by A. W. Exley
JJ sighed, and listened to the slurred vowels, while she scribbled down her whereabouts. Ariel, her best friend for fifteen years, had been dumped by yet another schmuck and sought escape in the bottom of a bottle. This little mermaid chose to swim in a tequila ocean to ease her pain. JJ had to rescue Ariel before she threw herself at another warm body who would break her heart in record time.
She frowned at the address, recognizing the area, but not the club. “Give me twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be here.” With a shriek, the line went dead.
“Just great,” JJ muttered, casting a longing look at the half-full bottle of red and the stack of work. Midnight, but she had only scratched the surface of what she wanted to achieve before Monday. Tossing the phone in her bag, she slid her feet back into the heels and picked up the car keys. Her life revolved around rescuing lost souls. Except tonight, there was no chauvinistic prosecutor to humiliate and no jury of twelve people too stupid to escape the call up notice, to bedazzle. Tonight, she had to haul her drunken friend’s backside out of some club before she climbed into the wrong car with the wrong guy and became another unfortunate statistic.
Midnight lay over the city like a velvet blanket. The moon waned and only streetlights punctuated the darkness; not even stars could punch through the dense coverlet this evening. JJ parked her dark green Maserati close to the building. The car was a classic stick shift, and her pride and joy. She checked it was locked—twice—before leaving her baby.
Her pumps made the click-clack of knitting needles as she strode the chipped pavement towards the nightclub. A two-story building of squat, ugly cinder block had the name, The Quarry, carved on the side in three-foot-high letters. Snatches of sound came and went as the front door opened and closed. It attested to the impressive sound proofing utilized, far beyond the standard city building code, but made the club resemble a dodgy car stereo, drifting off the station.
A grotesque gargoyle adorned each corner of the building. Short wings furled tight against their bodies, massive stone biceps jutted into forearms with claws curled around the edge of the roof as they clung in place. They were a curious medieval touch to the industrial architecture and reminded her of the ones adorning her apartment block.
Wonder if they’re related?
The bouncer looked her up and down and emitted a low whistle. She paused, thinking she should return the favor. He was carved from obsidian and covered in silk. Tall and broad, he conjured up images of Turkish guards protecting a harem and sultry nights given over to pleasure. He pulled the door open and beckoned her to enter.
Heat and noise assaulted JJ as soon as she stepped over the threshold. Gilded cages containing nubile women and men clad in only their underwear hung from the ceiling. They gyrated to the deep throb of the music, the rhythmic movements copied by those crushed on the dance floor.
Bodies parted, her no nonsense attitude enveloping her in an invisible bubble. Men, and some women, lingered over her form as she cut toward the bar, but none dared touch her.
No one stopped the diva on a mission.
Jacob didn’t need the heads up from the eyes on the roof to tell him she’d arrived, or the low whistle from Styx over the earpiece. As soon as she stepped across the threshold, his senses started a riot and his dick became a gundog on point.
Starting with the black Louboutins, his gaze travelled north to shapely ankles, encased in the sheerest black silk stockings with a seam. He followed the black line up the back of slender calves until it disappeared under the hem of a black and white hounds tooth pencil skirt.
Thighs moved and hips wiggled with each stride, constrained by the tight fabric. The high waist of the skirt rose into a fitted cream cotton blouse with cap sleeves. The Nehru collar of the shirt framed an elegant neck, which disappeared under long chocolate tresses pulled into a tight and immaculate French roll. Her oval face was dominated by high cheekbones and eyes so blue they would either incinerate a man, or flay open his soul. Her mouth was a perfect red pout any movie starlet would have been proud to possess. His balls ached and he wanted to find out if her lipstick would leave a mark around his shaft.
The Watcher intelligence looked spot on. From behind the bar, he saw the way she assessed the people around her, unconsciously weighing what others called an aura, and skirting those tainted by a dark touch. He would lay money on Jema Johnson being a Natural, one of the few humans in touch with the resonance, the frequency emitted by every single living thing on the planet. How she slipped under their radar for so many years, he didn’t know.
