by Skyla Madi
I shuffled on the chair and let my eyes fall shut, moving low so I could rest my head on the back rest. Sleep hit me at once, kind of like the realization I had about my feelings for Izzy, and I dreamed of her. I always dreamed of her.
SEVENTEEN
C R E E D
Two months had passed since the night we pulled Isabelle from the casket at the crematorium. She was healing nicely, if not fully healed. At least, that’s what Harlei told me. I swallowed a mouthful of my beer and stared into the bonfire, watching the flames as they devoured the large wooden logs Modo fed to them. Truth be told, I hadn’t spoken to Blondie much since that night.
She avoided all of us…
Most of them didn’t notice, but I did. Every day dragged on longer than it should, and nights were colder spent on a couch or outside my room where she slept in my bed. It took every sliver of patience I had not to confront her and demand she acknowledge me or demand her to love me.
It killed me to give her space since my feelings for her only got worse and we’d barely exchanged a sentence. I wanted to hold her, to squeeze her until she popped and kiss her until my lips hurt, but she was closed off and cold. She kept me at arm’s length, and I didn’t know why. If it wasn’t for Iris, Isabelle wouldn’t eat or leave my room.
A week after that fiasco, we escorted her to Chelsea’s funeral. It was a solemn thirty-motorcycle cortège. Isabelle was still recovering from her injuries, so Kace drove her in Armi’s truck. We waited on the sidelines while Isabelle attended the ceremony. No one paid her any attention, even when she was sobbing as they lowered Chelsea’s casket into the ground, and it hurt my fucking heart, but what could I do? At that point, I didn’t exist. Only her grief did.
There hadn’t been a funeral for Jonathan. As far as anyone knew, he was still missing.
The men roared with laughter, enjoying their time around the fire. It’d been a while since we were able to laugh. Following the disappearance of Jonathan, we’d been under scrutiny from the FBI. These days, they seemed to be on the lot more than we were. God knew they’d spoken to Blondie more than me. I was nervous after the first few interviews they had with her. I thought she’d throw us all to the wolves, but she didn’t. She spoke her truth, explained what her father did, and maintained her innocence in his disappearance. We all told the FBI we didn’t know where Jonathan went after we rescued Isabelle from the crematorium. I was the only one who knew Judge murdered Jonathan, burned him, and scattered his ashes over the hot sands of Nevada somewhere. I’d take that information to the grave.
As for the business side of things…while the dust was still settling and the feds were sniffing around, business was at a standstill. We were low on money and on morale, but it was only short term, and we had to stick it out.
“He wouldn’t fucking pay me,” Modo boomed, spilling his can of beer.
Ayr snickered and shifted his leg, moving out of the splash zone. I simpered, entertained by Modo’s story. Though we kept a low profile, some of our lesser members still did runs. I envied them. Going on runs would give me something to do. Instead, I hung around the clubhouse, doing nothing. I lifted my drink and took another mouthful when I saw a flash of pink out of the corner of my eye. No one wore pink here. No one except Blondie. I turned my head, and the sight of her strolling toward us took my breath away. The setting sun hit her milky skin and bounced off her long, blonde locks. It was cool out, but she didn’t seem to care. She threaded her fingers in front of her thighs and flicked her nervous stare over our group of twelve.
As she closed the distance, I shifted in my seat and averted my attention to the bonfire. Isabelle wouldn’t be coming here for me. Since Iris sat three seats to my right, I was prepared for her to walk right on by. What I wasn’t prepared for was her shadow to darken my spot.
“She’s looking at you, VP,” Casino shouted.
Fuck. I dragged my stare from her scarred and bare feet, up her slender legs to the hem of her flowy pink dress that swayed around her knees. Most of her cuts were no longer visible, but Harlei said her feet would forever carry the heavy scarring of her father’s betrayal. I inhaled through my nose and lifted my gaze to her face. Our eyes locked. Her irises were as striking as ever, and there was a warmth to them I hadn’t seen in months. God. I missed her. More than anything. Everything about the woman who stood in front of me was utter perfection. From the highlight on her top lip to the way the wind blew strands of her hair into her pretty face. Everyone in this circle knew Isabelle Laurent turned me to putty, and they all eyed us immaturely.
