I resented being here. Resented the crowd of people gathered at the compound, all here to toast and celebrate the life and incredible service of Private Deke Williams.
I didn’t want to raise a beer to him this way. No, I wanted to see him raise a stubby of his favourite amber beer and watch him drink it himself.
Alive.
I’d parked myself in a quiet corner of the main room and had stayed stoic and closed off since we got back to Ballarat from the base in NSW, where Deke’s memorial had been held. His mother and twin sister had already accepted his remains from the base, and took home for his final burial.
Another trip to take tomorrow and another round of emotional crap to endure.
I couldn’t stop the silent negative thought since getting back in town with my team. All I wished for was to be alone, get on my bike and ride off somewhere … anywhere but here, listening to the stories being told about Signal.
We could use his name outside of the confines of the team now. It was a sign of respect, proof that his death had not been in vain, that his service to his country and the men he served with was one to be applauded, his courage to be appreciated.
Of course, no one outside of the uniform would ever know exactly what acts of courage and honour he performed, and even then, not all active soldiers would know. Only those with special clearance would ever hear about the details of Deke’s bravery. How far he drove himself to protect his fellow operatives. Just what he put himself through on every deployment.
I think that was the hardest part for me to deal with. That I … we, couldn’t unload what we did. What we saw. What he experienced every day we put the uniform on and jumped on a helicopter to be dropped off in whatever hell hole we deployed to.
There was no relief, no respite from the burden of being a soldier.
My father and his best friends were proof of that.
It’s more than thirty years since they wore the Team Five patch or saw action, and most of them still dealt with some form of PTSD. Granted, since finding the loves of their lives, they all said they cope much better. Now and then, though, I saw that guarded look in their eyes; the walls go up when they didn’t think anyone was watching them.
I did, though—notice; using my powers of observation was why I was so good.
Finishing off the last of my beer, I tossed the bottle into the esky beside me and reached for a bottle of whiskey. Ten beers in, and I was still coherent, my mind still working, my memories still there. It was time for something stronger, something that could dull the noises and visions, even for a night.
Taking off the lid, I didn’t bother with a glass or anything to weaken the liquor, putting the bottle to my lips, I drank down a long shot, the burn of the alcohol awakening my senses. Fighting against the compelling need to take it slow, I continued to gulp down the dark liquid until my stomach revolted, telling me I was going too fast.
Dropping the bottle to the table with a hard thud, I choked on one but swallowed the last mouthful, feeling the effects immediately.
“Damn it, Deke! Why the fuck did you have to go and die?” I croaked out.
Why did you make me see it?
Suddenly, cheers rose from the main bar. Team FIVE all had a raised beer in the air repeating the mantra from the original team, one we took on ourselves.
“Honour, Respect, Loyalty.”
Pissed off, I dragged myself to my feet, having heard enough, and seen enough. I staggered by the potted plants the women of the Club liked to dot around the main room, thankful for the cover they allowed me. Being seen and dragged into the sombre celebrations was not on my mind right now.
Riding my bike was out—the alcohol well and truly taking hold of me. Instead, I had thoughts of finding myself a warm and willing body. Maybe, just maybe, spending a few hours deep in a pussy might help me get through burying Signal tomorrow.
Help me forget all the guilt I carried. It was stupid, but I couldn’t help wonder had I got there earlier, reached Deke an hour before I did, maybe his injuries would not have been so bad. And the only thing we would be celebrating today was being reunited with my team.
All of us whole.
Not broken like we are now.
Taking another slug of whiskey, I walked down the hall to my room. My phone was on my bedside table, making a call now my only thought process.
“Fuck baby, your skin smells so fucking good, so clean, so pure,” I groaned against her soft belly, my tongue coming out and taking long, languid licks at her heated, tanned skin.
“Hmmm, oh god, Rambo, that feels amazing. Please don’t stop.” Her sweet, breathy voice begged me. Rolling my tongue in the indentation of her belly button, I looked up her sexy petite body and gave her my best smirk.