This one must be mentally tough to have kept a tight rein on the constant agony drilling through her brain. If they didn’t find them quick enough, most Naturals ended up institutionalized and heavily sedated, doctors unable to explain the agony shredding through their heads, or the hallucinations marring their vision.
Wardens and Naturals were designed to work together. Wardens protected their Naturals, ensuring the resonance didn’t tear apart their minds. Together, they dealt with the imbalances plaguing the planet. Naturals were identified young and brought into the clan. It served the dual purpose of protecting their minds from the constant noise and pain, and gave them time to grow accustomed to the rougher Wardens. They were gargoyles after all. Stone and granite ran through their veins, they weren’t soufflé making, bichon frise walkers.
In a thousand years, Jacob had never paired with a Natural.
The right one never appeared.
Until now.
The bar stretched along three quarters of one side of the thriving nightclub. A mirror hugged the wall behind, and the only adornment was a top shelf of multi-coloured liquor. Three women in tight, inconsequential clothing and one mammoth specimen of manhood manned a gleaming stainless steel worktop.
The man stood at least six foot four and looked like he ate concrete for roughage. Military short hair left a dark buzz over his skull, his face was chiseled and undeniably masculine with a strong jaw and broad lines. An intricate tattoo wrapped around his right bicep before disappearing under a black leather waistcoat, open to display a bare chest that would have taken a master sculptor months with a block of solid granite to craft. Each line etching his abdominals drew the eye to where they dipped and disappeared under the waistband of black leather pants that left nothing to the imagination. And JJ had a wicked imagination. She had to since her 24/7 work life left no room for actual interactions.
The bartender’s body promised a diverting night’s entertainment, if only she had the time, or inclination, for that sort of thing.
His slate eyes twinkled with amusement at JJ’s obvious assessment.
She leaned on the bar and beckoned him closer with an immaculate French tip. JJ sucked in a breath as he approached; either he was exceptionally pleased to take her drink order, or he was hiding a torch. “Whiskey, straight, one cube.”
He nodded and grabbed a glass from under the bar while her eyes roamed the crowd, seeking out Ariel, intent on her latest suicide mission. Darkened booths lined one wall and she soon spied a familiar neon pink cowboy boot sticking up in the air.
Dropping cash onto the bar, she picked up her drink and zoned in on the waving boot. Rounding the high padded side, she found Ariel lounging over one man’s lap, while two other bodybuilding types were crammed on the small u-shaped sofa. Ariel’s personality was as loud as her clothing—neon orange micro mini, green boob tube, and those pink cowboy boots. All wrapped up with a blonde bob framing her pixie face. She was as irresistible as a Hersey kiss and knew it.
JJ placed her glass on the small table, crossed her arms, and glared at the men. “Out.”
One syllable, one arched eyebrow, and they scrambled like their moms just caught them smoking in the bathroom. They threw Ariel apologetic looks as they melted back into the crowd.
She slid onto the black leather sofa and glared at her friend, who didn’t look anywhere near as drunk as she sounded on the phone. “You said this was a rescue mission.�
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“It is. I’m rescuing you.” Ariel clinked her beer against JJ’s tumbler.
“I don’t need rescuing. I have a stack of work to tackle.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, as the headache climbed up her spine and crept into her skull. There were too many people in the club, and one amongst them emitted a dark throb that stabbed into the recesses of her mind.
“You need a night of hot, anonymous sex to remove the stick from your arse.” Ariel accompanied her statement by deep throating her beer bottle, to a roar of approval from her admirers, watching from the dance floor.
“Don’t talk about Simon like that.” A sip of whiskey and liquid heat fought the interloper, and held the pain at bay. Just.
“Interesting you knew I referred to him. Honestly, JJ, he’s not a boyfriend. He treats you like an accessory. You’re just a fancy clutch purse to accentuate his outfit for the latest society function.”
