She stilled as the door creaked opened and his boots clunked against the wooden floor. A moment later, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her temple.
“Hey,” he murmured, caressing her belly. “Bath’s ready.”
“Lick me.”
“Huh?”
HUH?
Her shocked thoughts echoed his equally shocked voice and she cursed under her breath, biting down on her lip. Shit, shit, shit, shit.
“You’re asking me to eat your pussy?”
She nodded at his amused question. “I really did like it when you did it,” she blurted in a high-pitched voice. “It’s just that he’d told me if I cooperated, he’d make me feel good and I didn’t know what he meant and then he did that to me and then beat me and called me names after I had an orgasm.” She’d never spoken so fast in her entire life. She bet if she’d been timed, she’d said it all in three or four seconds. Tops.
He stilled, his arms going rigid, his body tensing. “What?”
She’d spoken too fast for him to understand her. Good. She didn’t need to repeat that ridiculous nonsense. She’d hid behind her trauma for ten years. Twisting in his arms to face him, she lifted on her toes to kiss him, glad only five or six inches separated their heights. “Nothing. Never mind.” She plastered a smile on her face, grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the bathroom. “That’s not important.”
“Did he make you suck his dick, too?”
So he had understood her fast words.
Of course he had, dummy.
She met his furious turquoise gaze. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I just…I want this to work and…I-I love you. We can talk about it later. A-after.” She bowed her head, her shoulders sagging. “If we get into a big conversation now, I-I won’t be able…” Her voice trailed off and she spun to the bathroom, stomping to it. “No fucking questions right now, Matthew,” she ordered. “Oh my God,” she breathed, stopping at the enormity of the room, the huge tub, another blazing fireplace.
They’d taken a bathroom stop just a few minutes before arriving. After holding her pee for as long as she could, her stomach had begun to hurt, so he’d pulled off to the side of the road and she’d gone in the bushes, leaving behind a small lake.
“I’m going to take this slow, Zoann,” Matthew whispered, right behind her, emotion vibrating through his voice. “As slow as I can. I’ve been wanting to taste your pussy again since the one time you let me eat you.”
She felt so lost at his words because he’d called her a whore afterwards. Just as Cee Cee had. She wouldn’t say anything, though. Because she wasn’t a whore. If anything, she was a prude.
In silence, he undressed her, his roughened fingertips gliding over every inch of skin he bared and lingering on the small bump of her belly. Sliding down her jeans and panties all at once, he dropped to his knees in front of her, grabbing first one ankle and assisting her out of the clothes before doing the same with the other. He leaned back on his haunches and studied her naked body and she stood still, determined not to flinch or hide herself from his scrutiny.
He stood and began undressing. Equal amounts of relief and disappointment competed for dominance inside her. Her mixed signals confused her, so she could only imagine Matthew’s misperceptions. Instead of saying anything, she allowed him to lead her to the big tub and assist her into it. She really didn’t know what to say, so she enjoyed his hands teasing her body while he soaped her. Picking up the washcloth and raining water over her, he teased her a little more.
“Wash your hair while I take my bath,” he ordered her.
Another flash of disappointment sizzled through her. The bath was not relaxing in the least. She kept anticipating Matthew’s touch, hoping…No, wait. Duh.
“Let me w-wash you,” she whispered.
A small smile touched his lips and he glanced away, but not before Zoann saw his satisfaction. She grinned on the inside, too nervous to show her appreciation at how he’d maneuvered her into touching him, without being overbearing about it.
Moving closer, tiny waves rippled the still-warm water, the scent of sandalwood and citrus rising between them. She grabbed the body wash and poured some in her hands before spreading it over his chest, watching the play of muscle, studying the ink on him, especially the most recent one on his neck to cover his scar from the surgery. Feeling the intensity of his stare, Zoann concentrated on washing away the suds she’d created before scooting backwards and, through the fringes of her lashes, looked at his hard cock poking out of the water.
