The Bequest

by Hope Anika

  “Will,” she whispered, and the sound of his name on her lips only made him hungrier, more determined to give her something she wouldn’t want to be without.

  He licked her nipple, flicked it with his tongue. A broken cry murmured from her.

  “Rafe,” she said raggedly.

  “You can see him,” Will muttered and suckled her.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed and arched sharply, an offering he could not refuse, and he moved to her other breast and nipped her there, too, rubbing her with his tongue, sucking her deep into his mouth with strong pulls that made her gyrate against him in a rhythm that almost made him come.

  He plucked at her free nipple, enjoying the wetness left by his mouth, awash in her scent, the song of her cries, the burning heat of her cradling his cock. The bite of her nails into his scalp streaked down his spine like live current; he pulsed and swelled and fought off release with gritted teeth.

  “Will,” she said again, a broken cry, but he slid his hand down and cupped between her legs, and she was so hot he shuddered. He scraped his teeth over her nipple and pressed his palm against her clit, hard, rough circles that made another Oh! echo sharply into the air.

  “That’s…that’s incredible,” she whispered into his ear, hot, damp approval that made his cock throb. “Oh. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

  He couldn’t. Even if he tried.

  Instead, he tore open the button of her cargos and slid his hand inside, a smooth glide that tucked his fingers beneath the sturdy band of her underwear, and then she was in his hand, her curls an erotic rasp against his palm and then just burning silken skin: slippery, delicate flesh that made his mouth water.

  “So wet.” He was deeply satisfied by the knowledge and kissed her again, swallowing the hungry sounds she made, sliding his fingers through the weeping, needy flesh that melted beneath his hand. He pushed his rough palm against her clit, more of those tight circles that made her shudder and grow tense against him. She responded fiercely to his kiss, as passionate, demanding and impatient as he felt. The muscles of her thighs quivered where she gripped him, and the scent of her filled the air, ratcheting his need until every muscle was like steel, and he clung desperately to control.

  More.

  One hand at her throat, gentle as he separated their mouths, her cry of protest a lash that burned him. He pushed her legs from his waist, down to the ground. Then he went to his knees before her. He yanked her pants and underwear down in a sweeping rush and left them tangled between her ankles, locking her into place, and wedged his shoulders between the strong, silky length of her thighs, nudging them wide apart. He steadied her with possessive hands shaping the ripe, bare curve of her hips as her hands went to his shoulders, where she held him with strong fingers that tangled in his shirt and dug into him.

  “You smell so fucking good,” he said roughly against her belly, flicking his tongue against the gentle swell, lingering on the small smattering of scars that trailed down her like a dusting of fine silver sand. “I want to taste you.”

  “We can’t…” Her voice was thick, a deep rasp that licked at his nerve endings like live flame. He lifted her higher, nipped at the tender flesh above her mons. She shook in his hold, her breath surging from her in uneven bursts. “Will.”

  “Yes,” he grated and put his mouth on her.

  She whimpered.

  Will slid his tongue into her sweltering, hot flesh, and the taste of her—spicy and sweet—exploded on his tongue, slid down his throat, and rooted deep. The sound he made was low and deep and rumbled in his chest, and she answered with a helpless moan of pleasure.

  He delved with his tongue, holding her still for his exploration, and she shuddered violently beneath his hands, wild, hungry sounds breaking from her, making his cock twitch and surge in response. He stroked her tender opening, flicked her clit and nibbled on her succulent, vulnerable flesh as though it was the sweetest delicacy.

  “I can’t…” She gasped, and her nails scored him through his shirt. His hold tightened.

  Fear in that cry.

  He lifted his head and looked at her. Color filled her cheeks; even in the shadowed moonlight, he could see the flush that painted her skin. She was panting, her eyes closed, her mouth open and wet; her hair was a dark, wild cloud that clung to them both.

  “Look at me,” he murmured, squeezing her hips, holding her still.

  Her lashes fluttered, and that dark, lush green gaze met his, pleasure and fear a palpable sheen in the pale light.

