by Kim Jones
Shrugging, she looks down as she pulls the bottom of her pants over her bare feet. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Why can’t you sleep?”
“You’re so nosey.” Her playful comment is nothing more than a distraction. I guess she doesn’t want to talk about it. So I don’t push further. Instead, I stand and grab the bottom of her pants and tug. “What are you doing?” She tenses, but I manage to uncurl her legs from under her. Ignoring her question, I pull her feet to my stomach, rubbing my hands over her soft, cold skin.
Moments later, she relaxes—propping her elbow on the gas tank. “I missed you,” she whispers and my hands still a split second before continuing to caress the tops of her feet.
“I find that hard to believe.” I avoid her gaze, but by the sharp intake of her breath, I’m sure she’s staring at me wide eyed.
“Is it?”
“I’ve been gone for five years, Maddie. Today is the first time I’ve seen you since I left.” I’m not angry at her for not coming. I get it. But she has no right to tell me she missed me. Not now. Not five fucking years later.
“What did you expect me to do?” Her tone is defensive. She feels guilty, but that’s her own damn fault.
Wrapping my hand around her ankles, I push them from my stomach. Jerking them from my hold, she tucks her feet beneath her legs. “Tell me, Marty.”
“I didn’t expect you to do anything, Maddie.”
“Then why are you pissed at me?”
I let out a breath of laughter, shaking my head at her. “I’m not pissed.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not. But it’s obvious that you want me to be.” She opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out. “Look, it’s water under the bridge. Let’s just forget whatever it was we had and try to be friends.”
To my ears, my solution sounds pretty damn rational. But for some reason, it pisses her off. “Fine,” she snaps, clambering off the bike and poking her tiny finger in my chest. “But would it have killed you to say you missed me too?”
“You’re un-fucking-believable,” I mutter, looking down at her. Is she serious right now?
“And you’re an asshole, Marty,” she spits, like my name tastes like shit in her mouth. It’s like she’s trying to piss me off. Or push me away. But that look that tells me she wants me to fuck her still shines brightly in her eyes. She can’t deny it and I refuse to ignore it.
“If you want something from me babe, all you have to do is ask.” I want to smile. I wanted my voice to be playful. But there’s nothing funny or joking about this moment. I want to fuck her. And just as bad as I want it, she wants it too.
“I’m not asking you for shit.” She turns to stomp away from me, but I catch her arm and jerk her back. When she opens her mouth, I’m not sure if it’s to scream, yell or spit in my face—and I’ll never know.
Crashing my lips to hers, I take advantage of that pretty little smart mouth and sink my tongue inside it. She responds by grabbing the back of my head and pulling me closer.
I missed a lot of things while I was inside, but everything that makes a woman, was what I missed the most. The warmth of her skin, the smell of her hair and the taste of her lips. The way she moans softly. The way she begs for more. The power I feel from knowing I’m about to bring her to the edge of the Earth, push her off the side, then catch her when she falls. It might’ve been women in general I missed, but it’s this woman that I craved most.
“Fuck me,” she demands, breaking free of my kiss only to whisper the words against my neck as she licks and bites her way across my throat. When she slides one hand down my chest, across my stomach and grabs my cock through my jeans, I let out a low growl.
“Damn.” My fingers curl around her thick ass that fits perfectly in my palms. She lets out a small gasp at the easy way I lift her around me and I want to roll my eyes. Maddie’s weight is no competition for my strength, and regardless of what I’m sure she thinks, her fuller figure has never looked or felt better.
Kicking open the door to the clubhouse, the lyrics of “Sad But True” by Metallica, fill the smoky, dark room. Glancing toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms, I see Scratch and a group of women. To avoid the crowd, I walk toward the bar—my eyes centered on Maddie as she massages her tits and tries to grind her hips against me.
“Get out.” I growl to the two women at the bar and they immediately leave. I push through the swinging door that leads to the small kitchenette and find the first wall I can to push her up against.
