by Rie Warren
“They should’ve been protecting you, not making you their punching bag.”
“You’re an only child, you don’t know how siblings work. We tend to be assholes to each other a lot of the time but there for each other when the going gets tough,” she explained.
I wasn’t an only child. It was just that no one knew the truth, and that was certainly something no one would ever find on a book jacket.
She savored another mouthful of ice cream. “Anyway, a few years ago I decided to get some formal training, for self-defense.”
“Why? Have you been hurt before?” Shit. I didn’t like the sound of that at all. I half rose from my seat.
“Maybe. A few times.” Cat shook her head. “It’s in the past. It doesn’t matter.”
That’s what I always told myself, too.
“I can handle myself, Nick. I can handle you, and rest assured, I can handle your dog.”
There were shadows in her past, clinging to her. I was sure of it. But Catarina didn’t want to talk about it yet and I didn’t want to scare her off. “Well, Viper’s an easy lay, as you saw earlier.”
“Sometimes girls are best.” Cat’s eyes danced.
“You give good banter.”
“That’s not the only good thing I give.” She winked.
Oh yeah, she was definitely warming up. Any hotter and she’d start a damn fire in my pants. I wanted to keep with the wooing, but she made it difficult to keep my hands to myself.
“Well fed?” I asked after she finished the last of her ice cream.
“Very much so.”
How I wished well fucked was next on the menu, but that little thing called courting Cat kept me from inviting her up to my bedroom or back onto my lap. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been avoiding life.” Her confession was quickly covered. “And men. Relationships. Yes, you. Anything that can get me into trouble.”
“You look like the type of woman made for trouble, Wildcat.”
“That’s exactly the problem. And you’re too sexy for my own good, Nick.”
I started smiling. “How’s that a problem again?”
She jumped to her feet and the heels of her boots were gunshot loud. “With your long hair and your body at the gym today, and . . .” she spluttered. “You don’t think sitting beside you while you’re just all there doesn’t affect me?”
“You do the same to me.”
“You get to me, and I don’t want to be got at.” She slung herself into the chair next to mine.
“I like getting under your skin.” Pulling her chair closer, I pinned her legs between mine. I caressed along her neck until I cupped her face. “If you give us a shot, I guarantee I’ll make it worth your while.”
She slammed her lips against mine. This kiss was volatile and urgent as our tongues fucked against each other. I slipped back for a moment, listening to her jarred breaths. That goddamn ponytail had to go. I freed the elastic as she unbuttoned the shirt I’d thrown on earlier. Playing with the line of hair down my torso led Cat to my jeans. Her palm cupped my hard cock hidden beneath the rough fabric.
Fuck. FUCK!
Straight black sheaths of sweet smelling hair fell to her waist. “Jesus Christ, Cat.”
My fingers spun through the silken strands. When she claimed my mouth once more, that black velvet curtain closed around us. With one hand at the back of her head, the other on her waist, I pulled her into me. The sweet wet pressure of her mouth and tongue made me dizzy. Her gasps and moans were hot as hell.
“Stand up for me,” I ordered.
When she did, I kicked her chair away. She stood between my spread legs. Her pale blue irises were almost eclipsed by her pupils as she gazed down at me.
I skimmed a knuckle along the buttons on the front of her shirt. “Any more ink?”
“Maybe you’ll have to find out.”
I unbuttoned her up-to-the-throat, down-to-the-wrists top. Underneath was a scant black bra, the cups overflowing with mounds of flesh.
I gave her a wicked grin. “I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more than uncover you inch by inch.”
Kissing her stomach, I listened to her gasp. I worked her shirt down her arms, leaving it bunched at the wrists by the cuffs. The flat of my hand moved down the center of her body and back up. When I reached the front clasp of her bra, I gave it a tug. “Can I?”
She inhaled shakily. “Yes.”
I unclasped the hook, and oh holy shit. Her tits burst forth. I rocked back in my seat and stared. “Maybe not any more ink, just these beauties?”
“Nicky,” she whimpered.
