And then I thought, Wait – he’s coming inside me.
Without a condom.
HOLY SHIT!
“NO!” I shouted, and pushed at him frantically.
He was already at the tail end of his orgasm, so I think he was relaxed enough to be merely bewildered and not angry.
“What?” he asked, mystified.
“You came inside me!” I yelled angrily, pushing at him until he was out of me and sprawled out beside me on the bed.
“You wanted me to!” Jack protested. Now the anger was creeping into his voice.
Of course, that little comment – and his tone – brought out the rage in me.
“Who the fuck are you to tell me I ‘want’ you to come inside me?”
“‘I’ll let you come inside me’?” he snarled, and I could tell by the intonation that he was quoting me. “Remember saying that when I dropped you off at your motel this morning, and you wanted me to come inside and fuck you?”
“I…”
Oh shit.
Yeah.
I had said that.
Of course, that was before I had found out he was lying about my room being tossed by Roach. And before I had begun to question if he had my safety as his highest priority.
“That was this morning,” I said coldly.
He stared at me. “It was a couple of fuckin’ hours ago.”
I turned over on my side and balled up into a fetal position. “You still should have asked before you did it.”
He sat there on the bed, incredulous. “What the fuck is up with you? You were so hot to have me come inside you earlier, and you basically were doing everything you could just now to fuck me – ”
“You still should have asked,” I insisted, refusing to look at him.
There was silence for a moment, then I both felt and heard his weight get up off the bed.
“Fuck this shit,” he muttered angrily, then left the room.
40
I lay there on the bed and tried to figure out why I was so angry and feeling so sick.
It wasn’t that I was worried about getting pregnant. I was on birth control.
And it wasn’t fear about catching something. We had already had sex without a condom, and I believed him when he’d said he was clean.
No… it was that I couldn’t trust him.
He’d lied about Roach tossing my room and said it was the Santa Muertes.
God knows what else he’d lied about.
To do something that intimate with someone you don’t trust…
Part of me was glad he’d just gone ahead and done it, because if he’d asked, I would have hesitated and said ‘no.’ And then he would have asked why, and it would have devolved into something weird and awkward. And then maybe he would have suspected something…
Suspected something.
That was the other thing.
How much did he know about me? About me being a PI?
About Eddie and the DEA?
Paranoia circled around me like buzzards in the sky, occasionally landing to take a sharp, jabbing bite at my innards.
I had no idea how much I could trust this man. No idea how much he cared for me, if he cared for me…
And then, like clockwork, I would come back to the image of him carrying his boots into the bedroom so as not to wake me.
Of him racing off after the gunman at the Seven Veils to try to save his life.
Of him beating up the sleazoid at the counter at Charlie’s to defend my honor.
Jack Pollari was a good man.
I didn’t know if I could trust him… but then again… I was lying to him, too.
Maybe those two things cancelled each other out.
I got up off the bed and went to go find him.
41
Jack
Something was definitely wrong here.
I sat on the couch as I got dressed, trying to figure it out.
I suppose she could be telling the truth about me coming inside her. Hell, I’d know a lot of chicks who freaked out about less than that.
But it didn’t fit. She’d been teasing me with it, dangling it in front of me just a few short hours before.
She didn’t say shit when I slipped inside her without a condom.
It was like there was something she wasn’t telling me. Something she was worried about, and this just happened to be the release valve where all the stress came out.
Was Lou right on the money? Was she a DEA agent?
How the fuck was I going to get it out of her, short of beating it out of her?
But something was definitely wrong.
Suddenly the bedroom door opened and she was standing there in the doorway, clutching the bedsheet around her.
God she was beautiful. Tussled hair. Gorgeous breasts pressed behind her arms and the sheet. Long shapely legs.
Who knew that a woman like that could be such a goddamn liar?
Potentially.
There was no way to know for sure. That I could see anyway.
She walked over and sat down next to me as I was putting on my boots. Put her hand on my leg.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“That’s nice,” I growled.
“I was freaking out. It was a lot, you know? And I’m exhausted, and I… I just freaked out.”
I stopped putting on my boots and looked over at her.
“You’re right,” she continued. “I told you earlier I wanted you to, and you didn’t ask in the heat of the moment because you just assumed. I’m sorry I freaked out on you.”
I looked into her eyes and gradually relaxed. “Apology accepted.”
She gave me a little smile and tilted her head towards the bedroom. “Come back to bed with me and maybe we can finish that nap?”
I took a few seconds to answer, but I answered in the affirmative.
“…okay.”
She led me towards the bedroom.
As she did, I thought back to every other argument I’d ever had with a chick.
They didn’t just give in. They didn’t rationalize it out and come to a different conclusion and apologize. They usually hunkered down with their hurt feelings, whether they were wrong or right, until the guy came to them asking what was wrong. Except I never did that, so in my experience, they usually start screaming at me when I act like I don’t give a shit.