“Fuck me to this song,” she commands, before grabbing my face and invading my mouth with her tongue. I unwrap her legs from around me, forcing her to stand. My tongue continues to massage hers as I push her pajama pants and panties to her knees.
I break our kiss, turning her and pushing her against the wall, grinding my hips into her ass while I keep her arms pinned above her head with one hand and undo my jeans with the other.
“If you want me to fuck you to this song, it’s gonna be hard and fast.” I tell her, as I kick her feet apart with my boot.
“Yes!” She pants, pushing her bare ass against me. The back door is open and the room is cold and damp. Goosebumps cover her tanned, naked skin but her body is on fire. My fingers find her pussy, making sure she is wet and ready for me, and I’m not disappointed in what I find.
“Is that me making that pussy so wet?” I ask, positioning the head of my cock at her entrance. I hear her moan in anticipation, but I want an answer. “Is it?”
“You fucking know it is!” She yells over her shoulder—her body rocking impatiently. I wait until the right moment in the song then bury myself completely inside her. Not giving her a chance to catch her breath, I start fucking her hard and fast, just like I promised.
My eyes roll back in my head as I struggle to maintain focus and not explode. She feels so much better than I remember. She is tight, wet and warm. She smells like fucking summer—like the coconut and honey lotion she always uses. I never knew the scent could be so damn sexy.
I match her moans every time I feel her pussy squeeze with every thrust I deliver. When she starts begging for more, I stay buried in her as I shift her to the left until she is bent over the sink with her ass in the air. I push further inside, my cock so thick and deep that her breath catches. For a moment, I’m afraid I’ve hurt her. But she pushes back against me, telling me she wants it and she can handle it.
I pull almost all the way out before slamming into her again, watching as her perfectly fat ass bounces when my body collides with hers. I grip her hips and pull her back to meet me, fucking her harder, faster and in the same rhythm the song demands of me.
Her screams of pleasure are so loud, I’m sure everyone in the bar and the house can hear them. And I don’t fucking care. Apparently, neither does she.
“Oh, fuck!” The guttural sound rips from her throat, and I feel her as she comes around my cock. I pick up my pace and lift her ass in the air to fuck her as deep as possible. She has perfect timing. While she is still coming around me, the song ends and I’m filling her with my own release. My eyes are in the back of my head. I’m making a sound I didn’t know I was capable of. I don’t think it can get any better. But when she speaks, it does.
“I forgot how good it feels when you come inside me.”
Fuck this girl will be the death of me. I pump in and out of her slowly, teasing us both while we fight to catch our breath. I’m already hardening inside her again, and know I have to pull out or go for round two. But, the sporadic jerks that come with the aftershocks of her orgasm have been replaced with constant shivers that wrack her whole body—she’s fucking freezing.
I pull out of her—my dick shrinking to an embarrassing size without the heat of her pussy to shield it from the cold room. Tucking myself in my jeans, I adjust my own clothes before pulling her up off the sink. She is dead weight and I can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since she was fucked like this.
I jerk her
pants up her shaky legs quickly, while she pulls her arms inside her t-shirt searching for warmth. Since she’s barefoot, I easily lift her in my arms and carry her through the outside door of the kitchen and over to Luke’s house. By the time I make it there, she’s scrambling to get out of my grasp.
“Um,” she starts, pushing her hair behind her ears nervously and avoiding my gaze.
“Don’t, babe.” I shake my head and give her a small smile when she finally meets my eyes. “No pressure here to say anything. We’re both adults.” She seems relieved. I’m relieved that she’s relieved.
“Good night, M-Marty.” Through her chattering teeth, she still manages a smile. “It’s good to have you home.”