I sat back in my chair and watched her. What did she want? Izzy glanced at my lap then back to my face. She wanted to sit? I moved my arms out of the way, and she turned and lowered herself onto me. I peered awkwardly at Judge, who smiled and finished off the remnants of his beer with a single swallow. What the hell was I supposed to do? We’d barely spoken to each other in months, and now she was sitting in my lap? Were we good? Was that what this meant? To test it, I placed my hand on her thigh, and it was bare and smooth where her dress lifted. Isabelle relaxed under my touch, melting against me. My dick twitched as heat gathered at the collar of my tee. I’d gone so long without her…if she made any sudden movements, I was done for.
“Anyway,” Modo continued, his British accent thick. I forced my attention from Izzy’s slender shoulders to his ugly face, which softened my hardening cock. “Where was I?”
“He didn’t want to pay you,” Ayr answered and leaned forward onto his elbows.
“Oh, right. The fucker didn’t want to pay me.”
“So what’d you do?” Ayr encouraged him, his face splitting with a wide grin.
Modo flicked his gaze to Blondie then Judge. “She’s one of us, isn’t she? Creed’s old lady?”
Isabelle straightened as Judge looked at her. He arched an eyebrow, asking her a silent question, giving her a way out. I held my breath. If she said no, she could walk away, and there wouldn’t be a thing I could do to stop it. If she said yes, she was mine, and there was no walking away from this. Isabelle glanced at me over her shoulder, but I didn’t make eye contact with her. I didn’t want to plant the answer in her head with my expression. I wanted her to do what she wanted.
“Yes,” she said. Her voice wrapped around my soul and squeezed tight. “I am.”
For whatever reason, I looked to Judge, whose eyes flared wickedly, the dirty bastard. He was smug and satisfied because he knew her answer meant he’d get her, too.
“I tied him down,” Modo said, swiping a hand down his copper beard. “And I shot him.”
Ayr laughed, tossing his empty can of beer into the makeshift cardboard bin. “Tell ’em where.”
“I aimed at his knee and as I pulled the trigger…” Delight danced in Modo’s amber eyes. “I sneezed and shot him in the nuts.”
Izzy gasped, and I laughed, squeezing her thigh. The men howled with laughter, too, and from there, the conversation separated into smaller ones. The only people not engaged in convo was Isabelle and me. She noticed, too, and twisted on my lap, awakening every cell in my body. I flicked my stare over her face, forgetting how beautiful she was, even up close.
“I miss you,” she whispered, and her admission punched me in the chest.
So many weeks had passed, and it never crossed my mind that she missed me.
“I miss you, too,” I said without hesitation.
My stomach turned at the heavy feeling of being vulnerable, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted her to know I missed her, that I wanted to be close to her. I craved to hold her, touch her, kiss her. More than anything, I desperately desired to hold a conversation, to hear her voice in my ears. Her silence and avoidance fucking hurt, more than any wound I’d ever suffered. And I hated it. I hated I felt that way—hated that I cared so much for her—because it made me weaker.
Isabelle leaned closer and touched my cheeks. I hadn’t shaved in a while, but I could still feel the softness of her hands and the warmth radiating from h
er palms. Her eyes flickered to my lips and back.
“Do you hate me?” she asked, leaning in until her chest touched mine. “It’s okay if you do…”
Worry swam in the pools of her blue eyes and made my heartbeat through my chest. The smell of her, leather and lavender, wafted through my nose, and I forgot where I was. No one else existed. I only saw her and the flames that danced behind her.
“I hate a lot of things,” I told her. “But not you. I could never hate you.”