I don’t reward bad behavior, so I tend to just freeze a woman out if she’s being a bitch. When she’s ready to talk, I’ll talk.
But Fiona had come out here on her own, giving reasons why she’d been wrong. She’d extended the peace pipe long before it was even reasonable to expect anyone to. She’d had a good case to be upset, and she’d ditched it and went straight for the apology.
Something was definitely fucking wrong here.
42
Fiona
We slept fitfully for about six hours. He didn’t touch me once, and I kept to my side of the bed, too. The lack of physical touch was painfully obvious.
After our growling stomachs became too loud to ignore, we finally got up and fixed dinner. He grilled steaks out on the patio, and I pulled together a salad from the meager vegetables in his fridge. We made small talk over drinks – me with a glass of red wine, him with a tumbler of scotch. I had the night off from work – hell, for all I knew, the Seven Veils was shut down after the shooting – so there was no rush.
Darkness was starting to fall when we finally sat down with our food in front of us.
That’s when it got weird. Or weird-er, anyway.
“How’re you holding up?” he asked.
“Okay.”
“It’s been a lot of stress.”
“Yeah, it has.”
“You really held it together in the Seven Veils after the shooting,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“A lot of women would have cried or collapsed or something. Not you. It was like you had ice water in your veins.”
I looked up. I suppose
the statement could have just been a compliment – especially coming from a badass biker – but it felt like there was something underneath it. Like he was probing for why I hadn’t cried or collapsed. For why I had ice water in my veins.
Like he suspected something.
I played it off with a smirk. “Do I seem like a crier to you?”
“No, you don’t. Especially not after last night.”
“I’m not particularly girly that way.”
“So I’ve noticed. Did you go through a lot to get that way?”
I looked him straight in the eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. You been through a lot of high stress stuff in your life?”
“Like what? Was I beaten as a child, is that what you’re asking?”
“No, Jesus, that’s not what I meant.”
“I’d done Krav Maga. That’s about it.”
“Nothing else?”
I was starting to get really edgy now. “Like what?”
He shrugged, went back to his steak. “I don’t know. Just making conversation.”
I kept quiet and went back to my steak, too.
“Do you lie a lot?” he asked.
I frowned. “What kind of a question is that?”
He shrugged. “My ex-wife used to lie all the time. Constantly, for no real reason, even about stupid shit. I don’t know, it was just a thought running through my head.”
“Oh.”
I tried to ignore the question, but he pressed me again. “So – do you lie a lot?”
“I’m about to: this steak’s the best I’ve had in my life.”
He grinned and flipped me the bird. “Fuck off.”
“My compliments to the chef,” I said snarkily.
“Hey, if you don’t like it – ” he said, getting up to take the plate away.
I grabbed onto the plate and huddled over it like a dog protecting its food. “I like it, I like it.”
He sat back down, chuckling. “No, I’m serious – do you lie often?”
I sat there looking at him. This conversation was seriously wigging me out.
“Lots.”
“Like what?”
“It’s big. It’s really big. The biggest I’ve ever had. No, honey, you’re the best I’ve ever had, too.”
He laughed out loud. “The cuts just keep getting deeper and deeper.”
“What made you think I was talking about you?” I said with a flirtatiousness I didn’t feel.
“Nothing at all. If you’ve ever had anything bigger, I don’t know how you’re still walking.”
That was kind of true. Although it pissed me off that he was so confident about it.
And right.
“My, aren’t we proud of our little pee-pee,” I said darkly.
“Nothin’ ‘little’ about it.”
That was true, too. But again… what a jerk.
“Are you always so self-congratulatory?” I asked.
“Are you always such a bitch?” he asked with a smile, like, Hey, we’re all kidding around! with an undercurrent of Fuck YOU. For real.
“You haven’t seen me be a bitch yet.”
“So… you’ve been keeping a mask on all along, and the real truth is underneath?”
I was agitated. I was tired. I was still on edge. And my emotions were raw.
I didn’t handle his button-pushing so well.
“You mean… have I been lying?” I snapped.
His gaze was now anything but fun and light. “Well, that does bring us around to my original question.”
“It sounds like you have something to say. So why don’t you stop being a pussy and come out and say it?”
THAT got him.
His entire face clouded over, and a scowl formed on his brow. “I just want to know if there’s anything you want to tell me.”
At this point I was full-on freaking out internally.
He knows he knows he knows he knows
But I didn’t show it. I’m pretty good about my poker face. Plus I was still angry at him, which helped. Anger is my go-to emotion under stress. And it helps camouflage other emotions, which is handy.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” I asked.
“Quit parroting my words back at me like a three year-old,” he ordered.
“I’m not used to being interrogated by guys I’ve fucked before, that’s all,” I seethed.