“Oh, don’t worry, Temptress, I don’t intend stopping until you have come in my mouth then on my cock,” I assured her, not acknowledging her silly nickname for me or the one I gave her.
A funny thing happened on my way to my room to get my phone … I didn’t make it, instead, I found myself passing a woman coming up the hall, she smiled at me and the next thing I knew I had her up against the wall kissing the shit out of her. The way she moaned and sucked my tongue into her mouth, of course, ending up in one of the spare rooms, was the next logical step, right?
Sliding my hands down the super soft skin of the sexiest hips I’ve ever had the pleasure of holding, I slid under them until my fingers gripped the fleshy globes of her arse. To be honest, I was a bit fuzzy on the details on how we got naked if I undressed her or vice versa, the alcohol I’d consumed being responsible for that slight lack of memory.
“I’m going to enjoy this meal, Temptress,” I hummed, placing my nose close enough to breathe in the heady scent of my sexy bed partner’s arousal.
“Just hurry up and lick me, I want to see if your tongue on my pussy is as good as my imagination.” The throaty voice hurried me. Now, if I was sober, that comment might be questioned intensely by me, but I was not sober, not even a little bit.
Swiping my tongue out, I licked a path through the sticky folds all the way from the bottom to the top, curling my tongue around the pearl of nerves, then went back down again, egged on by her sultry moans and fingers digging into my short hair.
“Oh my god! SOOO much better than my dreams,” my Temptress cried out, her thighs quivering around the sides of my face.
Chuckling, I continued my assault on the heated wet flesh, partly from my mouth and partly from the bursts of sweet cream spilling deliciously slow from the opening that was begging for my cock. Not until she comes in my mouth first, I want to feel that sweet flow of her orgasm before sinking into the sticky wetness. Lifting her slight weight up off the bed, I held her pussy against my mouth, devouring her like a starving man would a bucket of water after weeks in the desert without supplies.
Fuck! I knew that feeling, but a drink of water to wet my parched throat never tasted this good. Fucking never.
“Cole, I’m … I’m … coming!” An ear-piercing screech echoed in the room as my Temptress detonated in my mouth, filling me with sweet, fairy floss-tasting cream that was now my favourite flavour.
“Mmmm,” I murmured against her lips, lapping and sucking, not wanting to ever stop.
“Cole, I can’t …” The words were delivered in a thready rasped voice, her legs now shaking all the way down to her toes.
“Yes, you fucking can,” I argued, quickly jumping to my feet bringing the sexy, sated woman with me. Holding her around her middle, my hands just under her ample breasts, I sat down on the edge of the bed and brought her down on my lap backwards.
“Ride me, baby, ride my cock and make me come,” I demanded, not recognising my own voice, let alone the need I heard in it.
“Backwards?” Temptress asked, momentarily tense, her head turned to look over my shoulder, and for a second, a foggy image of a familiar face danced in front of my eyes.
She looks so …
“Yeah,” I growled, pus
hing the fog away and lifted her slightly off my lap to fist my cock at the base. The bastard was hard and pulsing, and he was greedy to experience that pussy himself. “Take me in, baby, all the way to the root. Fill your hot, wet, sopping cunt with my thick, aching cock.”
Filthy words spilled from my lips on their own accord, fuelled by the whiskey and beer or by the sweet tasting cum on my tongue, I couldn’t tell you. What did I know? I was going to die if she didn’t sit down and take me.
“Damn, your mouth is like a weapon, Rambo, in more ways than one,” Temptress sassed, turning back around and did what I asked. Spreading her legs on either side of mine, she lowered herself down over my cock, the suction of her entrance taking me in one thick inch at a time. The tightness was not something I could describe; not even if someone had a gun to my head would I be able to put into words the hedonism my cock was feeling right now.
“Jesus, fuck, fuck, Jesus,” I gritted, grabbing onto her hips and helping her find the perfect rhythm I needed.
