come up last time, but it doesn’t seem like I missed much. Poppy’s place is about the size of a closet. She’s got a tiny kitchen with what looks like half a lake on the floor, and her bathroom’s a postage-stamp, the kind of thing where if you park your ass on the john, you got your feet in the tub. Only other space is this room. She’s got a studio.
Makes finding the bed easy enough even in the near dark of the room. Guess Poppy’s not much for mood lighting tonight.
I scoop her up, steadying her cup, and stalk over to the open sofa bed. Fucking crazy, my being here. Could have insisted that Poppy come to me or texted her. But I got to admit, I wanted to see her, and the fact that she claimed to need me makes me want to move mountains for her. Just on principle. Of course now that I’m here, it’s abundantly clear that I don’t belong. She’s got a cute place decorated with loads of white. Pictures on the wall, knickknacks, and crap everywhere I look. This isn’t just the place where she sleeps; it’s her home.
Not like I’m Martha Stewart, so that’s one more thing we don’t have in common.
Bed’s not bad though. I set her down in a mound of white fluffy shit. She’s got a mountain of pillows too small to be useful and one normal-sized pillow. Maybe I can wrestle her for it. Later. I shuck my boots. Don’t think she’ll thank me if I get dirt on all that white. She watches silently as I crawl in beside her and pull her carefully against my side. Her head fits perfectly against my shoulder, which has to be a fucking sign, right?
I tip her chin up because she’s contemplating her drink like it’s a cup of all-knowing tea leaves. “You want to try answering my question again?”
She inhales a good inch of the watermelon stuff.
“I’m fine. I just got fired,” she says wearily. “My dishwasher exploded. I’ve got bills to pay, and my checking account’s on life support. I’d like a do-over on my life, but that’s not happening. So I thought I might spend tonight feeling sorry for myself before I get on with the business of living. Thanks for this by the way.”
She salutes me with her drink.
Yeah. Sure she’s fine.
Moo, her cat, pads over. He and I have never met in person, but I’ve seen the pictures Fang flashed her when he was on cat-sitting detail. He gets one good whiff of me and bolts under the bed. Probably gonna piss all over my boots, too. I’ve come armed with bribes, however—a shiny pink tinfoil packet of cat treats for my four-legged competition. Fucking has hearts and happy faces all over it, but whatever. I’ve also got ice cream. Ben and Jerry’s. Twizzlers. Four bags of chips because I don’t know her favorite flavor, but that’s a problem that’s easily solved. I can buy every flavor and then see what’s left for last.
“Got it on good authority that ice cream fixes everything.” I hand her a quart and a spoon. Too bad that shit doesn’t come in gallon-sized because Poppy has sad eyes tonight.
“You’re not wrong.” Her hands tighten on the carton, but she’s not digging in. “Who told you that?”
“Alpha’s wife.”
Shit. She gives me a sort of puzzled look. “Club president’s fiancée. She hooked me up.”
I tear open the cat treats and dump a couple up. Moo stares at me disdainfully, as if he’s well aware that I’m holding out on him. Fuck it. I upend the package on the floor. If he’s happy, I’m happy.
Poppy’s still stuck on Keelie Sue, however. “You asked her for help?”
I shrug. “Needed to know how to help.”
She gives me a soft smile guaranteed to melt my heart. Her T-shirt slips down one bare, pale shoulder, making it abundantly clear that my girl is most definitely not wearing a bra. I’m betting she’s got on panties though—she’s not much of a wild child, and going commando would be the stuff of fantasies. I’ll bet she’s got her ass covered. While I consider the possibilities of what’s hiding under her T-shirt, I lean down and steal a sip of her drink. Jesus. That’s nasty.
“Where do you want me to start? You got tools?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to fix my life, Gator. Even if you could, that’s on me, okay?”
Not really, no. “Then tell me what I can do.”
“You already did it,” she admits softly.
“Watermelon’s a cure-all?” Because I’ve got my doubts about that.
She laughs, and the sound’s a little teary. Fuck. Me. “You came.”
“You think I wouldn’t?”
“You don’t like people.” She shrugs, setting the ice cream down. “And my street’s busy and loud.”
“Not a problem. Whatever you need, babe.”
“Wolves,” she says. “Wolves would have been awesome.”
“Anything except that. Gotcha now, though.”
She stares at me, trying hard not to blink, and those are definitely tears.
“Hey.” I brush a tear away. “Don’t cry.”
“Is that an order, tough guy?”
And then she goes and blinks. My heart slams against my ribcage like it’s got somewhere it needs to be, and then I wrap an arm around her, cup her face, and press my mouth against her damp skin.
She presses back.
Poppy
Gator kisses the tear from my cheek, one muscled arm encircling me, taking me down to the bed. Then he rolls me underneath him, his hands tangled in my hair as he pulls me up into his big body. He’s so warm, solid, and very, very hard.
“Are you hiding the evidence?” I fight a losing battle, common sense and willpower beating a speedy retreat in the face of how much I want this man. Okay, I also want to forget my really crappy day, and this guy… he does it for me. “Because out of sight doesn’t mean out of mind.”