“You haven’t seen me fuck you yet.” Now that scowl became an ugly smile. “If I’d fucked you, you’d know it.”
God, what a conceited, arrogant fucking BASTARD.
“Now that you mention it,” I said, “it wasn’t so much ‘fucking’ as just fucking amateur hour.”
BAM. Drop the mic, walk offstage.
I stood up to go.
He stood up too. “What are you doing?”
“Getting my things,” I said as I crossed the room towards the bedroom.
He moved faster and got in front of me. “Why?”
Truth to tell, I was the tiniest bit startled. Right there in front of me, it was obvious how much bigger he was. How much more upper body strength he had in that massive chest, those muscular arms.
I thought about kneeing him in the groin and breaking his nose, but the situation didn’t really call for that.
Yet.
“I’m going back to the motel.”
“You’re room’s destroyed.”
“I’ll get another one.”
“You can’t. The Santa Muertes are after you.”
I wanted to say, Santa fuckin’ Muertes my ass! We both know it’s YOU who’s lying, you son of a bitch!
Instead I said, “I’d rather take my chances with them than stick around with the asshole here.”
I moved to get past him –
He grabbed my arm. His hand was like a vise on my slender bicep.
“I won’t let you,” he said.
Ooooh. Shouldn’t have said that.
“You won’t let me?! You can’t stop me, jackass!”
I pulled a Krav Maga and peeled his pinky off my arm, twisted my body, and at the same time let all my body weight go slack.
I don’t care how strong a guy is – when he’s going to get his finger broken and you’re directing force against the weakest part of his grip, he’s going to let go.
Which he did. He swore, then pinned me against the wall with an arm across my chest.
A picture frame rattled a few feet from my head.
Oh, now it’s ON, fucker.
I went for the nuts. Kicked right between his legs.
He twisted at the last second, so I kind of slid up his thigh with my kick. I connected, but not directly, and not nearly with the force I would have liked.
He grimaced – I could tell it didn’t feel good – but then he picked me up and threw me bodily across the room onto the sofa.
My adrenaline shot through the roof.
I rolled onto my back and as he came at me, I kicked outwards. Got him in the gut, then spun off onto my feet.
He rushed me again and did a full-on body-slam against the wall.
WHAM.
It knocked the breath out of me.
I don’t know what it was, but in retrospect, it kind of turned me on, too. In a really dark way.
He pinned my arms up over my head and pressed his body against mine so that I couldn’t move my legs or torso. His hips ground into my hips, his chest against my breasts.
If we hadn’t been in a full-on fistfight, it would have been a very erotic position.
Fuck it. Even though we were in a full-on fistfight, it was still a very erotic position.
He looked down at me with smoldering hatred, beads of sweat running down his face. “You fucking bitch.”
“You stupid, macho shithead,” I spat back at him.
There was this second, this charged moment of electricity where he was scowling into my eyes, and I was glaring into his –
And suddenly we were kissing.
And I don’t mean kissing like what we’d been doing the night before. Hot but romantic. Sensual.
No, I mean like two animals going at it. Full-bore, no-holds-barred, like you’re not sure whether they’re trying to fuck each other or kill each other.
My jaw hurt from how hard he was kissing me. My skin felt raw from the stubble scraping across it. I wasn’t sure if he was going to devour me or bite right through my lip.
So I bit his instead, hard enough to draw blood.
I could taste the copper tang.
“Ah!” he hissed as he drew back, shocked – then grinned wickedly. “You fucking BITCH.”
And then he went at my neck, biting me so hard I thought he might take a chunk out of me.
I loved it.
I couldn’t get enough.
I wanted to hurt him, and I wanted him to hurt me.
He pulled me struggling and flailing into the bedroom and slammed me down onto the bed. Started ripping off my clothes. Like, rrrrriiiiIIIIP.
I got wet from the sound of it.
I whipped off his belt and tugged down his jeans.
He was only semi-hard, so I took his cock in my mouth and fixed that in about five seconds.
But I used my teeth, raking them across the surface of his velvety skin. At the same time I handled his balls roughly in my right hand, squeezing them as hard as I could.
“JESUS,” he swore, then slapped my hands away, picked me naked up off the bed, and threw me a couple feet up higher.
And then he just fucking tore into me.
His cock, already wet and slick from my mouth, pushed hard and deep into my pussy, which was wet on its own.
I wasn’t entirely ready, though, and the sensation was on the painful side as he forced himself deep inside me. No easy-does-it, no slowly-in-and-slowly-out, just I have to be inside you in the next three seconds or I’m going to die.
I liked it.
Fuck, I loved it.
I hit him hard, open-handed, across his cheek. SLAP!
In return, he put his hand over my face and pushed my right cheek into the bed.
Then he started to fuck me.
Midnight Deceit: A Midnight Riders Motorcycle Club Romance Part 3 Page 8