JJ swirled the lone ice cube, clinking against the glass, before downing the rest of the whiskey. She hated it when Ariel was right. Simon wasn’t her boyfriend, he was a lead, and the embodiment of the old adage—keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Rot infested the heart of their city, and Simon stood close to it. She could tell by the dirty wash surrounding him. Not that she could ever tell Ariel, or anybody. She learned as a child not to ask about why people’s colors didn’t stay within the lines; the only way she could explain the smudge she saw around everybody.
Her personal mission brief encompassed more than standing up for the underdog. She vowed to bring down Douglas Matthews, the canker destroying her hometown.
The man who killed her father.
At times, her mission seemed insurmountable, and lonely. To compensate for the lack of sexual release in her life, she took out her frustration on hapless prosecutors, chewing them up and spitting out limbs like watermelon pips.
Ariel clicked her fingers in JJ’s face. “Seriously, girl, you’re stressed and not sleeping. You need a wicked screaming orgasm to relax you, works far better than popping a couple of lorazepam.”
She shook her head at Ariel, wishing the solution were so simple. “I have work to do. I assume you’re okay to find your own way home?”
JJ stepped away from the booth and collided with a hard chest, as the bartender materialized behind her. Heat coursed through her cotton shirt as mint, cool rain, and pure male scent wrapped around her. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Deep inside, something gave a tug. For one second, she wasn’t the courtroom diva, the toughest defense lawyer in town; she was a woman hearing an ancient, sensual call.
“Please tell me those are stockings and not pantyhose.” His voice was whiskey over rocks, smooth but rough, and sent a shiver of heat down her rigid spine.
“I don’t do pantyhose.” JJ answered offhand, as she retrieved her handbag.
“Mercy.” A deep chuckle rumbled through the chest behind her.
He didn’t move, but she had long ago become inured to men who tried to use proximity to intimidate her. It took more than standing close to throw her off balance. She found it was men who had trouble controlling their bodies when close to her, not vice versa. Besides, the bodybuilder types were rarely intelligent. This one was probably as dense as the stone he was carved from, hence why he poured the drinks and collected dirty dishes.
He pressed himself closer, large hands resting on her hips. An even larger erection nudged against her wool-clad bottom. She had to admit it was firmer and bigger than what she was usually offered. For a moment she succumbed, and leaned against him. The instant her back touched his chest, the skull-pounding, pressure headache disappeared and ripples of pleasure skittered down her limbs. Her lips parted and she sighed at the rising desire.
Maybe Ariel was right; this feels better than any headache cure I’ve swallowed.
Perhaps the bartender was so big and thick, he blocked out the signals that usually bombarded her brain. Bathing in the luxury of sensation without the associated pain, she made an impulsive decision. Her gaze flicked to the door just along from the booth. She turned her head, so her cheek grazed his bare chest.
His hands tightened on her hips at the brush of contact.
“Anyone in your VIP room?”
“No.” He bit the word out between gritted teeth, as though he skated close to the edge of control.
His hands slid from her body as she headed for the private room. She didn’t bother to look over her shoulder, if he was too dense to figure out she just threw him an easy invite, she didn’t want him touching her.
Womb-like comfort and seclusion greeted her on the other side of the heavy door. Flock wallpaper in lazy red and black swirls was complimented by black sofas piled high with deep red velvet cushions. The music was muted nearly all the way down, leaving the barest slick of noise to wash over the room. She slid her hand into a small compartment in her handbag, and palmed a foil wrapped disc. Then she dropped the bag on the floor, next to a glossy end table, as a soft snick signaled the door being locked behind her.
He stepped close, and began pulling the pins from her hair. As strong fingers roamed over her scalp, JJ bit back a moan. She never imagined having her hair undone would feel so good, so erotic. He massaged her scalp, as he pulled the thick locks loose and teased her curls down her back. The tingle ran all the way down her spine, making her thighs twitch and her panties dampen. She couldn’t remember the last time a man’s touch melted her knees, if ever.