“Holy crap, you are deep, deep, deep,” Temptress groaned, lifting herself up then almost banging her hips down hard on my lap, her plump arse a delicious pillow just for my own viewing pleasure. The room was dark, but the light from the clock radio was close, illuminating her body to me.
“I want to be deeper, much deeper.” Moving my hands, I wrapped them around her upper body, my hands clasped over her breasts, and I pulled her down as hard and as firmly as I could without hurting her. Thrusting up, I cantered my hips as I drove my steel rod into the deepest part of her pulsing channel, nearly fainting at the clenching sensation of her inner wall muscles as she tried to take me as deep as possible.
“Oh … no … again … fuck … I … can’t.” Hot wetness coated my shaft, the juices wetting me from tip to root, the climax so strong, so unexpected, my balls started to sing with the arrival of my orgasm.
“Fuck! Yes!” I roared, feeling the first stream of cum jet out from the tip of my cock so hard and fast it was painful.
“More!” my Temptress growled, grinding her pretty arse down on me, adding a swivel of her hips, sending me into a spiral of climatic bliss. Rope after rope of cum burst from the head of my cock, so much I could hear the squishing sounds of our combined release oozing from her pussy.
Dropping my head forward, I planted my sweaty face on her bare back, my breaths coming out in desperate pants.
“For the love of God, don’t squeeze my cock with your pussy, not if you don’t want to snap him off inside your vice-like channel,” I begged, smiling at her giggle, then groaning when her giggle made her do exactly what I begged her not to do.
“I don’t think I can move,” my lover groaned, dropping her head back on my shoulder. “My legs are like jelly, this position is a real workout for the thigh and calf muscles, Rambo.”
Planting wet open-mouth kisses across her toned, sexy back, I smiled. This was exactly what I needed, no attachment, no names, no mess. Just amazing sex and a few hours to forget. Why was it then, I had a tightness in my chest every time my hands danced across her soft, silky skin? Why couldn’t I stop my fingers from learning the plump pebbled nipples I was currently caressing? And why was my heart beating a hundred Ks an hour?
Alcohol. It had to be the grog; there was no other answer. I mean, I didn’t have the time nor the inclination for a commitment to anything else than my career. My mates may have managed to make Special Ops work with their relationships, but me?
Using every ounce of my self-control, I changed the direction my mind was taking; instead, I compartmentalised and focused on the here and now.
“Why move? I have no problems staying here all night.” Caressing a path down her breasts and belly, I reached where we were still intimately connected.
“How does round three sound, my sexy Temptress?”
Her hips ground down, her muscles clenched. “Only if you are on top this time, you can do all the work while I get to trace my hands all over your body.”
Chuckling, I smacked my hand down on the top of her arse, groaning when the flesh jiggled enticingly.
“Up and at ‘em, baby, time for me to get to work.”
I jumped in my seat when the sound of the lone trumpet started to play the haunting melody of the Last Post, my mind a rush of memories I barely made any sense of since last night.
“You okay, Cole?” Gabe leaned over and whispered to me.
“Yeah mate, just … ghosts, you know,” I told him as an uneasy feeling settling deep in my chest. Familiar voices played around in my mind, my mother’s, and another one I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I know I have heard it before, calling out my name, wailing for me to keep fucking her. A niggle hounded at me, there was another time I had heard that voice saying my name, just not with a sensual edge to it.
Those eyes. Those pretty bright green eyes, I knew them. The room might have been dark last night, and yeah, I woke up alone early in the morning, but I remembered those green orbs looking at me before.
The sudden silence signalled that the last sign of respect to our fallen brother was done. The time to put Deke to rest for good had me moving off the stiff plastic chair.
Walking forward, I filed down the aisle with my team towards the front of the church, to the coffin that held Deke.
What the fuck did my mum’s voice have to do with my mystery Temptress?
Annoyed at myself for not giving the funeral my full concentration, I tried to push last night’s event out of my mind.
