by Naomi West
He presses his lips against mine and for a second my world splits apart. His lips are rough, almost completely dry, and feel so good my body gives itself to him straight away. I can’t help it. My nipples go hard and my clit throbs and my pussy gets so wet I can feel it in my panties. It’s not just a kiss. It’s making real what I’ve fantasized about for two days. I’m not just kissing Rocco the man. I’m kissing the shirtless picture Cecilia showed me in the mall. I lean my body against his, my breasts squashing flat against the leather of his jacket, my nipples brushing against the material. Both of us are panting through the kiss, breathing onto each other.
He puts his hand on my leg, high up on my thigh. I know that if I’m going to stop this, now is the moment. After this, I won’t be able to. I tell myself that I’ll regret this when I’m sober, but I’m not even sure if that’s true. And if it is, who cares? I won’t regret it now. That’s the point. Sometimes now has to trump tomorrow, otherwise what’s the point?
He slides his hand further up my leg, his pinkie brushing against my clit as he grips my thigh hard. I break off the kiss, breathing heavily. I’ve never had a man grab my leg like this. Just by the way he touches me I know he’s not nervous, not like other men, who’ll weakly rub my leg, watching me carefully for my response. Rocco’s grabbing just for the sheer pleasure of grabbing. It feels so good, my pussy starts to ache. I need him to touch me, really touch me.
I place my hand on his crotch, rubbing up and down, feeling his hardness beneath his jeans. He’s rock-hard, a hard pack of an erection squashed into the denim. I fiddle with the zip and pull it down around his lower thighs, and then wedge his underwear beneath his balls. His cock springs up, huge, so big I lean back for a second. What is it—ten inches, more? I swallow, nervous for a moment, but then he clamps down his hand on my pussy, his middle and ring finger pressing down so hard on my clit I don’t have the capacity to be nervous. I don’t have the capacity to be anything other than horny.
I grab his cock, a vein pressing against my palm, and rub it up and down as he aggressively massages my pussy, pushing down on my clit like a button, being rough because he can’t stop himself. I know without having to look at him. He’s as far gone as I am. He pulls down my tights to my knees, and then yanks down my underwear so quickly it tears and stretches. Then he slides his middle finger inside of my soaking wet pussy, all the way to the knuckle, and I have to bite down to stop myself from screaming. A detached part of me thinks: the rough biker whose picture I saw has his finger inside of me; this is real, this is really happening.
He moves his fingers in circles around my sweet spot, probing deep, deep inside of me, as I jerk his cock up and down, listening to his growling moans.
“You feel so fucking good,” he whispers, his breath caressing my ear as he leans into my neck. “You feel fuckin’ perfect.”
I shift my hips up and down, moving them in circles, riding his finger. “You’re so big,” I moan. “Oh, you’re so big.”
I’m shocked at myself. I never usually talk during moments like this. I suppose I’m never passionate enough.
“Are you gonna come on my finger?” he whispers, moving his finger quicker, my sweet spot getting hotter and hotter with each movement.
It’s as if his words trigger something inside of me. My pussy boils and I feel an orgasm approaching, like a distant wave getting closer to shore. I nod vigorously, moaning as he strokes inside of me quicker and quicker. I close my eyes and watch the wave, feel it approaching in my body. My toes curl and my pussy goes tight, the insides of my eyelids turning red. I wrap my arms around his neck and dig my fingernails into his skin as the wave breaks on the shore. The orgasm pulses through me, starting at my pussy and traveling up and down my body, to the tips of my toes and fingers, the ecstasy making my nipples hot, my mouth full of tingling sensations. I twist my hips, forcing them down on his finger, riding the pleasure, consumed by it. I would scream if I wasn’t biting down on his leather jacket.
When the orgasm passes, both of us need each other. We don’t say it. We don’t have to. But it’s clear in the way we fall apart, tearing at our clothes, trying as quickly and efficiently as possible to get naked. Rocco pulls his leather over his head and tosses it to the floor. For a man who wears it even when his friends are wearing suits or shirts, throwing it away like that is a big deal. It’s like he wants me even more than he wants the sigil: a kneeling man surrounded by seven hellhounds, all barking at him with fire coming out of their mouths. I tear off my tights and hike my dress up. Rocco pulls down his jeans, kicking them over his boots.
He leaps at me, grabbing my ass cheeks as he turns me around so that I’m not facing him. “You’ve got the most perfect goddamn ass I’ve ever seen,” he says, voice trembling with lust. “You’re a fuckin’ angel.”
I want his cock in me so badly. I can’t remember a time when I wanted a man like this. I ache for him, even though I just had an orgasm. I bend over, baring my pussy, feeling more confident than I ever have in a situation like this. There’s no nervousness between me and him. I’m too horny for that. I just bend over, arching my back, waiting for his ten-inch cock to push into me.
He grabs my ass cheeks and slides in slowly, his massive cock spreading my lips. There’s a hint of pain at first, but the further he pushes, the more my pussy opens for him until there’s no pain at all. His cock is a rod of heat, every inch of it sending fire through my pussy. My sweet spot is engulfed. My entire pussy is engulfed.