That was the best sound on the planet, but it wasn’t to be outdone by the sight right in front of me. I touched the very tip of one nipple, barely holding myself in check. But fuck, I wanted to feast on her with my eyes before I sucked on her with my mouth. Her teardrop-shaped tits were topped by plum-colored nipples. But that wasn’t it, not by a long shot. Cat’s sexy, dusky-colored nipples were fucking pierced. I circled one with my fingertip, then the other. I tucked my finger into the dangling filigree decoration hanging from one piercing and flicked it.
“Nicky,” she groaned, her hands digging into my hair.
I lifted my mouth to her, sucking a hot, pert pearl of flesh into my mouth. Sucking it in, letting it slip out. Nibbling on the jewelry, I tugged it with my teeth until she moaned. And because I was pretty damn sure I’d never get enough of having my face in her tits, I moved to the other one. Licking, tonguing, suckling. Oh yeah. The suckling, she liked that, maybe as much as I was getting off on it. Her moans escalated the longer I held her nipple and jewelry in my mouth, curling my lips around her. Grunting, I moved into the deep valley between. I lapped there too.
I sat back for a moment. Her tits glistened, and the color of her peaks was even deeper. Her skin was pink from my face rubbing against her. The piercings swayed with each of her breaths, her hips did too, silently asking for more.
“Sexiest woman I’ve ever seen,” I growled.
I reached up and pulled her face to mine. My lips were rough on hers. She was just as hungry, lashing her tongue into my mouth, rasping it across my teeth and cheeks.
I let her go. I needed more of her breasts. “I’m gonna be here awhile. You don’t mind, do you?”
She quickly shook her head. Her long black hair swished around her back. Her mouth opened, but all that came out was a long low mewl. The sound set my stiff cock right on the edge of release. I swooped down to nuzzle and tease her some more. With my hands clasped at her waist, my thumbs circled her taut belly, which trembled.
I unbuttoned her jeans. “How about this, darlin’? Is this okay?”
Her nails scratched across my scalp, pulling me closer.
I’d take that as a yes.
I unzipped the jeans that were molded to her hips. Closing my eyes, I was surrounded by the feel of her skin and the sounds she made. I slid my palm inside. The drum of her tummy quivered beneath my fingertips. I skimmed to her hipbones. I pushed one side of her jeans down, coming into contact with the thin string of her panties. Or—Jesus Christ—a thong. Moving back to the center of the barely lowered denim, I pushed my palm in again. The jeans were tight but I was goddamn determined. I stroked one finger down her center, groaning around a mouthful of breast. She was ripe cloven fruit, smooth and soft. And when I parted her lips with a fingertip, she was wet. So wet. Slick bare skin and wet heat engulfed my finger.
My phone went off. I was so fascinated by slipping my finger in and out of her, pinching her nipples and gasping at her breasts I almost didn’t hear it.
“Oooh. Oh God, Nicky.” Her hands slid to my back, gripping hard. “Your phone. It’s, it’s . . .”
“Leave it.” My voice was so gruff it was nearly inaudible.
Too bad the fucking cell wasn’t inaudible, too. Cat extricated herself, breathing hard. There was sweat on my temples, and my hands clenched thin air where her breasts had been. My cock strained�
�long and hard—inside my jeans.
“Get back here.”
She shook her head, her kiss-swollen mouth curling into a teasing smile. Leaning against the table with her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, she knocked something onto the floor.
My phone. And the bastard thing started ringing again.
As Cat picked it up, she must’ve unlocked it because she peered at the screen. Then she stared at it with wide eyes . . . just before she glared at me. “Oh, did you dress her up, too?”
She tossed the iPhone in my lap. On it was another fucking picture from Pandora, dressed up as one of my many female characters. Except this time strategic sections of the outfit were missing . . . around her tits, her stomach, her crotch. And the pièce de résistance was the pretty little script at the bottom that said: FANGASM!! Xoxo~
When Cat’s arm wound back, I practically heard the incoming air raid siren. Her open palm hit me with another of her famous slaps hard enough to make my neck crane.
I rubbed my cheek. “Guess you had to get that one in since I wouldn’t let you box me.”