He covers my mouth with his, connecting us together in the sweetest, softest kiss that I feel everywhere from my lips to parts more south and needy. Oh God. I need him. Just for tonight, just because I’m so tired of being alone and because… I don’t know why. He kisses me, and my list of reasons to resist, to kick his badass self to the curb, goes up in flames.
“Say yes,” he growls. “Let me give you this.”
“Yes.” I fist the hem of his T-shirt and drag it up. He takes over, pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it onto the floor. And while he’s busy getting naked for me, I strip off my own shirt. This leaves me in just bikini panties that are plain white cotton, but he groans like I’m posing in Victoria’s Secret.
“So fucking gorgeous.”
He rolls off the bed, shoving to his feet as his hands go to his belt. Leather slaps and then he pops the first button on his jeans. The second. And then the third. Jumping him like this isn’t my best idea. I know that. It’s pity sex, him feeling sorry for me and me feeling worse for myself and upgrading from ice cream to bad boy. Tomorrow, I’ll regret this, but right… I need this. I need him. He shoves his jeans and boxer briefs down, his cock springing free.
God, he has a monster cock, or maybe it’s perfectly, deliciously in proportion to the rest of his body because there’s nothing small about Gator or his dick. It could be illusion, some trick of the nonexistent lighting or angle, bu
t the man is fantasy come to life. Thick and long, his dick juts upward in the perfect invitation to touch. For a moment, he stands there, watching me like always, arms loose by his side. I’m not sure what he’s expecting, if I’m supposed to scream or sigh or just reach out and wrap my hands around all that promise.
“Right back at you,” I whisper because this is the kind of moment you want to freeze-frame for eternity. “But maybe you can hold it right there for a moment because damn…”
Gator grins. My poor old mattress creaks and squeals as two hundred pounds of built biker drops down onto the bed. Thank God my neighbors are out because I’m pretty sure the whole building hears him. He rolls, tucking me beneath him, his fingers threading through mine and pinning them beside my head.
“Be—”
“Be yours,” he says roughly. “Be careful. Be anything you fucking want, babe.”
And then he kisses me again, slow and deep, and I forget all about being careful. About holding something back.
I forget, period.
I push up, wrapping my legs around his waist. The only thing between us is my panties, and white cotton never felt so good. Or maybe that’s thanks to the monster dick Gator slowly drags down my cotton-covered pussy. We fit together perfectly like this.
“Again,” I whisper, reaching between us. “More.”
He’s touching me, but it’s not enough. I won’t just take from him.
I touch what I’ve been dying to touch since he stripped down for me. My fingers close around his dick, his erection sliding against my palm. He is big. My thumb and middle finger can’t meet, and now I’m wondering why I was so certain jumping Gator was a bad idea. Because this is so good, so perfectly bad, that I want to skip all the chapters in the book and head straight for the happy ending.
“Poppy?” My name comes out of his mouth as a groan.
“Yeah?” He could recite the Constitution right now. I don’t care. Instead, I squeeze. Oh my God, he feels good.
“You like these panties?” He runs his mouth over my neck, as if I need encouragement to feed him the answer he’s looking for. Which is no. Followed by please go all caveman and tear them off me.
“My panties are yours,” I tease and squeeze again.
It’s like I just handed him a signed permission slip because his hands get busy. Instead of ripping and tearing, though, he slides my panties down my legs. And then he’s parting me, and it feels so, so good. That’s my greedy whimper filling up the few inches of space between us, and I want more. I want it all.
“Now,” I demand. “Give it to me right now.”
He lifts off me just long enough to grab a condom and roll it on. And then he’s pushing me down into the mattress, and I’m digging into the small of his back with my heels. He pounds into me, slow and steady, taking his goddamned time like he hasn’t already made me wait for days. Like I don’t deserve this, him, the mother of all orgasms, something.
“Harder,” I beg.
He gives a rough laugh. “Christ, Poppy. I don’t want to rush this.”
That’s sweet, but maybe I could take a rain check on the slow? He doesn’t stop moving, but he finally does something with his mouth other than talking. His tongue teases my nipple, his teeth biting ever so gently. This is so not harder. He gives me sweet and slow, and the pleasure is crazy-making.
I dig my nails into his shoulders, marking him. “I won’t break.”
“I know.” White teeth flash in the almost-dark of my room. He’s enjoying this, the bastard.
“Faster,” I order.
“Trust me,” he growls. “Gonna get this right for you.”
If he gets it any more right, I’ll be dead. And then his fingers slide between my legs and he strokes and I’m flying higher and higher, so far from the ground, from reality. But even though the fall’s going to hurt like a bitch, I don’t care. Not now. He’s right. This is perfect. This is what I need.
He surrounds me with himself, his arms caging me, keeping me safe, keeping all the bad shit out. Like he’s lending me the power in that big body of his, or at least letting me pretend that I’m every bit as strong and in control.
“All right?”
Yes. Yes. And yes. He drives into me with a steady rhythm that has me rethinking my position on slow. Every last thought and worry slips away as he loves me, taking me somewhere better and safer with him. He’s kissing me again, and I kiss him back desperately, pushing my mouth at his as if I’d eat him alive if I could.