Turning, she placed a finger on his full lips, before he could utter some inane comment. She held up the wrapper in her hand. “Using this is non-negotiable and no names, no conversation.” She didn’t want to shatter the illusion building in her mind and find out he only had one lone brain cell rattling in that handsome head.
A primal hunger flared in his eyes and her breath hitched. For a nanosecond, JJ wondered what she invited, then his lips were on hers and conscious thought fled her body. His tongue invaded her mouth, taking control of the kiss, as his body pushed hers back against the wall, caging her with his arms. His frame pressed against hers from chest to hip. She parted her lips, welcoming the contact. It had been so long since another human being touched her.
She drank up his weight; it didn’t oppress her, but made her ache deep inside, reminding her of all her body missed. Reminding her what it was to be a woman and to meld to a body that desired her. Her hands swept up his arms to his neck, pulling him closer, as desperation built inside her.
His chest rumbled, as his tongue plunged deeper into her mouth, exploring and caressing her hidden depths. His hands moved, one cupping the nape of her neck, his fingers working against her scalp, the other pulling her shirt free of the waistband of her skirt.
Skilled hands undid the small buttons on her top while she pushed the waistcoat off his broad shoulders. Without releasing her mouth, he tugged the blouse away from her arms, letting it fall to the floor as his hands claimed her breasts. Her nipples were barely covered by the cream lace of the demi-cup bra, and soon the expensive item hit the floor. Clothing discarded, they fought to touch naked skin against naked skin. JJ moaned as his thumbs flicked her nipples, arching her back into his caress, her body starved of the desire raging inside her.
Her fingernails scraped his flesh as she explored his torso and ran her hands over his warm muscles. God, he’s solid. Everywhere. She dropped her hands lower and fumbled with his belt buckle before unzipping his pants, pushing the fabric out of her way to free his cock. Thick and wide, it pulsed in her hand. Heat shot through her at the thought of taking something so large, of being pinned to the wall while he pushed deep inside her. His eyes closed. He groaned as her hand explored him, rimming the tip, before she slid the condom over his length.
His hand found the hook and eye closure of her skirt and pushed the fabric over her hips, leaving her in panties and stay up stockings. Calloused fingertips grazed under the elastic of her French knickers and pushed them down her thighs, leaving her to kick the fabric to one
side when they dropped around her ankles. His mouth burned a trail of kisses down her neck, before sucking in a nipple.
JJ bowed against him, the cry of need becoming louder. Every cell in her body on fire, and burning for more. His fingers brushed over her trimmed mound and circled her clit on their journey. She gasped as he inserted a large finger and began sliding against the sensitive nerves. Her nails dug into his back, as she surrendered to his touch. The second digit he inserted threw her over the edge, her body starved of release and unable to hold on any longer.
She barely had time to complain when he withdrew his fingers, her body still fluttering with the sudden orgasm. With a hand under her bottom, he lifted her and pressed her higher against the wall. Her arms secured around his neck, her legs around his waist, as the thick tip of his cock nudged against her slick flesh. He let out a groan as he sunk into her in one fluid push. JJ bit the thick cord of muscle at his neck, holding back her scream, as her body stretched to accommodate his shaft.
He paused for a moment, before he drew his hips back to plunge into her again in a desperate rhythm. Both of them spiraled out of control, JJ trying to draw him closer, wanting him imprinted on her skin. Each deep thrust threw her higher. Pleasure ran through her body, shooting down her limbs. Her head fell back against the wall as stars danced behind her eyes. Her fingernails curled, digging into solid muscle, looking for an anchor in reality as she reached her edge. The orgasm slammed into her like a freight train, her eyelids fluttered as she clung to consciousness and the ecstasy exploded through her body.
The bartender groaned into her neck, burying himself deep into her, as his release tore from him. The spasms of his cock inside her triggered another eruption from her sensitized flesh. He held her tight, both of them breathing heavy as shivers rolled outward from her core. He kept her pressed to the wall for long moments, as though he didn’t want to release her.