  “I want you to come,” he told her, his voice raw, his cock surging at the thought.

  “It’s stealing me,” she said, her voice hushed. “I’m…afraid.”

  Something he never would have imagined: her, afraid. Of anything. But he understood. And that she would admit such a thing, here and now, to him…

  Keeping her.

  “You have to trust me, baby.” He held her gaze and leaned in to flick his tongue against her clit. She jolted in his hold, her eyes rapt on him. When her tongue slid along her bottom lip, his cock threatened to burst, and he held very, very still in effort to maintain what little control he still had. “There’s nothing to fear here. Just you and me and pleasure.”

  “So much pleasure,” she whispered in open awe.

  Everything within him tightened. “Yes.”

  And then he put his mouth back on her clit and suckled. Hard.

  She came with a sharp, lush cry, the tremors that shook her nearly inciting his own orgasm. But he wanted more. He took every sweet drop she offered up, and when she finally stopped shaking, he started anew.

  “That’s…oh…too much. I’m…” And she shook her head, but she gripped him hard, and when he slid his thumb along the entrance to her body, dipping just the tip into the thick, wet moisture gathered there, she moaned, low and deep.

  “Again,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “That’s a bad girl. Bad, bad, bad.” Rafe wagged his finger at Lucky, who looked away guiltily and whined. “You go pee outside.”

  She hung her head, and he had to check the urge to rub it. Will warned him about that.

  “You pet her, she thinks it’s a reward. You discipline her, and let it settle in. Then you can pet her.”

  But it was hard. She was dang cute. And she looked devastated by the scolding.

  Still, she couldn’t just go around peeing everywhere. She’d whizzed all over the blanket from his ma this morning, and now here he was, rinsing it out in ice cold water at the camp spigot, his hands freezing, the smell of wet wool almost as bad as the smell of pee. On the far side of the campground, Cheyenne and Will were breaking camp and packing up the Jeep. They’d been oddly quiet this morning, but Rafe had seen Will touch her more than once—her hand, her scar—so he wasn’t worried.

  The blanket was heavy. He’d gotten it more wet than he’d meant to, and he’d gotten himself soaked. The bottom edge of the bright red and yellow creation was muddy from the puddle he was making, and he hefted it higher in effort to get it off the ground.

  He hadn’t planned on washing it, but Cheyenne told him she wasn’t riding in a car for ten hours with a blanket covered in dog pee. He tried to bargain by offering to strap it to the roof of the Jeep, but Will just laughed, and Cheyenne ordered him to get scrubbing.

  So he was scrubbing.

  He’d gotten most of the pee out—he thought—so he stood, staggered a little beneath the weight and went to the road, where he laid it out so he could fold it. He figured he could try to squeeze out the extra water once he had it folded, because it wasn’t manageable all spread out. He was folding it in half when Lucky suddenly barked.

  Later, he wondered how he let it happen. He was a city boy who was—probably—being hunted by the man who’d fathered him, and his mother had stolen a butt load of bombs more than one person was looking for. No one should have been able to get the jump on him. But as he folded, he was staring up at the huge rock protrusion of Devil’s
Tower, watching the sunrise slowly creep up the ridged eastern face, and by the time Lucky warned him, and he turned around, it was too late. The man was already grabbing him.

  Strong arms lifted him from the road and trapped his arms at his sides; a big, rough, dark hand that stank of cigarettes covered his nose and his mouth. He gulped, but there was no air, and he squealed and kicked and fought to breathe while Lucky raised holy hell.

  The man said something to her in a language Rafe didn’t recognize, and terror for her shot through him like a bullet. When the man lifted a booted foot and gave her a good kick, Rafe felt himself jerk, and heat burst through him in a dizzying rush. Fury exploded, and red bled into his vision, and he kicked back as hard as he could, desperately hoping he hit the guy’s balls. The hand over his mouth loosened for a split second, and Rafe screamed for all he was worth.

  “Wiiiiillllll!”