“Come now.” Two words, delivered roughly against my ear.
His fingers work their magic between my legs, coaxing me to agree. To give him everything he’s asking for. I come apart before I can argue, tensing and clenching, squeezing him tight like he might slip away from me before I’m done using him. He thrusts, and I come, whispering his name over and over.
“Good girl.” He pulls me tighter, moving deeper until there’s no space at all left inside because he’s filled me up entirely.
I can feel each thrust he makes, my body parting to make room for him as he takes what I give him. It feels amazing, so good that I wish we could do this forever. But good things always come to an end.
Gator groans my name when he comes, his fingers digging into my hips as he empties himself deep inside me. It’s dirty and perfect and nothing like I imagined it would be. That sound he makes is rough and needy, him having to finish this thing that’s been growing between us as much as I do. We’re neither of us alone, not now.
And afterward he doesn’t pull out, roll off me, go away. It’s like sex and orgasm aren’t the most important part of the night because he stays in me, his arms keeping me close as his mouth and his hands kiss and pet. I’m safe. The shit that’s waiting for me tomorrow and the day after that can’t get through those strong arms of his, and I give into temptation again. I let him hold me.
He’s holding me.
He pulls me close, tucking my head against his chest. There’s a whisper of movement, of lips gliding over my hair, my forehead.
“Fucking perfect,” he says roughly. “That’s what you are, Poppy. You feel this, too?”
I think I do. Whatever this is, it’s big and scary and something I also want to grab onto with both hands. And at the same time I want to let everything go for just a moment, let him take care of me not because I can’t but because he’ll do that for me. I sense he’s still awake, watching out for me. He strokes my hair with one big hand, soothing, easing me down. I want to tell him that it’s okay, that I don’t mind flying free when he’s my wingman, but he’s fucked me boneless and I sleep.
Poppy
My pillow’s Grade A, hard-everywhere man chest. I take a moment to appreciate this as I drift awake. It’s not like my unemployed ass has anywhere to be. I crack my eyes, and my view gets even better. Right. Not only did I have hot sympathy sex last night, but my partner in crime is still here. Gator holds me against his chest with a lazy smile guaranteed to keep me right where I am. He’s naked, which only furthers my appreciation. The man’s chest is a work of art, covered with swirls of dark ink. His eyes sweep over me, missing nothing. Somehow he makes me feel like a queen despite what has to be a raging case of bedhead and a pillow crease the size of the Grand Canyon on my cheek.
“Morning,” he says. A little frown creases his forehead. “You feeling better?”
You know what? I am.
I jumped this man last night. I should have just texted him and told him I needed a booty call or sympathy sex or whatever the cool kids are calling it these days. And okay. So he’s the one who actually put me in the bed, but once we were there… hell yeah I jumped him. I mean look at him. His tough face softens just a little, warmth creeping into his eyes as he rubs a hand over my bare back. I didn’t bother getting dressed again after getting what I wanted last night.
I wait for the regret train to pull into the station and unload its cargo but I’ve got… nothing. The warm, relaxed feeling sticks around, or maybe that’s b
ecause Gator keeps rubbing his hand up and down my back, and that’s not a bad way to wake up although I’m not certain where my badass biker went—he seems to have been replaced by a nice guy. He’s not distant or cold or even bossing me around. He’s just here.
Totally, absolutely right here because that’s where I need him to be.
Okay. I know he hasn’t had a personality transplant. He’s still the grouchy guy who doesn’t care much for people and who works as his club’s enforcer. He’s the guy who took three people out into the bayou to kill them, but he’s also the man who let one of them run away and start over. Unfortunately, I can’t stop seeing the man. The naked, sweet, worried-about-me man.
He rolls over, reaching down for his pants. I try to decide whether his ass is even more spectacular than his front and then give up. It’s like choosing between chocolate cake and chocolate ice cream. I’ve reached dessert nirvana, and I’m just thanking God that I can have both at the same time.
“Did this hurt?” My fingers trace the straight, strong lines of ink on their own accord, dipping lower into naughty territory. He’s got the best man dimples at the top of his butt.
I’m not sure whether he’s in a discuss or deflect mood, but he drops his jeans and rolls me under him in one smooth move. “Had worse.”
I glance up at him since he’s just cut off my view of my two favorite body parts. “Thank you.”
His gaze darkens. “For?”
“Being so sweet to me.”
“You think I’m sweet?” He doesn’t sound happy.
“You showed me so last night.”
“Christ,” he mutters. “I don’t do sweet.”
“You did last night.” Yes, I have a stubborn side. It doesn’t get to come out and play all that often, but I’m right about this.
His hands grip mine, pulling them over my head. “Think you’re wrong.”
Then he kisses me hard, his thigh thrusting between mine and pressing up. He takes control, dominating my mouth with his tongue. There’s nothing sweet or easy about his kiss. I’m not even sure I like it but he’s making his point. And okay… maybe I do like it—or him—just a little. Somehow he’s got another condom on, and then he’s pushing deep inside me, taking me fast and dirty.