Cyrus (The Henchmen MC Book 9)

by Jessica Gadziala

  "I, ah, I think I can handle that," I mumbled, brain trying to catch up.

  "Alright, let's go before I get any ideas," he declared, gently pushing me onto my own feet as he stood.

  Ideas.

  Yeah, no. We wouldn't want him getting any of those.

  Right?

  Normally, I would obsess about that for a while, but then Cy's hand was slipping into mine, and pulling me through my apartment, hauling my big, super girly luggage in his other hand like it was no big deal.

  And, quite frankly, if I was getting a day with Cyrus as my, um, more-than-friend, then I didn't want to waste a single second of it not being fully present to enjoy it.

  The train into the city was pretty much full of people-watching, looking out the window, telling Cyrus about the authors I was excited to see when prompted, and desperately trying not to let on just how affected I was by his hand on my knee, occasionally moving around, tracing the shape of it, giving it gentle squeezes.

  I didn't want it to end, but then the train was pulling into Penn Station, and instead of rubbing my knee, he was lacing his fingers between mine and, yeah, that was just as good in my humble opinion.

  Now, you have to understand something about me to truly get what followed next.

  I grew up poor.

  Not with an average paycheck-to-paycheck household.

  Not just not being able to have name brand school clothes.

  Not just having no computer in the house.

  No.

  I mean there was more than one occasion when we had no lights, when the water got shut off for a day or two, when we all had to be quiet and pretend we weren't home when the landlord showed up and mom was three months behind on payments.

  There was no money for new sneakers every year, let alone vacations.

  So I had never really been exposed to anything grand before.

  Walking into the lobby of the hotel was like falling through the rabbit hole, it was like going through the wardrobe, it was like walking into the halls of Hogwarts.

  It was a completely different world from one I had ever seen before.

  I actually pulled Cyrus to a stop because he had kept walking, and I had stood frozen, completely and utterly transfixed by the gleaming tile floors, the vibrant golden wallpaper, the thick pillars, the mesmerizing, enormous glass chandeliers. Yes, plural. From where I stood, I could see four of them. But I had a feeling there were more.

  To the sides, there were low, brown leather couches and black coffee tables, flanked by healthy mini trees. To the front, there was a low, golden service desk with funky reddish wall art behind it, and two attendants immaculately dressed in suits.

  "Ree, you alright?" he asked, watching me with almost worried eyes.

  "This... this place is..." I shook my head, trying to clear it of my awe. "It's beautiful," I supplied, knowing that word didn't do it justice, but at a loss for anything better.

  His smile went soft at that, giving my hand a squeeze.

  "Wait till you see the room. And the dining hall."

  "Have you been here before?" I asked as he pulled me toward the check-in.

  "Once," he agreed, then launched into an explanation about the remote check-in to the attractive man at the desk, and was given the keycards to the room.

  And so what? Maybe I was taken aback by the gosh darn elevators too. And the hallways. And the cool cleaning carts I saw here and there.

  What can I say, when it came to real life, I hadn't seen much, so I was incredibly easy to please.

  "Go on," Cy said, pressing the keycard into my hand. "You know you want to."

  Of course I did.

  So, right there, with Cyrus at my side, I opened my first hotel room door ever.

  He wasn't wrong, either.

  It was gorgeous.

  Not quite as over-the-top awe-inspiring as the lobby, but still stunning.

  But the first thing I noticed was two beds. Two beautiful beds with white sheets, pillows, and white tufted headboards, with three separate nightstands. But two beds.

  My gaze went to Cyrus, finding him watching me. At my questioning eyes, he shrugged. "No pressure here, Reese."

  And I was pretty sure my heart melted right then and there.

  He was just so gosh darn dreamy.

  Yes, dreamy.

  That was the only word.

  "Are we just gonna chill in the hall all day, angel?" he asked, making me move inward, looking at the other parts of the room. Like the understated brown carpet, the big flatscreen and dresser across from the beds, the small seating area with a table to look out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city.

  Just inside the door, there was another door to the left, leading into the bathroom that had a shower enclosure made of tile and stone floor, with a floor-to-ceiling all glass door. And, oh dear, sweet God. The tub. The tub was the stuff of dreams. It was in the center of the room, deep enough to sink under the water fully if you wanted to, white, and not jetted. I wasn't a fan of jets. They made me anxious.

  I didn't know how or when, but I needed to get into that tub.

  "I'm taking this one," Cy declared as he sat down at the end of the bed closer to the door. "It's customary."

  "Customary?" I asked as I moved over toward the other bed.

  "Manners and shit. Man walks on the side of the road that is closest to the street. And he sleeps closer to the door. Or so someone once told me."

  That someone was me.

  And I learned about it in a historical novel.

  And brought it up when we were in The Creamery people-watching, and a girl was walking near the street in a pretty white sundress, only to get splashed when a truck went by, making it not only dirty, but see-through. While her man on the store side stayed clean and dry. Then, because he hadn't looked at me like I was nuts in explaining that, I went on to say that a man sleeps closer to the door in case of an intruder.

  "You have a good memory."