Shoring up her courage, Zoann leaned forward, squeezed her eyes shut, and dragged her tongue over the tip. He jerked against her and choked, water splashing over the sides. She scrambled back, wiping her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she squeaked. “I’m sorry.”
He was breathing hard, lust clear in his features. “Do you know how fucking long…” He stopped on a curse, thrusting his hands through his hair and spreading his arms. He balled his hands into fists. “Finish,” he commanded, but he sounded as though he were in pain.
“The water is getting cold,” she responded, not bothering to hear what he had to say and flapping out.
“Zoann—”
She grabbed a thick, thirsty towel and wrapped it around herself. She’d get herself together in the time it would take Matthew to finish—
He grabbed her and yanked her around, and she screamed, the towel pooling around her at her sudden movements. He crushed her to him, grabbing each side of her head between his big hands and ravishing her mouth, his searching tongue consuming her.
“What do you want?” he rasped against her lips and rested his forehead on her own. “Tell me. You want me to lick you? You want to suck my dick? What, Puff?”
She’d lost her towel and she really was cold now. Chill bumps rose on her skin. He noticed because he lifted her and carried her into the bedroom, laying her down and throwing his cut over her. She sucked in a breath at the cold leather. Lifting the comforter and dislodging her jeans and tops she’d left on the bed, Zoann wrapped it around her body and stared at the ceiling.
She had to do this now while she had a semblance of courage. “I want to suck you.”
No sooner had she spoken than Matthew was crawling into bed over her, his erection tapping her lips. “Can you lay down and I-I get between your legs?” she asked in a small voice.
He looked pained, though he nodded. When she settled herself, she didn’t give herself a chance to recoil. She wrapped her hands around his base and gave him another tentative lick, this time tasting a sticky, salty fluid.
“Zoann, baby, please,” he said in a strangled voice, lifting his hips up. “For the love of all the saints, suck me.”
“Just put it in my mouth? I-I mean can’t I feel it and lick it first?”
“If you let me fuck you now and then have you blow me.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Then my juices would be all over you. I don’t know if I can do that,” she finished, distracted by Matthew’s throbbing penis. It seemed to have hardened even more, too.
“Please. You can’t…I haven’t fucked or had my dick sucked in weeks. Please do something. Sink it in your pussy. Use it like a lollipop. Kiss it. Fist it. Fucking something.”
“Okay,” she muttered, bending and wrapping her lips around the slippery head.
Matthew hissed in a breath and thrust up. “Jesus, your fucking teeth.” He fisted her hair and pulled. “Breathe through your nose. Cover your teeth with your lips and then move your head up and down.”
She nodded, unable to do much else with his dick almost down her throat. Starting a slow movement of her head, she followed his instructions.
“I’m dying, Zoann,” he grunted. “My headstone is gonna read ‘dead from botched head’. I swear. Please, baby. Please.”
She raised her head and it bounced out of her mouth, like a spring was hooked to it. “I’m doing what you told me to.”
“Too fucking slow!” he shoute
d. “Keep those fucking razors stuck in your head away from my cock and you can go as fast as you want. You can work me like you would a pogo stick.”
“Uh…”
“Jesus Christ, I can’t take this shit.” Lifting up, he grabbed her by the waist and settled her near his dick. “Ride it. Please. I swear I’ll never ask you to suck my dick again if you just fuck me now.”
“That isn’t my intention. I want—“
“Fuck.” Turning her over and settling her on her hands and knees, he positioned himself behind her and dipped his fingers into her entrance. “Wet,” he mumbled. “Someone is watching out for me up there.” With a grunt, he buried himself inside of her, pumped twice before he shuddered and warmth filled her.
He landed next to her and smiled in contentment while Zoann reared back.
“That was good to you?”
“The best fuck I ever had. Saved my fucking life.”
She shook her head, not knowing how to respond to his nonchalance. Surely, he was joking.