She turns to go in, and I can’t help but laugh at the irony of what we’d just done. We might not want each other emotionally, but physically, we were perfect together. The song I’d just fucked her to was more than fitting—our reality might be sad, but it’s damn sure true.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Marty
For the next several days I find myself falling into my prison routine. I wake, shower, eat and workout. Then, instead of working in the field or doing maintenance, like I did at Parchman, I ride. I keep to myself, staying at my small, two-bedroom house, which is exactly the same way I left it. The club kept the lights on, the yard mowed and the women maintained the inside.
The property is secluded—several miles off the main highway and only fifteen minutes from the clubhouse. The house is an older, wood-framed home that was built in the fifties and could use a fresh coat of paint. I scratch that down on my to-do list for the week. It’s not like I have shit else to do.
Before I went in, I was a bouncer at a big sports bar the club owned in Hattiesburg that drew most of its business from the college crowd. It’s our main source of income and almost every member is employed there. We make our money the legal way—something Luke promised when he took over as President ten years ago.
But I can’t be around big crowds right now. There’s too much happening with too many people I don’t know. I don’t trust myself as a bouncer. My patience is too thin and I’m still adjusting to the outside world. On top of that, I can’t be employed at a bar because it’s violation of my parole.
So, Luke has given me some time to get my shit in order, and is finding me something better to do. In the meantime, he’s put me on his personal payroll for his private company—Carmical Construction. If work weren’t so slow right now, I’d be building houses and cutting timber. Since there’s nothing for me to do, I’m letting him pay me to sit on my ass, and the club is refunding him the money on my behalf. Brotherhood.
Thursday morning, I wake to banging on my door. I wrack my brain trying to figure out who the hell would be at my house at seven in the morning. Then it hits me.
Shit.
Grabbing my piece from under my pillow, I lift the board in my bedroom floor and shove it inside the secret hiding place. My eyes scan the room for any other violations. Once I’m sure it’s safe, I open the door to greet my parole officer.
This is the first time I’ve laid eyes on this woman. I’ve talked to her on the phone once, but I never expected to see something quite like what I’m witnessing. She’s got the body of a supermodel--flawless skin, captivating dark eyes, long blonde hair and big fake tits that nearly fall out of her shirt. I can’t help but wonder how many felons have gone back to prison for violating not just their parole, but their parole officer.
She stares back at me—clearly used to this reaction. Finally getting over the shock, I step back and wave her in. “Morning.”
“I’m gay,” she says, waiting for me to acknowledge her admission before she steps inside.
I give her a smirk. “Don’t give a shit either way, ma’am.”
“It’s Emily. My grandmother is a ma’am.” I can tell by the grit in her tone and the steel in her eyes that she doesn’t tolerate any bullshit. I like her already.
“Coffee?” I close the door and make my way to the kitchen, leaving her to snoop around my place.
“Coffee would be good. I like it black.”
I shuffle through the cabinets, thankful that the ladies stocked them just before I got out. I grab a box of Poptarts and two mugs as I wait for the coffee to finish. Loading mine with cream and sugar, I leave hers black, grab our breakfast and walk back to the living room.
Emily is sprawled across the couch, seeming a little too relaxed for a woman in the home of a convicted felon. I hand her the coffee, offer her a Poptart that she accepts and take a seat in the recliner. While she eats, I sit in appreciation of the silence as the strong coffee slowly wakes me up.
“Got a job yet?” she asks, casually.
“Yeah. Carpenter at Carmical Construction.”
“Any weapons in the house?”
“Nope.”
“Any homicidal thoughts or,” she pauses, leaning over to flip open the folder that lays beside her, “thoughts of pyromania?”
I smirk. “No.”
“You adjusting to life on the outside in a positive manner? Had any panic attacks or sudden fits of rage? Pre-meditated actions against those that accused you? Been in a physical altercation or any situation where thoughts of bringing harm to someone else occurred?”
I wait a beat before answering, making sure she’s finished. When she looks at me expectantly, I answer. “No.”