  But then the hand was back, and the man was muttering, and they were turning toward a large black car. The trunk was swinging open, and Rafe understood then that was where he was headed.

  He fought viciously, screams trapped in his throat, adrenaline surging through him, kicking, hitting, wiggling, but it was useless, like a leaf fighting the wind, and they grew closer and closer to the trunk as he fought to get free.

  Just as the man bent over to dump him into the dark hole of the trunk, Rafe heard Lucky growling and snarling over the deafening beat of his heart, and Cheyenne yelled his name and then—

  Darkness.

  Cheyenne was running as soon she heard Lucky bark. The pup rarely made any noise. If she was barking, there was trouble.

  The sight of the large black Caddy and the equally large black man who held Rafe made her heart lurch into her throat. Fear burst within every cell of her being, a terror unlike any other, and she ran as fast and hard as she could, half hysterical with the thought she wouldn’t reach him in time.

  That she wouldn’t save him.

  Rafe fought like a child possessed, but he was no match for the son of a bitch who lifted his foot and kicked Lucky aside, making the pup cry out sharply and sending her sprawling into the grass.

  Kill. Him.

  Cheyenne was halfway to him when Rafe screamed Will’s name. A shadow streaked past her—Will, his huge strides eating up twice the ground of hers—and she was glad for it, because two against one was far better odds. And Will was armed.

  Almost there—but the man was turning, and the trunk was opening and he was tossing Rafe inside. Cheyenne yelled at him, furious, terrified, and Lucky scrambled to her feet and went after the man as he slammed the trunk shut, clamping her sharp puppy teeth around his left ankle. He snarled at her and tried to kick her off, but she clung tenaciously, her growls savage. When he pulled a gun from the interior of his coat and aimed it at the pup, Cheyenne felt her world stop, but before he could fire, Will was plowing into him with such force they both went airborne.

  Lucky let go and ducked; the men landed nearly five feet away, a tangle of brutal fists and kicking feet, sending a cloud of Wyoming dust into the air as they rolled across the ground. Cheyenne hurried to the trunk of the Caddy, and Rafe’s desperate banging and muffled screams made something deep and dark and primitive rise within her.

  Something that wanted blood. She had felt such things before, but not like this.

  Never like this.

  Because she could handle being fair game; that was life. But Rafe was off limits. He was fucking sacred. And anyone who threatened him would die.

  “It’s okay,” she yelled and pounded on the trunk with her palm. “I’m here. I’ll get you out. Just hold on!”

  The Caddy’s driver’s side door was open, but the keys weren’t in the ignition so she climbed in and rooted around for the trunk release—there had to be one—but it wasn’t obvious. She went around the front of the car and strode to where Will and the man were fighting. Although Will was bleeding—from his lip, his nose, a deep, ugly cut above his eye—he was on top, straddling the man and pounding the crap out of him. But at that moment, the tables turned, and the black man rose from beneath Will with a loud roar and flipped Will to the ground, his own huge fist slamming into Will’s jaw with a loud thud that made Cheyenne flinch.

  She pulled her baton out of her pocket and snapped it to length. The men paid no attention to her. It was a simple matter to walk around behind them, set her stance and swing the baton for all she was worth into the back of the black man’s skull.

  Crack.

  Just like a Louisville Slugger. The force reverberated in her bones, and as he fell over sideways, she kicked him for good measure. And then again, because it felt good.

  Will was on him instantly, rolling the man face down into the dirt, climbing on top of him. One of his arms slid around the man’s throat, and there was suddenly a knife in his hand, big and serrated, the ten inch blade glinting with a freshly honed sheen in the morning light.

  Cheyenne stared at it, her breath frosty as it shuddered in and out, her heart threatening to shatter her ribs. For a moment she thought Will was simply going to slice the man’s jugular and let him bleed out right there, at the foot of Devil’s Tower while she watched. He adjusted his grip on the knife once, twice; he was sweating, a fine tremor shaking his limbs, and as his blood dripped down to streak his opponent’s cheek, she could feel his struggle for control, the war he waged to in effort to deny himself the carnage he so clearly wanted.