Izzy closed the distance between our lips and kissed me tenderly, until little sparks of static danced over my skin. When she finally broke the kiss, I was dazed, and her lips were swollen. Our breath eagerly clashed, our grip on each other significantly tighter than it was when we started.
“Can we go?”
I threw my unfinished can of beer to the floor and grabbed her as I stood up. She cursed as I took her whole weight in my arms, and she yelped as I put her over my shoulder.
“Don’t bother me until tomorrow,” I called to everyone, smoothing my hand over Izzy’s backside.
They hollered, shouted, and booed, but I couldn’t hear them over the pounding excitement in my ears. I made a beeline for the clubhouse, spurred on by Isabelle’s laughter.
Once inside, I pulled Isabelle from my shoulder, and she wrapped her legs around my waist. We kissed, hungrily, and I was thankful I knew the layout of the club like the back of my hand. In my room, I lowered Izzy to her feet, and we continued to kiss while we yanked off pieces of each other’s clothing and tossed them away. I hated the way my head spun from all the beers I drank, and I shook my head, willing the sensation to go away. I wanted to be in the moment. I wanted to be focused. I was hyperaware of the way she touched me, and I searched for any kind of hesitation in it, any hint that I was going too hard, but she reciprocated, squeezed me as hard as I squeezed her. So I didn’t stop. I was relentless. I was desperate to feel every inch of her, desperate to get her out of her lingerie. She cupped my face as I plunged my tongue inside her mouth and gripped the hem of her black lace panties. I tugged, ripping the seam, and she gasped as the fabric gave away on the left side of her hip. I moved to the right side and caught the lacy fabric between my fingers as Izzy planted her hands on my chest. The back of my calves hit the leather, and she broke the kiss.
“I want to taste you,” she panted then shoved me onto the couch.
I fell and was caught by the leather. I stared up at her, at her disheveled hair as strands whirled around her face, and at her eyes, which were a wild blue. Fuck that. I wanted to be inside her. Now. I gripped her wrists and pulled her onto me.
“Later,” I said as she straddled my hips and pressed her breasts to my chest. It drove me crazy. “I need to feel you on me.”
I swallowed the distance between us and shoved my tongue in her mouth. While I kissed her, I moved her tattered panties to the side, and she maneuvered her hips and took my cock out of my unbuttoned jeans. The zipper bit into the base of my shaft, but I didn’t care. I was too distracted by the way she was taking control, by the way she flexed her hips and slipped her soft, wet, and warm entrance over my tip and took me inside her. I shivered and groaned. It felt like a lifetime ago that I was with her like this. She was perfection. My perfection.
Isabelle moaned into my mouth, kissing me harder. I flexed my hips, wanting to get deeper, to feel more of her. When I was as deep as I possibly could be, she peeled her lips from mine and tilted her head back with a moan. I squeezed her ass in my hands and licked the column of her throat as she grinded on me. She felt good. She always felt good. I gritted my teeth against the pressure building between my legs. There was nowhere for me to go to get away from the pleasure she was giving me.
I broke the kiss and clamped down on her ass, imprisoning her in my grip. “Christ, Iz.”
For the first time in my life, I’d reached my peak in an embarrassingly short amount of time. It was a testament to how bad she turned me on. Sensing it, Isabelle stopped moving and cupped my face in her warm palms. I stared into the glistening pools of her eyes, and she flicked her thumbs over my cheekbones. I knew in that moment, as she stared at me so affectionately, that I’d do anything for her. Izzy was the metal to my magnet, the bright sun in my dark universe, and I knew—without a doubt—I’d fallen in love with her.
◦ I Z Z Y ◦
I cup his handsome face in my hands and admire the way the setting sunlight pours in through the window and surrounds his head, like a halo. Though James Creed wears the devil’s name on his back, I’m convinced he’s an angel. In fact, his tummy-tightening smirk is the only thing I find devilish about him.