  "Hey, I'm not all just good looks," he said with a smirk. "Well, I'm about ninety-seven-point-five percent good looks, but that other two-point-five still counts." He watched me as I moved toward the windows, looking out on the city that was more frenzied than anything I had seen before, even from so far above it all. "So, are you the type of freak who has to unpack and hang her shit in hotel closets, or can we go explore?"

  I turned, smiling. "I kept a book in my fish cabinet, do you really think I'm that kind of neat-freak?" I asked as he moved to stand. "I want to explore."

  So then we explored.

  We walked out onto the streets, and Cyrus waved a hand, declaring, "The world is yours."

  And, for that entire day, it truly was.

  We walked past a closed-off street where they were filming an episode of a show I watched. We ate soft pretzels off carts because I wanted to keep seeing things, not stop to eat. We wound up at The Museum Of Natural History, skirting carts and melting-down kids, Cyrus insisting on buying me a giant replica of Knightley from one of the three separate gift shops there.

  By the time we made it back onto the streets, Cy with Knighty-Knight (his choice) tucked under his arm like it was no big deal, me tucked under his other arm like I always belonged right there, it was starting to get dark.

  "So the question is, food somewhere out here in the great big yonder, food in the hotel restaurant, or food in bed while in pajamas?"

  I turned my head to smile up at him. "Was that really even a question?"

  And it wasn't until I got back into the hotel, after dragging my bag with me into the bath, and taking a quick soak before the food arrived, that I realized, in my haste, I hadn't packed pajama bottoms. To add to this dilemma, unfortunately, my pajama shirts were not of the long variety either.

  I dried the rest of the way off, shimmying into some panties, shrugging on the tee I did have, then throwing one of the fluffy, white hotel room robes on, and belting it.

  Sleeping in a robe was going to be a chore, but it w
ould work. I just had to find a way to sneak into a store the next day to get a pair of sweatpants for the next night.

  "I think the dessert was overkill," Cy announced as I came out into the main room, the rich, hearty smell of pasta sauce mingled with the decadence of chocolate making my belly grumble, reminding me that I had only eaten a hot pretzel so far that day.

  "Dessert is never overkill," I objected, opening the top to my plate of lasagne which had been hideously overpriced, but kind of smelled like it was worth it.

  "Alright, pick a movie," he declared, reaching for the remote.

  "I've picked everything all day. Pick your favorite movie."

  I almost instantly regretted that, wondering if maybe his favorite movie involved a lot of gratuitous violence and explicit sex scenes that would be, ah, problematic.

  Not because I didn't want to go there with Cyrus; of course I did. But just because we hadn't gone there yet, and watching it would just make me all squirrelly inside.

  But, he saved me by picking some baseball movie I had seen while flicking through the channels but never stopped to watch.

  Thankfully, Major League did not have intense violence or explicit sex scenes, and I was scraping my chocolate cake plate clean by the time the edits were rolling.

  "So," Cy said, as he came back from putting the cart out. "This thing starts at ten tomorrow. You want to get up and cram something in early? Or do you want to sleep in?" he asked as he kicked out of his shoes, and went rummaging through his small bag.

  I leaned back in the bed, body aching in weird places thanks to using muscles I was sure had long since taken up residence in a body that would actually use them. "Um, have you felt these mattresses?" I asked, smiling a little lazily, feeling the day of walking catching up to me. "We're sleeping in."

  "Sounds good to me," he agreed, moving off into the bathroom to shower.

  I tried.

  I swear I did.

  I tried really, really hard not to think about him in there.

  Naked.

  Under the stream.

  Beads of water slipping down his chest, between the muscles of his abs, sneaking lower to his...

  Okay.

  I had to focus.

  I was in a beautiful hotel room in a bustling city. I did not need to be thinking about abs and happy trails and...

  Oh, it was useless.

  So I went ahead and turned off my light, climbed under the covers, and thought about it.

  Thought about it all.

  In exquisite detail.

  Until I was so turned on by just my imaginings that when he came out of the bathroom with a small cloud of smoke shirtless with his heavy black sweatpants slung low, yeah, I may have actually let out a little whimpering noise.

  What can I say?

  It was all just too much.

  At the sound, Cy's gaze moved in my direction for a second, eyes a little bedroom-sexy, but then he looked away, going to the other light to turn it off, leaving just a small nightlight type of thing on near the door.

  A bit uncomfortable with the silence - and possibly embarrassed about my whimper - I was the one to speak first.

  "Goodnight, Cyrus."

  He paused in pulling the sheets down, slowly turning to face me, then coming to my side of my bed. "Remember what I said about how we say good morning?" he asked.

  Could I ever forget?

  "Yeah."

  "Want to see how we say goodnight?"

  Was there even a way to say no to that?

  But, seemingly unable to form any coherent words right about then, all I could manage was a nod.

  That was all he needed, though.

  His hand reached out, snagging my sheets, and whipping them to the side. His finger moved down near my ankle, touching the skin just at the outside, then gently stroking upward. So slowly that goosebumps raised on my skin, and the pressure of desire on my lower stomach amplified by ten-thousand by the time his finger touched the side of my knee.

