Another day Brendan came into the store without either of the two girls. He leaned over the counter and said, “I’ve something to tell you, Cara.” Brendan’s dark eyes burned, his lips were red and there was whiskey on his breath.
Not a whiskey of the quality that Cara stocked, though, “You’re a fine looking woman. I’m sure you must have been told that a thousand times over, but it’s true. You are a very fine looking woman.”
Cara said, “That’s very kind of you, Brendan.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s all bollocks, Cara, but it’s sweet of you to say so all the same. But that isn’t what I wanted to tell you.”
“No?”
“No, Cara, that’s just by way of an introduction to the topic. It’s a kind of a preamble, if you get my meaning.”
“Ah.” Cara looked in Brendan’s eye, although it did present a moving target, and she told him, “You have come into my store, where I sell a range of fine whiskeys, and you have, I think, partaken of whiskeys of a quite different standard. And you came here to tell me something, you said?”
Brendan’s nose wrinkled. “ Cara, would you take a walk with me? I could show you the flowers by the brook. Do you ever get down by the brook?”
Her lips thinned, “Brendan, you are a charming man, and it is quite flattering for a girl to be asked out walking, but my time is all taken up with running and taking care of my little business here.” She held his eye. She thought about whether to add, and a girl likes to be asked by a man who knows what he’s saying and not only what the spirit from a bottle might provoke him to say, but she didn’t.
His eyes darkened, “It’s always the same with you people. My kind are just never good enough for you.” He turned on his heel and marched noisily out of the door.
Cara didn’t want to make an enemy of Brendan, nor of the gypsies, but she knew that if she encouraged his attention by the tiniest amount that he would simply make it harder and harder to deflect. And there were parts of her that didn’t want to deflect him. Some quite distinct parts.
One morning, without thinking about it or knowing why, Cara picked out a light, soft, flowing red dress. The fabric hugged and draped off her curves. Wearing it felt like the first day of spring. Finally her accounts looked to be showing a steady improvement and when she awoke she had heard birds singing.
Cara could not have said what it was that had really prompted her to smooth the lush red cotton over her womanly form that morning. Neither could she have explained why she turned in the mirror for a little longer than usual, rather than simply putting on the black skirt and blouse that she had pressed the night before.
That afternoon in the store, the bubbles of conversation among the ladies faltered when a big motorcycle engine roared in the distance. In the distance, but growing unmistakably louder.
Cara could see all of the women thinking, Oh, but it can’t be coming here. Some touched their necks. Some touched their chests. Mrs. Barstow swished her skirt. Cara remained professionally impassive.
Lines crossed the ladies faces but sparkles awoke their eyes as they plainly struggled between hoping that it wasn’t coming here, and really hoping that it was.
The roar grew louder. It crackled through and around the streets of the small town. The rumble made windows and crockery shake. Rasped as it grew louder still. And then it stopped.
There was a silence.
The air in the room jumped as the door sprang open. The bell tinkled and a matching jingle came from the heavy boots of the visitor. In the doorway stood a man in dark sunglasses, wearing a heavy black motorcycle jacket and blue denim jeans.
He started into the store, but he stopped as soon as he saw Cara. He stood tall, his feet apart. An unruly shock of thick silver hair crowned his chiseled features.
His eyes, deep lapis blue, shone over his shades and across the room. Cara smiled. “What can I show you?”
“Nothing at all.” His voice was deep and strong and Cara’s stomach fell. She had to fight the urge to reach for her hair or chew her lip. The performance of shop-keeping, the studied formality usually came effortlessly to her, she never gave it a thought.
He pulled off the sunglasses. Now she bristled with urges to fidget, to tip her head coquettishly. She didn’t. She kept her poise, held herself tall and straight, and held his eye. As he held hers.
The man said, “I can see what I want.”
The chains on his boots jingled like spurs and the floor shook as he strode to the counter and stopped in front of Cara. She tingled in unexpected places, and her juices welled up.