“You feel so fuckin’ amazing.”
“Fuck me,” I whisper. “Fuck me—hard.”
Rocco doesn’t need to be asked again. He slides out of me fast, and then smashes into me faster. Soon I’m bucking as he pounds into me so hard I can’t feel any individual movement. All I can feel is the brutal speed of his thrusts, his balls slapping against my clit. He rams into me, deep, over and over, and I push back in time with his thrusts. I dig my fingernails into the fabric of the chair, pushing with all my force. He slides in at the perfect angle, right into my sensitive spot; each time the tip strokes it, another orgasm gets closer and closer to exploding.
We fuck like savage animals for ten minutes, both of us utterly taken by the pleasure. Anything could be happening outside the walls of the booth. The music pumps, but that’s all I hear. Otherwise, only the booth exists, only Rocco’s grunts and his hands rubbing and slapping my ass cheeks, only his wet cock sliding deep inside of me. I lean forward, biting down on the cushion. “I’m going to—” My voice is muffled. I close my eyes. I writhe on his cock. I push down so that my ass cheeks press flat against his abs.
And then it hits me, more intense than the last, an orgasm which claims my whole body, every inch of my skin alive to the pleasure of it, every inch of my pussy vibrating like I’m sitting on top of a washing machine. I twist my hips, moving them in circles, taking as much pleasure from this euphoric moment as I can. Rocco growls something in my ear, something about coming, and that makes me writhe with even more passion. I want us to come together. I want to feel his come dripping down my thigh with the aftermath of my orgasm still working its way through my body. He lets out one final gasp and then bites my ear, his breath moving over my face as he comes inside of me, his cock wilting even as he continues to drive hard into me.
Soon, we both fall aside, panting. Rocco sits on the chair, lifting his arm and gesturing for me to fall into him. I don’t have a problem with that. I’m smiling like a loon. Orgasm still kissing my body, I lay my head into the crook of his arm.
Chapter Nine
Rocco
“That was . . .”
I trail off because there aren’t words to describe what I just felt with Simone. Or if there are, I don’t have any clue what they’d be. I’ve never been a wordy kind of man. All I know is I enjoyed that more than I’ve ever enjoyed sex in my life. The alcohol has hit me now, making my head fuzzy, but I’m not even close to being too drunk. Comfortably drunk. Nicely drunk.
Simone look
s up at me, a cute smile on her face. She was right about her hair. The braids have come loose. It spills down her back. Her cheeks are flushed from the orgasms. I could feel her coming, her body twisting and her sweet singing filling the booth. “I know,” she says. “It really was.”
Outside, the party is still in full swing by the sounds of it. We should get up, get dressed, get out there. We shouldn’t stay in here long enough to make people suspicious. Not that I’d care. I’d go out there right now and tell everyone about us, but Simone might not want that. I reckon I’ve gotta be careful not to push it here . . . I let out a gruff laugh.
“What?” Simone asks.
“I just . . . I’ve never thought like this about a woman before.”
“Like what?”
“Like I care how you think of me.”
Simone smiles, and then moves away from me to start pulling on her tights. “I care how you think of me too, even if you’ve poisoned me with shots—” She covers her mouth with her hand. “You almost made me burp then, mister.”
I poke her in the belly. “Burp, then! Don’t be shy!”
“No!” she protests, giggling and sliding across the chair. “Stop it. You’re a madman.”
“True.” I nod. “But I never claimed I wasn’t.”
“Seriously.” She bats my hand away. “Quit it. Cecilia won’t be happy if we steal her thunder. Remember, this is her big night. Do you want to know how I know? She’s told me about one hundred times.”
“I guess we should get back out there,” I agree. I don’t want to, though. I’d much rather stay in here with Simone, stay here forever and just ignore everything else. Maybe we could get an en-suite bathroom installed and have our meals brought to us. Maybe we could just live here and the world could go to hell but we wouldn’t care.
I click my neck from side to side as I pull on my jeans, trying to remind myself of who I am. Maybe it’s the shots. I’m getting ahead of myself here. I try and tell myself it was just sex, that’s all, like I’ve had with other women on other nights. But watching Simone wriggle into her tights, shooting me a cute look, I can’t believe that.
Once we’re both dressed, we head for the booth door. “Rocco,” Simone says, just as I’m about to open it.
“Yes?”
“Do you . . .” She hesitates. “My hair!” she proclaims, turning away and searching for her clips on the floor.
I wait patiently as she rebinds her hair.
“That isn’t what you were gonna say, is it?”
“No,” she admits. “Do you think . . . ah! This is hard, you know.”
“What’s hard?”
She glances at my crotch. A silent joke passes between us. We both laugh.
Then she blurts out, “Are you going to sort of ignore me now?”
“Because we fucked?”
She nods.
It’s a fair question, I reflect. “No,” I tell her. “That’s the last thing I want to do.”
“Okay.” I can’t tell if she’s disappointed or pleased. She’s gone into a businesslike mode now, not touching me, making no move to be close to me. “Shall we get out there, then?”
I open the booth door and together we step into the bar.