“Cole, oh fuck yes, Cole, I dreamed of this.” That breathy voice, that sexy husky laugh and the sweet giggle. I knew it, I fucking knew it somehow …
Taking one end of the coffin at the back, I hooked one arm over Grill’s shoulder for support as we lifted the coffin up at Gabe’s command.
Then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit me harder than a freight train racing out of control.
Green eyes, long midnight black hair, long enough to tickle my thighs while she rode me. A giggle sweet and innocent but a mouth that could bring a man to his knees.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
God help me! I fucked my mother’s personal assistant, Oaklee.
My mum’s young assistant, Oaklee. The same Oaklee whose eyes followed me around the compound whenever I was home. The Oaklee, I swore to my mother I would never touch when Dad told her Oaklee had a crush on me.
Yeah, that Oaklee.
Fuck my life.
CHAPTER FOUR
OAKLEE
The book shop was packed with people vying for a chance to get an autograph and photo taken with Willow Rose, local international best-selling romance writer.
My job as Memphis’s, aka Willow Rose, assistant had both creative and in-depth tasks and duties. According to my boss’s very scary, very intimidating husband, number one and the most important was to keep Memphis at a safe distance from her fans. And judging by the crowd gathering already, I was going to be earning my wage.
“Excuse me, ladies!” I shouted over the loud humming and excited jabbering, “can I have your attention please!” Climbing onto a seat, thanking my morning decision to wear jeans and not the tight skirt I initially chose to wear, I clapped my hands above my head and waited for the noise to die down. This was a part of the job I didn’t enjoy, being a PA for a famous writer, I was usually in the background, and more comfortable that way. Standing in front of a crowd of people without the main attraction to take the notice off me—yeah, not an enjoyment for me.
“Thank you for your attention and for everyone lining up to see Willow Rose.” I started smiling at the crowd of eighty women I observed, then looked down at the chart in my hands, holding it down low in front of my stomach.
Eighty bodies in this little shop, dear God Creed is going to kill me! After he gives me his narrowed black eyes and that chin lift I didn’t understand at first.
“Please remember this is a small shop, so be aware of the people behind and in front of you. Also, you all know by now Willow Rose is b
lind, so I ask you to please not rush the signing table, and though she is more than happy to take photos with her fans, please listen to the rules on how this is to be done.”
Pointing behind me, I motioned to the long table where Memphis was to take her place very shortly. “At the end of the table is the spot for fan photos, Willow will sign your book, chat, and whatnot, then if you want a picture, stand on the yellow cross on the carpet and she will stand up next to you. Please refrain from moving her seat to get closer or have a friend in the shot with you. This is set up so Willow doesn’t have to move too far from her seat.”
“I’m sure you can appreciate the noise in such a small room, and with so many people, can be quite daunting and confusing for a vision-impaired person. So, unless you want a big pissed-off biker coming in here, swinging his wife up into his arms and whisking her away—” I paused and laughed at the room of ladies who were all blushing and swooning at the mention of Memphis’s big biker hubby, “let’s follow the rules and maybe I can get Creed to make an appearance for your viewing pleasure.”
A loud grunt came from the back room where Memphis was waiting to make her entrance. I said the same thing at every signing appearance, and after eight signings, Creed was yet to make that wet dream come true for the fans.
In all seriousness, the idea was a brilliant one from a marketing and sales perspective. Creed had grudgingly modelled for several of Memphis’s book covers, even a couple of the other members of the wounded Souls have graced her covers. None able to say no to the beautiful writer of love, or perhaps it was Creed’s growl that made them agree, whichever, those books always sold exceptionally well. Not that a romance novel from Willow Rose was ever bad, but having a hot biker on the cover never hurt the eyes or sales.
Pushing away the niggle at the back of my mind, deliberately not thinking that soldiers rivalled that hotness, one, in particular, I jumped down from the seat and nodded at the security guys that they should start lining people up I turned to head back to get Memphis.
Cole: The Wounded Sons Page 4