The intake of breath from the bustling ladies almost masked the noise of Brendan and the two gypsy girls slipping in through the door. Cara’s emporium hadn’t been this crowded since – well, since ever.
Brendan called from the doorway, with the two flame-haired beauties in front of him, “Is that man giving you trouble, Cara?” There was more brogue in his voice than usual, and the rhythm of his speech seemed uncertain.
The biker’s eyes stayed on Cara as she said, “No, not at all Brendan. Now, what is it that you want?”
“Oh, that’s a nice way to greet your customers,” Brendan said,
“Well, Brendan, you aren’t really a customer, are you. You’re a visitor who comes into the Emporium, but that isn’t quite the same thing.”
The ladies shuffled, bustled and cooed, their heads twitching from side to side.
Brendan told his girls, “Why don’t you go and pick yourselves out a few chocolates, while I have a word with Cara here.”
The girls hesitated and Cara said, “Brendan, will you be paying for those chocolates?” and at that, the girls became still. Brendan said,
“Well, I shall be in time, no doubt.” Smiling, Cara said,
“So that will be the time to choose them. The chocolates are so much better when they’re fresh. The temper goes off if they’re left too long. They blush.”
The biker was still looking into Cara’s eyes, watching her. Studying her. Brendan came over to the counter. He wasn’t as tall as the biker, and his breath seemed as though it could be flammable, but he was broad, heavy and strong. Brendan said, “Ah, well you could just front me up a couple of panatelas, then, and we’ll be on our way.”
Cara said, “Brendan, you know that I’m not going to front you anything. Now I think maybe that it’s best if you leave.” It was then that she noticed, as well as the spirit of bravery on Brendan’s breath, the small knot of gypsies gathered outside the Emporium, their breath misting on the glass and mischievous glimmers lighting in their eyes.
“Okay, Brendan,” Cara said, stepping around from behind the counter, “I think it really is time for you to leave.”
“Ah, don’t get all stuffy on me, Cara,” Brendan took hold of Cara’s hand in both of his.
Immediately the big hand of the biker was on Brendan’s throat, and he said quietly, “You heard the lady’s polite invitation to you to leave.” Brendan’s neck reddened as his face drained pale.
There was a burr in the biker’s voice as he went on evenly, “I won’t use such nice manners. If I have to tell you, I’ll give you an injury to help you to remember.” The gypsies outside on the street were starting to slip through the door and inside.
The biker’s hand stretched under Brendan’s jaw. His thumb and forefinger pinched up under Brendan’s ears. Brendan’s eyes widened when the biker squeezed. Brendan choked.
Holding him that way, the biker pulled Brendan towards the door and the gypsies all scattered back out into the street. It looked as though Brendan was going to be thrown. By the jaw. But the biker simply held the door open for him, and Brendan slunk out under the biker’s arm.
Brendan turned to make a parting remark, but licked his lips and changed his mind when he looked into the biker’s face. Then he and the other gypsies all melted away into the gathering dusk.
The ladies voices all broke immediately into a gaggling babble. Cara looked at the biker as she said,
“I’m closing now, ladies. I’m quite sure that you understand.” The biker remained by the door to hold it open for them as they all bustled out.
He looked at her, across the shining glass and mahogany and he said, “Closing. I hope you are you open for me.”
As the door drifted closed behind the last of the ladies and the little bell jingled he said, “You aren‘t afraid of the gypsies, are you. I wonder if you’re afraid of anything”
Cara said, “Do you?”
He said, “Lock up. Come with me.”
She said, “Where will we go?”
Again he said, “Come with me,” and when he held out his hand, she went with him.
He took her hand and led her to the huge bike that slouched insolently by the curb. She looked up to him, shielding her eyes against the low evening sun as he handed her a helmet.
His eyes went to the helmet’s chinstrap and she said, “It’s not my first time on a bike,” they both smiled and she told him, “I know how to do this.”
He said, “I’m sure you do.” So, she noted, they had already established some wordless communication. In just a few minutes they had the beginning of an unspoken language, and a way of saying something out loud, when they both knew that they were talking about something else underneath.