“Zoann, I swore I’d do right by you and that means giving up club ass. HOWEVER, that meant I haven’t had pussy in almost a month while you were healing. After having your fucking mouth on me, it was either me coming or me fucking kicking up my dick.”
Kicking up his dick? “It’s toes. Your toes are pointed up when you go, so—”
“My dick was pointed up, too, so I prefer that.”
“Okay.” She glanced at the length of his body, not surprised to find him semi-erect. Now that the edge was taken off, maybe, he’d allow her to practice sucking his dick. She bent her head and he made the same choking noise he had earlier while his dick popped up to the sky. “Oh my God, pig,” she said, losing patience and flopping back. “You’d think you’d behave so I can learn to suck your cock right since you like head so much.”
“I do, Puff. I’m trying, I mean. But, fuck, I’ve fucked other bitches and had them suck me off pretending it was you blowing me—”
He snapped his mouth shut at her dirty look.
“The fucking point is,” he grouched, “now that you’re putting your mouth on me, my balls get so fucking tight and I just have to come.” He caressed her cheek, tenderness in his eyes. “I never thought I’d have my dick in your mouth, babe. Never.”
Zoann snapped her brows together and frowned. A romantic Matthew. Of course, she couldn’t have lived another day without such poetic musings. Rolling her eyes, she placed a finger over Matthew’s mouth. “I have an idea. I’m hungry, so why don’t you make love to me, then I cook dinner, and then we practice the fellatio and cunnilingus?”
It was Val’s turn to frown, but he shrugged. “No cooking, Puff. We’re having room service.”
“This is a cabin.”
“This is a mountain resort with fucking stand alone cabins,” he corrected, leaning on an elbow and taking a nipple into his mouth.
Surprised, she considered him for a moment. “You continue to amaze me.”
He threw her a one-eyed scowl. “Can I fucking amaze you after your tit is out of my mouth unless that’s the shit amazing you?”
“I just never thought you liked room service. I’m sorry.”
“Why the fuck you sorry? I don’t like room service. Don’t remember ever having it, either. I get on the road, make sure I got toilet paper, and find bushes for piss and shit stops.”
“You’re fucking gross.”
“Just keeping it real, babe. Now can I fuck you?”
She laughed. “Can we make love this time?”
“We can fuck like drunken baboons, Zoann,” he said impatiently. “Or make love like….like—”
“People who love each other?” she said quietly.
He stilled as if he hadn’t considered that.
“I trust you,” she continued in the same tone. “That’s why I’m willing to take you in my mouth and let you do the same to me. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Fuck. Now I do, although I hadn’t thought about it before.”
Zoann smiled and thumbed his lips, squealing when he pulled her on top of him.
He cupped her ass and rocked against her. “We’re making love, but there are no rules as to how the fuck to do it. Making love Val-style is you riding the fuck out of my dick.”
Positioning herself, she wiggled down on his cock. “Ride a cowboy, save a horse?”
“Nope. Ride a biker, preserve a Harley.”
She laughed and lost herself to the sensations rocketing through her body.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lured by the smell of liver and onions, Mortician headed to the kitchen and found Meggie poking a fork into the meat to test the readiness. He intended to ignore the sadness in her eyes. If he got too personal with her and Prez found out, that would be it for Mort. At least now, he’d have the excuse of worry to save his life. Shit was true. He was very worried about his friend.
Mortician always struggled with the sincerity of Prez’s words of love and devotion for Meggie. He knew what that type of love felt like, but he didn’t believe hardened motherfuckers like them could actually experience it. If they did, they certainly couldn’t maintain it.
Now, he didn’t know what to think. Prez insisted whatever he and Meggie were going through was their business, but he’d planned a party for the next night, complete with the Bobs and a bunch of other rowdy fucking bitches.
Maybe, Mort had been right all along. Who knew? And, maybe, his prez was so out-of-sorts about everything, he was about to fuck up his marriage.