When you’ve lived this life as long as I have, you pick up a second set of senses. Those senses are honed for telling you when to get the hell out of a situation, when to fight, when a job’s going south. As soon as I glance over the bar, I know something’s wrong. The air is different. The atmosphere has changed. And on top of that, there are around twenty-five more people in the club. That shouldn’t be a big deal. The club is open to the public. All night, there have been a few folks in the corners, or dancing on their own. Not everyone in here is a Seven Sinner. But now, with all these people . . . they’re all men, I notice, rough-looking men, men who don’t look too different to me.
“Are you okay?” Simone asks.
I look for Shotgun, a feeling of dread coming over me. He’s in the corner with Cecilia, drunker than I’ve ever seen him, shouting so loudly I can hear him over the music. Three men sit opposite him, three non-Sinner men.
“How does your sister look to you?” I ask Simone.
“Wow, yeah. I know what you mean. Drunk. Drunker than I’ve ever seen her.”
“Shotgun’s the same. Something’s wrong. Stay close to me. Whatever happens, don’t leave my side.”
“I’m scared.” She moves close to my shoulder.
I think about telling her to leave, but if these men really are Crooked Demons, they’ll have guards posted out front. I find Beast and Poker Face and Adams a couple of tables over from Shotgun, sitting down with three outlaw-looking men.
“Beast.”
“R-ko!” he calls, as drunk as Shotgun. His eyes are bloodshot. “Take a seat, why don’t you—”
I grab his arm and drag him to his feet, leading him away from the table. The three men watch me silently. “Who are these men?” I ask. “Why the fuck are you sittin’ down with them?”
“They gave us good drink, Rocco. Don’t be so paranoid all the time.”
“They spiked your drinks, you fuckin’ idiot. We need to get out of here. Look. Really look. Don’t see what you wanna see. They’re Crooked Demons. We’re near their turf, ain’t we? Or what they call their turf. We’ve pissed them off, we’re outnumbered, we’re in no goddamn position to defend ourselves. We need to leave.”
Beast’s eyes narrow. Even drunk, he’s a Sinner. “What do we do?” he says quietly.
“Act natural,” I tell him. “We need to get Shotgun out of here. Once that’s done, I’ll handle the Demons. Might be we have to pay them a fee for being here.”
“Rocco . . .”
“What else do you want?” I snap. “You’re the one sharing drinks with the bastards.”
“This is bad, isn’t it?” Simone shout-whispers in my ear over the pounding music.
I nod. “A fight here would be bad for everyone,” I tell her. “I need to get to Shotgun. And you need to get to your sister. Make her see that we need to get out of here.”
The three men opposite Shotgun look all alike to me. I’m in that amped-up state now where everybody is either a threat or an ally, and these men are a threat. Grimy-looking, with death in their eyes, looking at Cecilia in a way that makes me protective since she’s Simone’s family. They just stare at the couple, listening as Shotgun rants and raves.
“It’s all about clutch timing!” Shotgun shouts, waving his bottle of whisky at the men. Cecilia lolls against his shoulder. “You have to know when to gear up and gear down! You can lose half a second messing with the gear, and just think of that. Half a second here, half a second there, and soon you’ve lost ten seconds! Rocco!”
“Boss.” I sit next to him, looking into the faces of the three men, one by one. I know they’re Demons from their reactions. They sit up, looking momentarily nervous. They know who I am. I lean in close to his ear. On the other side of the table, I see Simone doing the same with Cecilia. “We need to get out of here. Don’t react. Don’t do anything. But we’ve gotta go. See all these men? They’re Demons. We’re near Demons’ turf, and we’re in no shape to fight. I’m pretty sure they’ve spiked our drinks. Just stand up quietly and we’ll—”
“My friend thinks you’re Demons!” Shotgun roars, laughing drunkenly. He shoves me away. “This is Sam, Sam, and Sam. How weird is that? They’re brothers from . . . I forget where they’re from.”
“That’s because you’re blasted. Goddamn. Let’s get out of here.”
“Would you just calm down!” Shotgun shouts, flapping his hand at me.
I feel sick looking at this man who was once a father figure to me, who took me off the street and gave me a place in the club. He was once a giant, once a hero, once the bloodiest, deadliest man I’d ever met. I try and tell myself he’s drunk and that’s why he’s acting like this; it doesn’t stick. He’s been like this for a while now. Even before Cecilia, if I’m brutally honest with
myself. Maybe he was always like this.
I grab him by the elbow and drag him to his feet. “We’re leaving,” I tell him, leading him away from the table. “No fuckin’ arguments. If you wanna hate me, hate me when you’re sober.”
Shotgun snatches his arm away—he’s still strong, even drunk—and walks over to the three men. They’re on their feet now. Their leader, the one with the meanest eyes, takes a step forward.
“You a Crooked motherfucking Demon, eh?” Shotgun wobbles from foot to foot.
Somebody switches off the jukebox. The whole place gets tense. A laugh dies. Everybody’s on their feet, watching. I turn to the nearest Sinner, who turns out to be Jerry, and whisper, “Call the cops and tell them there’s a man with an automatic rifle and ten hostages.”
“But . . .”
“Either that or a bloodbath. Go, now.”