The sprung rear saddle on the Harley seemed impossibly low to Cara, but it was higher than the front seat, so her knees were either side of the biker’s waist. Cara was tempted to squeeze her legs together around him. She wanted to know how firm his body was, and how hot it was.
She wanted to feel his ribs, his stomach, his hips. With her legs. She realized it had been a long time since she rode on a motorcycle. But the passenger’s part, riding the back, that wasn’t so hard.
All you had to do was to put your complete trust in the rider. He didn’t wear a helmet. He must have given her the only one.
When he spun the engine into life, the machine growled and shook like a powerful beast awakening. The springs in the saddle softened and delayed the powerful vibration that rocked under Cara.
As he put the bike into gear and pulled out onto the road, the insistent thrum beneath Cara’s seat rose to a hard, steady pulse. The bike swayed and wove along the road as it curved upwards into the hills and through the pine forest. Cara held his body, pulled herself close to him.
The sky turned a dark velvety blue as the stars lit up and the bike rose steadily above the tree line. Near the summit, the moon rose from behind the hill, and the shimmering pattern of roads and towns spread across the valley below like a blue silk carpet.
The huge motorcycle followed his direction, given with an easy certainty by the rolling sway of his shoulders and his back, and the swing of his snake-like hips. Her hands on his ribs felt his body command and control the bike, as though it were a part of him, as though they were one.
The motorcycle engine beat under her saddle with a firm, relentless insistence. Riding up the slope of the tall hill with the vibration under Cara’s seat, the wind up her skirt and the man clasped between her thighs, Cara became moist. And hot.
He stopped the cycle on the edge of a high, sweeping overlook.
The large rock made a perfect spot to sit and to enjoy the view. When he pulled a blanket from the bike’s pannier, Cara looked at him sideways and said, “Don’t get ideas, biker.”
He told her, “Relax. The rock is cold, and pretty dirty. You can ruin that nice dress if you want, but I thought this would be more comfortable.”
She asked him, “Have you been here many times before?”
“I’ve seen this spot, passed by many times, and I’ve thought about it often.” As he spread the thick blanket over the rock, he looked up and she believed him when he said, “This is the first time that I’ve stopped.” The thick blanket turned the flat, wide rock into a comfortable bench.
The spot gave a perfect view over the lower hills, the town and the valley. They sat and they talked, easily. Thinking back later, Cara could hardly remember what they had talked about, only that they were quiet, easy in each other’s company, and he was close and respectful.
His fingers touched her arm and her hand gently. His hand brushed easily on her shoulder and comforted her on her waist. When his hand rested on her thigh, they both realized that her hand was on his leg, too. That was the moment.
Their mouths were close. She tasted his breath and he felt her warmth. Felt her breath fill her chest and catch in her throat. When their necks craned gently together they smiled. They both knew from the start, they had known all along, and they knew how it would feel. They were close to the point of chuckling and their warm, wet lips were so close that she could taste him.
Still Cara was shocked by the power and intensity of her own response, by how forcefully her feelings rumbled, and by how close to the surface they were. How ready, how eager they were to break through. This could not be right, could it?
She was so relaxed in his company, so easy with him and yet her short breaths and the tightness of her chest told her, now! Between her thighs Cara felt such a yearning, such an ache. Such need. Her fingers trembled as she touched his cheek, traced his strong jaw to his chin and ran down his neck.
Their mouths knew each other straight away. Their tongues carried the feelings to each other from deep down at their cores. Still, she knew, he held back, waited for her to set the pace.
Her breath quivered as she pulled him tight to her. Her body wanted him. All of her wanted all of him. He laid his hand gently on her breast. She didn’t know that she could want so very hard.
Had she not noticed her nipples hardening, chafing inside her bra? Had the heat risen so high at the tops of her thighs, had she become so wet without realizing it?
Was she really ready?