He’s been infinitely patient with me over the past two months. I’ve avoided him like the plague because I needed to heal mentally, and physically, before coming face to face with him. I needed to make sure I was able to talk to Creed without spiraling back to that night. The first few weeks, all I could think about was his large thumbs buried inside my father’s eye sockets. I’ve never witnessed such violence, but Judge helped me process it. He showed me how to focus on the fact I’d be dead if it weren’t for Creed and that the violence was a necessary evil. Judge also told me he was the one who ended my father and that Creed’s aggression was nothing compared to what he did. I swallow the urge to shudder. Creed is scary, but Judge is something else entirely.
Mostly, I drown in the grief of losing my best friend so horrifically. I couldn’t save her. I…I didn’t even try. I was so consumed by revenge, by the idea of outing my father on live television, I didn’t consider that my actions would condemn her to such a violent death. I thought my father was bluffing, and I’ll never forgive myself for it.
All things considered, I’m in a good place today. I don’t ever want to discuss what happened. I just want to put it behind me and move forward with the man who saved my life and has provided for me these past few months. Without him, where would I be?
I’m pulled from my thoughts by Creed’s index finger as he gently glides it along my lower lip. He locks me in his dark, whiskey gaze, and my stomach tightens. I squeeze him between my thighs, and although we aren’t moving, he remains rock hard inside me.
“I was scared,” he says, an embarrassed look crossing his features. “That I was gonna lose you…that I was losing you.”
“You saved me,” I murmur. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re all I have now.”
Creed swallows hard.
“Do you love me?” he asks, brushing his nose against mine.
My eyebrows lift of their own accord. Do I love him? Do I love the man who fought for me? Who saved my life? As far as I know, I’m the only Laurent from our family tree there is left. My parents have no siblings, and both their parents have long since passed. Chelsea is gone, and I don’t care where Pierce is or what he’s doing. All I have is Creed and the mischievous band of weirdos that’ll follow him to the end of the world, and that’s more than enough.
“Yes.” I touch his hair, pushing my fingers through it to massage his scalp. “Do you love me?”
I hold my breath until my lungs begin to burn. I didn’t realize how bad I want him to love me—how bad I need him to love me.
Creed’s irises turn lively, their honey rivers sparkling. “Yeah.”
Then he crushes his mouth to mine and kisses me in a way only he can. I open my mouth to him, and his tongue is right there, moving against mine, as he releases a husky groan of pleasure. I love the masculine sound of him and the giant buzz of energy he sends through my veins.
Creed smooths his palms over my backside and moves to my thighs. He pushes me then digs his fingers into my flesh and pulls me back, making me grind against him. Heat blooms over my body, and I take the lead, rolling against him while I push my tongue into his mouth. I know he’s dangerously close to spilling over, that he’s holding on for my sake, but I don’t need him to. I slow my kiss and pay attention to my tongue as I move it at a languid pace against his. Creed’s groans surround me�
�his cursing and swearing, too—and my name is a shot of pure arousal on the tip of his tongue, making the skin on the back of my neck vibrate deliciously. Breaking the kiss, he lowers his forehead to my collar bone and groans again. He tightens his grip to a bruising pressure, and I feel him spill and pulse inside me as his heavy breathing turns uneven and quick. I’m held still, imprisoned in his grip, and we remain like that well after he softens and his breathing returns to normal. Afterward, he lowers me to the couch, and we lay chest to chest, our legs a tangled mess, our mouths only inches apart.
He’s gentle and caring, dancing the rough tips of his fingers up and down my side, eliciting goosebumps. He treks his touch everywhere, down to my thighs, my calves, and the sides of my feet. His touch is muted there by the heavy scarring, and insecurity eats away at me, like acid on rope.
“Did you see my feet?” I ask, pressing my fingertip to his throat to caress his Adam’s apple.
Sympathy flashes through his eyes. “Yes.”
“They’re ugly.”
“Ugly? They’re not ugly.” He frowns in thought. “You want me to kiss ’em?”
“What?” I laugh and snuggle closer. “No. I don’t want you to kiss them.”
“They’re not ugly. Nothing about you is ugly.”