“That’s the only way I’m ever going to lay a hand on you.” She struggled with her bra and shirt, and zipped her jeans. “And I wouldn’t be caught dead—literally—dressed up as one of your tarts. So you can shove your costumes up your ass. Once you get your head out of it there should be plenty of room.”
Fuuuck. I stood and followed at a safe distance while she stormed through my house. Her hair whipped behind her like a long black banner. The front door slammed, her Dodge revved up, and she probably shredded oyster shell on the way out.
Having witnessed the entire show, Viper click-clacked toward me. She snuffled into my palm and whined pitifully.
“Yeah, I like her too.”
Goddamn. Wildcat was hardwired to explode at the least provocation. And for whatever reason, I stood there with a dumbass grin on my mouth.
Chapter Six
Halloween Humdinger
ON HALLOWEEN NIGHT, STONE’S was lit up like the Red Light District in Amsterdam. It wasn’t lacking for scantily clad pieces of fluff either—the female clients had come out in full force and minimal clothing. People honked and hollered as they drove by. They hooted and “hell yeah’d” from the packed parking lot to the heaving garage bays. All the doors had been thrown open except bay five. Lights were strung, and the ghoulish decorations rivaled Boone Hall Plantation’s Fright Night. The first annual party was a BYOB-event catered by the owner of the Pick ’n’ Ninny barbecue joint, a longtime customer of Stone’s.
I hopped from the Jeep, whistling at Viper to follow me. One of the regulars called out to my girl, and she scampered off into the throng, no doubt looking for grub to chomp or a leg to hump. Live music pumped from The Pit, echoing through the interior of the garage when I shouldered inside. I hung a louie, hitting the reception area.
With a six-pack in hand, my mask in place, I had one face on my mind. True to form, Wildcat hadn’t made a single move to apologize for her hotheaded, highhanded moment, and that just made her hotter.
Fuck, I am masochist.
I didn’t expect her to show tonight, not after her last blaze of glory. She didn’t really seem like the party hearty type anyway. Of course, that didn’t stop me from inspecting every single lady in the joint, hoping for a glimpse of sexy inked arms and long jet-black hair. I better not see her tits out and nipple piercings on show. Although that was just as unlikely, since she was usually buttoned up from her wrists, to her neck, to her lips.
Except when I kissed her. Except when I hit one of her famous nerves.
In addition to the darkside decorations and party verve, there were two new, framed photographs hung on the wall behind the counter. I plunked my six-pack down and leaned over. Damn. Billy Stone, Josh’s grandfather, and James, his father, were up there side-by-side for all to see. A family tree of sorts, just like the photos Josh had in his house, running up the staircase and around the living room. The pictures in his and Leelee’s house captured every single milestone moment—and some of the messier ones—of his, the kid’s, and Leelee’s lives. It was a beautiful tribute to family most people wouldn’t associate with big, buff Josh Stone.
And he’d gone and done it again here.
A heavy hand clamped onto my shoulder. I looked over to see Josh nodding at the photographs of his pops and grandpappy.
“Shit, man.” I patted his hand where it lay on my shoulder.
He took an unlit cheroot from his mouth. “Yeah.”
We stood beside one another, admiring the photos. “That’s pretty cool you put them up here.”
“They’re always here, every day, you know?” He rubbed his chest.
A lump bobbed up and down my throat. “I know.”
“It was all Leelee’s idea.”
“It’s perfect for them, for you. For Stone’s.”
That was when I cleared my throat and he pulled a blink-blink move.
Christ, if he didn’t get hitched soon and we didn’t stop having these bro moments, I’d have to invest in therapy again. Or goddamn Kleenex.
The only photos I kept of Daniel were scanned onto my laptop or hidden away in albums I couldn’t bear to look at. They gathered dust on an upper shelf in my den. I took them down once a year to pry them open. To remember then to shut down those memories before grief and guilt devoured me from the inside out.