He kissed her neck and her throat, and on down to her breast. She undid the buttons of his thick shirt. Shocks of excitement flew up her arms and all through her body as her hands found the ripples of his firm chest and stomach. The rock they lay and stretched upon was smooth beneath the blanket.
Her lips parted and her eyes shone as softly he slipped her red dress down over her shoulders and cupped her breasts in his hands. His eyes blazed.
He unbuttoned her dress and slid it softly off her and he released her from her bra as his hot mouth went to her breasts. His strong tongue circled her nipples, making them harden and ache. His tender lips took her tips in turn and her body sang as he sucked on each zinging bud.
Her hands slid into his jeans and stroked him through the soft white cotton beneath. Then inside. She squeezed the strong tops of his thighs and the thrilling muscles of the globes of his rolling buttocks.
He stood and she lifted her hips for him to slide her panties down over her thighs and off.
He laid her down and awoke her with his mouth, his tongue and the instinct of his firm, knowing rhythm. She gave herself with an elemental force, into the muscular, generous greed of his mouth.
The strength and weight of his body made her sigh beneath him. He sheltered her and kept her safe as his body joined with hers and she opened for him. His strong, hard force found her in her soft, warm, darkness.
Their bodies wrapped explored and entwined with each other. They rolled like waves, danced, drummed, pulsed, swelled and beat together. Their fingers and hands coaxed and urged each other.
His lips and his mouth adored and worshipped her body.
His tongue called her out, took her to the edge, lapped at the shore of her bay, pressed and carried her past the trembling, brimming undertow overflows to the storming, rolling, cresting crashes, splashes and ecstatic dashes.
His lips and his tongue played from her wet lips to her buzzing, throbbing little bud. Then into the soft, deep tunnel inside her like the baton of a conductor, ruling an orchestra to play ancient, familiar, slow building music.
His lips and his tongue took her and drove her to deep chasms and rolling, bursting crests. His mouth stayed with her as she quivered and moaned, as sh
e ebbed and subsided.
She found him, too. Took her strength from his dark, thrilling primal scents, from the velvety skin over ridges of sinew and hot, hard flesh. She tasted him, took him inside her, fed on him and had him fill her. Her red tresses spilled like a waterfall into his lap, over the knotted muscle his strong thighs.
His body became the focus for her rising hunger. When he lay on top of her, she pressed her breasts against his hard, wide chest. Her hips tilted to him as she felt his huge, hard bulb press at her aching, swollen wet lips. She felt the heat of his breath in her ear as he asked her, “Are you ready? Are you sure that you want this?”
She searched his watery eyes as her legs knotted around him. She pushed her hips at his and she gasped as she brought him inside. He breathed her name as she pulled him inside and he entered. Her legs knotted behind his waist and she clasped her arms around his neck. She rocked her wet need hard along the hot rail of his flesh.
Her petals enfolded him, drew him in, wrapped and gripped him. Suckled greedily on him. Thrills rippled through her each time her soft buttocks met the tops of his hot, hard thighs.
He knew when to call her on with tenderness, when to stretch and to strain against her strength, and when she needed his force to overcome her, to take her, to thrash and to make her his. Their glistening bodies in the mountain moonlight made a mounting, moaning mass of clawing, devouring need.
Finally he lifted her, held her by her thighs, resting her back against the mossy trunk of an ancient tree as he drove her to ride him. Over his shoulder she saw the lights of the town, the valley, the ocean beyond, and in front of her, his face. In all, her past, her present and maybe her future. She looked into his eyes and saw his growing, urgent need.
They climbed and wound around and into each other, and he rode her finally to a massive, ascending race where she clawed and bit and screamed to the finish. Her body clenched and bucked on his and inside she exploded in a boiling ocean of bursting stars.
They sat close, looking out over the valley. From their rock, high on the hill, the only distinct sounds were the sounds of trees, of grass and creatures. The sounds of the natural world at night. And Cara felt more a part of the natural world than she had at any moment before.
Three Hitmen: A Triple Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 2) Page 48