The door flapped closed and Meggie glanced in his direction. She smiled, her attempt to mask her sadness failing.
“Hey.”
Her trademark greeting. “Meggie girl,” he responded with a nod.
She wiped her hands on her yoga pants, then turned to the refrigerator. “I made vodka and skittles in a bunch of different colors,” she tossed over her shoulder and opened one of the doors, filling her arms with five half-pints. She sat the brightly colored vodka on the counter and frowned. “I forgot to tell you, didn’t I? Gypsy was bragging about how good this stuff was and I thought about you. I know how much you love vodka and—“
Mortician raised his hand to shut her up. Whenever nerves overtook her, she rattled on forever. Given all that had happened, he understood her skittishness and placed part of the blame right on Val’s shoulders. He grabbed the bottle filled with the orange liquid, opened it, and sniffed, unable to resist a swig at the delicious smell. “Fuck, that’s good.”
She smiled again, her attention back on the food. “Are you hungry?”
“For liver and onions? Always.”
“I think I cooked too much. I went out and asked who wanted to eat and if any of the other brothers would stop in, but almost everyone is gone now.”
Including her husband.
“Motherfuckers don’t like liver too much.”
She lined up serving dishes on the butcher block table and grabbed a pot. “Christopher does.”
“Me, too. So does John Boy.”
Which she already knew. She’d made it a point to find out what each of the brothers liked. Some of them stopped in at the club on their way to their houses, after leaving their “regular” jobs. Others came just to hang out. If there was ever any chance a brother would be eating at the club, Meggie would ask what types of meals they liked. She knew about their lives, their women, and their children, and remembered the shit.
In silence, he helped her dish out her food, an item from of the food groups, which they teased her to no end about. Even Prez. Or he had.
“Let me set the food out and I’ll bring you your plate.”
“Me and you eating in here. I need to talk to you.”
She licked her lips but nodded. She scampered in and out, carrying the dishes, utensils, napkins, and, finally, the food, catching Mort in the midst of stealing tastes, especially the smothered onions, and shooing him away. Once she had everything in place on the bar, Mort hovered in the door
way while she interacted with the handful of brothers who were there, bullying Slipper and Cowboy into eating the vegetables.
After half an hour of her serving beer, shoving napkins into their hands, and apologizing for not having dessert, Mortician beckoned her back. He was fucking hungry, not to mention annoyed as a motherfucker with Prez.
He waited until she scooted under his arm and back into the kitchen before removing himself from the doorway and following behind her. He kept the orange skittle infused vodka out, sat it on the table, then pointed to the stool for her to sit.
“I will, but I have to get our plates, then get CJ and Ryan from Arrow to feed them and get them ready for bed.”
“Rest your nerves. All you been fucking doing is moving since I walked in.”
She shrugged. “If I don’t move, things won’t get done.”
“If you fall the fuck out from exhaustion, things won’t get fucking done, either,” he countered. He pointed to the stool again. “Sit.”
She didn’t respond. She meekly followed his order. Fuck, this so wasn’t Meggie. Arranging the words in his head that he intended to say to her, he made up their plates and then joined her at the table, grabbing her hand to say grace.
“What?” he asked, cutting into a tender piece of liver.
“You pray,” she stated, curiosity brimming in her eyes.
He stabbed the piece of meat and then pointed the knife at her. “Only Bailey know that bullshit. Don’t tell that to nobody.”
She made a sign of the cross and raised her right hand. “My lips are sealed. I swear.”
Not answering, he stuck the tip of the knife between his lips and tugged the meat off, chewing in contentment. “Eat,” he said. She hadn’t touched her food.
She made a face. “I’m not hungry.”
He grabbed his vodka and guzzled, enjoying the sweet harshness of it. “Want some?” he asked, holding the bottle out to her.
“No. I don’t drink hard liquor too often.”
Well, that shit was news. He didn’t think she drank it at all. Perfect segue. “You drinking at the party tomorrow night?”
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 156