  "Would you be mad at me if I told you that I noticed while you were packing that you forgot PJ bottoms, but didn't say anything because I liked the idea of you without pants a whole hell of a lot more?"

  If I could muster the braincells to be mad, yeah, well, I probably still couldn't. Quite frankly, his fingers on my bare skin were a lot better than having the PJ pants I had planned on.

  Not able to find words as his fingers trailed from the outside of my knee toward the inside, I managed a small head shake as he parted the robe near my inner thigh, whispering over the sensitive, soft skin of my inner thigh. But lazily. Not in a rush. Happy with his unhurried exploration of my body.

  By the time his hand was near the highest part of my thigh, I could barely breathe through the heavy sensation in my chest.

  But instead of moving up and in, touching me where there was a throbbing need for attention, his hand moved out to my hip, then up to my stomach, working the tuck of my belt out, then reaching downward to spread the sides of the robe out on the bed.

  Then his knee moved to the outside of one thigh. Then the other moved between my legs.

  There was a long, expectant pause, me pretty much convinced he was about to pounce.

  But then he slowly lowered himself down over me, supporting his weight on his forearms, watching me, I think, for any sign of objection, before his lips sealed over mine.

  And, yeah, from there, it was all pure need. I kissed him back hard, until his perpetual gentleness, his determination to keep being so, snapped, and his lips bruised into mine. My leg fought its imprisonment, moving out from between his legs, so both could wrap around his lower back, dragging him against where I needed him most.

  There it was again. That low, rumbling, growling noise that sent a pre-orgasm tightening between my legs as my thighs instinctively tightened, pulling his pelvis flush to mine.

  There was no way to keep the whimper in when I felt his hardness press into me, promise me things I wanted more than I had wanted anything in a long, long time.

  Hearing me, Cyrus released my lips, looking down at my face with heated eyes as he pulled back slightly, then ground his cock against me.

  My back arched as a moan escaped me, realizing for the first time how much I truly needed it, how long it had been, how close I already was from barely any contact.

  He pulled back again, then pressed against me, his cock hitting my clit, almost making me see white right then and there.

  But just when my hips started working against him, begging for more, he pulled against my hold, and moved to lay on his side beside my body. I could still feel his hardness against my thigh, and his hand moved out to rest in the center of my belly.

  "Ree," he called, voice a little rough. My head turned, finding him watching me. "There you are. Just want to see your face when I do this," he declared. Then his hand wasn't on my belly, it was between my thighs, pressing down on me through the wet material of my panties.

  At the tail end of my moan, I could hear Cy's ragged breath hiss out of him.

  But then his finger found my clit through my panties, and started working it. Not quickly, but determinedly, not slowing or softening, giving me the perfect, consistent touch that had the orgasm crashing violently through my system less than two minutes later.

  His hand moved to rest on my thigh, giving it a little squeeze.

  But he said nothing.

  And, suddenly, orgasm-sated, the silence was feeling uncomfortable for me. Maybe it was because it was so one-sided. Or maybe it was just because it had been so long that I was starting to forget how to navigate the after-sexy-times small talk.

  Oh, who am I kidding? I never knew how to navigate any kind of small talk.

  Thankfully, Cyrus always seemed to know when to step in and save me.

  "And that, my dear bookworm, is how we say goodnight."

  So we said goodnight.

  And he kissed my temple.

  He threw an arm around my belly.

  He snuggle
d into the space between my shoulder and side of my head.

  Then he fell asleep.

  A couple minutes (okay, hours) of enjoying that later, I fell asleep as well.

  And it was officially the best night of my life.

  You know, until the next one.

  TWELVE

  Cyrus

  I'd been to New York countless times.

  Any concert worth seeing took place there.

  From the brick-walled and black-accented Mercury Room to the three floor metal and black Terminal 5 to the somewhat gaudy, modern decor of Webster Hall, and on and on and on, you name a venue, I had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with other music enthusiasts, just getting a high off that energy that you could only ever get when you saw your favorite musicians live.

  Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one alone, I had probably spent more time in the city than at home.

  I had been in every dank, dark, filthy bar, every upscale, pricey as fuck sushi joint, every kinky sex club, every museum, half of the clubs. If you were young and thirsty for experiences, well, you didn't exactly get them in Navesink Bank. Especially when you had an overprotective mother who had kept you on a choker collar your entire life, terrified you would end up like your father.

  Don't get me wrong, I loved my mother, but there had always been a strain there, always been a bit of resentment at how she talked about our father after his death, how she belittled his memory when, in reality, he had been good. Maybe not a good man. He had done an unknown amount of bad things in his time, I was sure, under Reign's father's rule. But he had been an excellent provider, a loving father, and while maybe he hadn't been a devoted husband, had always given our mother respect, had always backed her up with whatever she wanted to do.

  Hell, I once remember her throwing a fit at him about being fed up and needing to get away - from him, from us - and he gave her ten grand and told her to go refresh for as long as she wanted. Of course, that meant that me, Reeve, and Wasp were taken to The Henchmen compound to live for three months, which was where Reign taught me how to throw a ball, where Vin taught me how to shoot, where Wasp first learned how to do a solar plexus strike when she wanted someone to get the fuck away from her.