Daniel would’ve loved this party. As a Trent Reznor wannabe, he’d gotten into all things dark, gotten in over his head. He would have loved this place; the way oil always clung to the nostrils and the noise of the garage filtered in through the senses. The last thing we’d done together was pool our money—his from sources I never knew about, mine from allowance and odd jobs—and bought a straight-up vintage POS Indian Scout bike. We pushed it to his flophouse and spread out the parts in the middle of the main room. During the day, sun streamed in through tattered curtains. After sunset, bleak black candles dripped onto chipped saucers creating a hardened waxy terrain.
For those few hours, for those last days, we were just brothers again without the heavy load of our parents’ hoity-toity bullshit tearing our family apart. I never asked him if he had enough money to eat or pay rent. Shit hole like his was a squatter’s delight. I did make sure to tuck all my spare cash amid the tools we left on the dingy white sheet the bike parts were laid on.
When I left at twilight to get home to dinner and homework, he always walked me to the door. With an arm slung around my shoulders and his taller frame against mine, he’d said the same goodbye every night. Be good, Nick. Be smarter than me.
I just hadn’t paid enough attention to what was going on with him. Not until he was too far gone and it was too late.
“You’re zonin’, braw.” Josh squeezed my neck.
“But not dead zonin’.” I cracked open a beer.
Squinting at me, he tapped his unlit cheroot against the counter. “Are you getting enough sleep? You hit your deadline with Witches, right?”
I had to smile as he went all concerned big brother on me. “Yeah. Done and dusted, fucking literally. I started blocking scenes for Bitches.” I took a long pull of my beer.
He continued to study me, concern squirreling between his eyebrows.
“I’m good, Josh, so you can stop trying to see into my soul.”
He broke into a shit-eater of a grin. “Good, because I thought your get-up might be gettin’ to ya.”
I glanced down at my costume. I wore a white shirt with black Spanish scrollwork open down my chest. A sword on my hip. Leathers tight enough to be indecent on any other day of the year, aided by my commando approach, and gleaming black boots.
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“I mean Fabio’s getting on in years, right? There’s probably a little senility happening.” He rapped his knuckles against my temple.
“I am not dressed as fucking Fabio.”
“Rafael the swashbucklin’ sex god?” He mention
ed the dude who’d been in the LitLuv cover model competition with him.
“Shut up, asshole. I’m Zorro.”
“Ah, the masked man.”
“I thought that was the Lone Ranger.” I swigged down to the bottom of my beer.
“Well, you got that part down pat.” He noted my obvious lack of a date.
Schmuck.
“Up yours, Tonto.”
As he laughed over the rim of his beer, someone else shouted, “Hey! Nice sword, Nicky. Does it swing both ways?”
My head shot around. There was Mick. I couldn’t tell what he was dressed as, other than a prick.
Then Popeye aka Ray toed up beside us. Dressed in a striped shirt, puffing on a dime-store corncob pipe, he added, “Yeah man, nice sword. You shine that yourself?”
Motherfuckers.
“Nice sword? That’s not what Cat said.” Josh grinned.
“Fuck you all.” I glared at Josh. Outfitted in a dapper white suit, white shirt, and a thin black bowtie, he ruined whatever effect he was going for by not losing his habitual five o’clock shadow. “What the hell are you? A rake, a scoundrel? A Regency romance hero?”
“Rhett motherfuckin’ Butler, dude.” He tipped his wide-brimmed planter’s hat, and just like that, his Scarlett O’Hara materialized on his arm.
Leelee was done up in a perfect gown depicting the dress made from the green velvet portières of Tara. Holding a fan in her white-gloved hand, she whipped it open in front of her face.
“I heard y’all from across the room. What’s it to be? Duel at dawn, boys?”
“C’mere.” Josh grabbed her waist and lifted her against him. “Pretty sure I got somethin’ for you to duel with at dawn, forget about Nicky.”
“Why, you rogue! Put me down this instant before folks start talking.”
“Not gonna happen, babe.” He buried his hands in her hair and sank down to her mouth.
One of the partiers let out an earsplitting whistle.
Someone else yelled, “There you go, Stone!”
He flipped the bird and kept right on kissing his woman. After he set her down on her feet, she whipped the fan out again, double time. “Rat.”