Pulling the paper from a folder, she grabs a pen from between her breasts then leans over and hands it to me. “Sign this.” I scan the page, finding that she’s already checked off the necessary boxes. Satisfied with the answers, I sign and pass it back to her.
“Good coffee.” She holds up her cup to me, taking another sip before announcing, “Well, gotta go.” She stands and out of respect, I stand too. “Call me if you have any questions. Hated to wake you this early, but I have a big weekend planned.”
“Not a problem.” I follow her to the door, expecting her to turn around any minute and tell me she’s just fucking around, before she really starts drilling me. I’d heard horror stories about POs when I was inside—especially female POs. No way could it be this easy. But, apparently it is. Without another word she gets in her car and leaves.
For the next few hours, I keep my guard up and my guns hidden just in case she shows back up. When I’m convinced she won’t, I take a shower—noticing the lack of water pressure. I crawl under the house to inspect the issue only to find several of my pipes busted from last night’s freeze. Fuck. My carelessness pisses me off. I’m still kicking shit when my phone rings.
“What,” I snap, to whoever in the hell is on the other end.
“What’s up your ass?” Red.
“Nothing.”
There’s a brief pause before she answers. “Okay…” I hear the strike of a lighter and the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. “I’ll play the guessing game I reckon.” Considering she’s just lit a cigarette and took a seat, I figure this is gonna be a long conversation. So, I light a cigarette for myself. “Were you jerking off?”
Her question makes me smile and relieves some of my frustration. “No, Red. I wasn’t jerking off. My pipes busted last night during the freeze.”
“Awe man … I hate that!”
“Yeah, me too,” I mutter, dreading having to fix all of them. It’s not the work that bothers me. It’s the tiny space I have to work in.
“Oh well, sucks for you.” She laughs, and suddenly I have visions of choking her. “I’m cooking at the clubhouse tonight. I’m calling to officially invite you.”
“Since when do I need an invitation?”
“Since you became a hermit five days ago. Come. Maddie will be there.” She sings the last sentence, and I ignore the way my dick swells at the mention of Maddie’s name.
I thought I could fuck her and get her out of my system. It didn’t work. I figured if I ignored her, she’d come beating down my door, demanding an explanation as to why I hadn’t called. That shit didn�
��t work either.
“I’ll try to make it,” I say, knowing good and damn well I’m going. Red must know it too.
“See you soon.” She hangs up without a goodbye.
I kick a few more times at the dirt before going inside to leather up for the ride. But before I head to the clubhouse, I need a fucking drink.
The flashing sign that reads Our Place is a welcome sight when I ease Elvira into its shitty little parking lot. I nod to the couple sitting on the bench outside as I walk in the dark, smoky bar room. The place is unusually busy considering it’s not even noon. My eyes immediately scan the six hundred square feet looking for patches. But instead of a patch, I find something else that catches my attention. Or should I say someone.
Maddie.
She’s sitting alone, nursing a glass of cheap whiskey. An empty barstool separates her from the old man on her left and the young guy on her right who’s trying a little too hard to get her to notice him. Walking up behind her, I shoot a look of warning to the young prick and offer a nod to the old man.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” I tell the bartender and notice her stiffen at the sound of my voice before spinning her stool around to face me. Damn she’s gorgeous.
She wears no makeup, but her hair is stacked neatly around her face as always. Her legs are covered in those stretchy pants that fit tight and make her ass jiggle when she walks. They’re folded beneath her and I can see the mismatched socks on her feet. She’s kicked off her boots and they lay at the foot of her stool. The sweater she wears swallows her. It’s old, the club’s name is faded and I’m sure if I looked at the tag, my name would be written there.
“What are you doing here?” I smile at her words that aren’t slurred, but slow. My eyes move to her glass, silently asking what number drink she’s on. “It’s my fifth. What are you doing here?” There’s something about the way she answers my unspoken question that turns me on.
I take a seat in the empty stool between her and the young guy who hasn’t given her a second glance since I walked in. “Pre-dinner drink.”