  Cheyenne stepped up beside him and laid her hand gently on his shoulder and squeezed. Because she wanted the asshole dead, too, she said nothing, acutely aware of Rafe’s cries permeating the air, the thud of his fists against the trunk. Lucky whined softly from where she sat, just beneath the Caddy’s license plate.

  “I’m okay,” Will grated. “Get him out of there.”

  “I need keys,” she replied. “I can’t find the release.”

  But before Will could search the man, the guy stirred beneath him, grunting and moving to push himself up until the tip of Will’s blade nicked his Adam’s apple. Then he went still. Very, very still.

  “Who sent you?” Will asked him softly.

  The man spat a word, something harsh and foreign, and Cheyenne kicked him again. When Will replied in the same guttural language, she blinked in surprise. The knife went deeper, until a little stream began to trickle down the man’s neck, and although Cheyenne couldn’t understand the words they spoke, she could tell Will was conveying his intent to gut the guy like a fish if he didn’t talk.

  Violence always translated. Another flurry of words from the man, all but one of which went in one ear and out the other.

  Malik.

  “Motherfucker.” Cheyenne kicked him again, hard.

  “The next one of you will be sent back in pieces,” Will said in English, and his voice was so cold, so brutal, Cheyenne looked at him. “Including the Ambassador himself.”

  “I was only to take the boy, not harm him,” the man muttered. “I don’t kill children.”

  “Just their pets,” Cheyenne growled.

  “This is the only warning you’ll get,” Will told him. “Make sure he knows.” And then he hit the man, a short, powerful blow to the temple that rendered the man unconscious. A moment later, he handed her the keys to the Caddy.

  She ran to the trunk and opened it. Rafe’s cries died, and he stared up at her, blinking in the bright sunlight, his face awash in terror and tears.

  “Is Lucky okay?” he whispered.

  Cheyenne leaned over and scooped him up, staggering beneath his not inconsequential weight, and crushed him to her. “She’s fine, sweet pea. Just fine.”

  Rafe clung to her and burst into huge, shuddering sobs that made him shake, and tears coalesced like acid in her throat, stung her eyes, trickled down her cheeks in salty streams.

  Will was there then, carrying the black man in a fireman’s hold, and he dumped him into the trunk of the Caddy, which bounced beneath the weight. He slammed the trunk shut, and Lucky barked
, as if in approval. His arms surrounded her and Rafe a heartbeat later, and he held them tight as Rafe’s sobs quieted. Cheyenne shook, furious and sick with adrenaline, her arms locked so tight around the boy she didn’t know that she could let him go.

  Will pressed a kiss to her head. “I took his phone, but someone probably heard that. We need to go.”

  Yes. Rafe’s scream had sliced through the morning like the death cry of a fallen animal; guaranteed the echo had traveled for miles, and even though there were very few people at the monument, someone would have heard him. A Ranger wouldn’t be far away.

  Cheyenne nodded and pulled back. She set Rafe down and ran her hands down his arms, up his legs, making sure he was whole.

  “I’m okay,” he muttered, a huge shudder making him quake. “He didn’t hurt me.”

  Rage licked at her calm, and she said nothing, not trusting herself. She didn’t want to make it worse—because the urge to grab Will’s knife and plant it deep into the black man’s belly was tempting. So dangerously tempting.

  Split him open like a—

  “Cheyenne,” Rafe said, his hands capturing hers. “I’m okay.”

  She met that dual-colored gaze and nodded, aware of the tears that continued to course her cheeks. Will’s hand wrapped her nape, warm and strong, and squeezed, silent, powerful reassurance she absorbed like a sponge.

  Falling into a weepy heap wasn’t what she was worried about. Creating a bloody one was.

  Will turned and went to retrieve Rafe’s blanket, and Cheyenne forced herself to release the boy and step away. He immediately scooped Lucky into his arms, and she slathered him in puppy kisses and slobber.

  “He kicked her,” Rafe said, running his hands over her flanks.