by Naomi West
"Yes. Oh, yes. Make it now. Take me there one more time. Take me to the stars."
After holding back so long, the moment had crept up on me. One minute it seemed that I could go all night, the next I was hurtling towards orgasm with nothing to stop me. All self-control was gone, all stamina spent. The best I could hope was to pound Cassidy to one more stellar moment of release on my way to my own inevitable, unstoppable conclusion.
There was a moment when I genuinely thought we might break the rickety old bed, so hard did we go at each other in those dying seconds. But this section of the evening was destined to be brief. I simply could not hold back any longer, and, for the first time in my short sexual history with Cassidy, I came first, and harder than ever in my life. When I was nineteen, I got shot in a street fight, and the sudden shock, the blank, white heat coming from nowhere overwhelming everything as my body redirected all resources to this one catastrophic emergency—that was the only thing in my life to which I could compare that orgasm.
Cassidy was only a split-second behind me, and, after watching her come a hundred different ways tonight, it was strangely gratifying to see one simple mind-blowing climax. It was as if every orgasm she had had that night had only been ninety percent, keeping that ten percent somewhere in reserve. Throughout the night, those leftover percentages had been building, waiting for this moment, the moment of her one hundred percent orgasm, at which point they all flooded into her, making it about five hundred percent.
Or perhaps all this stuff about gun shots and percentages is bullshit. It's easy to reach for wild superlatives when you have the best sex of your life, because it's hard to find words that adequately describe it. But the words don't matter. What mattered to me was that, when the fireworks had died down, when we had gotten our breath back, and our hearts had slowed down to a normal rhythm, when we were lying on the bed together, bathed in sweat, holding each other, Cassidy whispered into my ear, "I love you too."
Chapter Nineteen
Cassidy
I would have given anything to stay in bed late the following morning. It had been a long few days, and I had seldom had the chance for rest, on top of which, my body ached from head to toe, every muscle strained. But it was a delicious ache, one I felt that I had earned and one I relished. It wasn't as if it had been particularly athletic sex, certainly not compared to some of our other sessions. But Archer had made my body twang like a bow-string, he had made every muscle taut with desire, and he had done so for a very long time. There had been many times, especially since I turned eighteen, when I had hated my virginity and was so desperate to lose it that I thought of giving it rashly to anyone who would take it. It was such a relief to find that I had done the right thing, and that by waiting I had allowed myself to find the right person. Boy, was I being rewarded for waiting.
Despite the rigors of last night and the plethora of aches and pains in my deliciously ravished body that morning, I still found myself wanting to shower with Archer. My desire for him was as potent as ever. But we had already stretched Polo Carter's hospitality pretty far. It would be nice to think that he had not heard us last night, but he probably had. Making love in his shower would have definitely crossed the line. Besides, we needed to get moving quickly that morning. The longer we waited, the greater the chance of something happening to tear this tenuous deal apart. So, there was no sleeping in for me.
"Morning," said Polo, as Archer and I entered the kitchen. "There's coffee in the pot. Then we should head out."
Archer nodded. He too understood how important it was to get moving on this, though if he was worried he did not show it.
I poured myself a much-needed coffee and leaned against the counter top, staring out the window to drink it. It was going to be a tough day, one way or the other, and there was no way of knowing how it might end, but the thing that was bothering me most right at that instant (perhaps rather selfishly) was that there seemed no way of getting through the necessities of today without facing my dad at some point, which was not something I was looking forward to.
I glanced out of the window, and the blood in my veins turned to ice. Seeing my dad at the station was not something I was looking forward to, but at least it was a controlled environment, and Archer and I would be seeing him in a professional capacity. Seeing him at the station would be a hell of a lot better than, for instance, him turning up here, unannounced. But that was just what he had done. Out of the window, I saw his car pulling up.
"Oh no ..." I couldn't think of anything more original to say.
"What the hell is he doing here?" Polo asked, seeing his career flash before his eyes.
"That's probably not the first question we should be looking to answer," Archer said. "What do we do?"
"Hide!" I was panicking.
But Polo shook his head. "He'll see the car. It's the one you stole, and he probably knows the plates by heart. We've got to be upfront."
I had a feeling that being upfront wasn't going to be as easy as it sounded. That feeling proved correct seconds later when my father crashed through the door.
"Where the hell is he?"
"Ben ..." Polo began.
"I'll deal with you later!" Dad pointed an accusing finger at Polo. Then he saw Archer. He didn't say a word, launching himself at the man who had stolen his little girl. Dad was not a small man, by any means, and he was tough as old boots, but Archer was bigger and stronger. I think in a fair fight, Dad would have been wily enough to get in a few blows and hold his own, but Archer would have taken it. But this was not a fair fight. Archer was not going to hit my dad while I was there, so he simply tried defend himself. My dad, meanwhile, driven by blinding rage, had no such limitations. As Archer dodged a blow, Dad drew his gun and cracked Archer across the forehead with the butt.
I screamed as Archer went down. Dad raised his gun again, and I ran forwards, putting myself between the men I loved.
"No! Dad! It's not how you think! I'm in love with him, and he isn't what you think, and he's going to help you ..." I babbled on desperately, just hoping I could keep Dad away from Archer long enough for Dad to start thinking clearly again—thinking like a sheriff rather than a hurt father. "He came here to turn himself in. To turn himself in! He's going to help you catch some Mafia guys. Ask Polo! And if he you had said no, then he was going to go to jail without trying to get out of it! He wants to help. He's trying to do the right thing. Ask Polo! And he never hurt me, Dad, he never once hurt me!"
Dad's gun hand dropped, and Polo took the opportunity to step in.
"It's true, sir. Maybe I should have told you last night when they showed up, but. .. what with him and your daughter, I wasn't sure how you might react. To be honest, sir—and you know how deeply I respect you—I wasn't sure if you could be entirely unbiased where Cyprian is concerned."
Dad's face was unreadable as he spoke. "And what were your plans concerning my daughter?"
"We were all going to the precinct this morning," Polo continued. "Once Archer was either an official informant, or in jail, I was going to take Cassidy home, so she could talk to you. For what it's worth, sir," Polo spoke a bit more cagily now, "and I know it's not my place, I think this thing between them is genuine. On both sides."
Still, Dad's face remained set in stone. "Mafia guys?"
"He claims to have information."
"And if he doesn't?"
"He'll stand trial for selling hooch, stealing that car outside, and whatever else we've got on him."
"Which is probably a fraction of what he's done," my dad grunted.
"Probably," said Polo. "Where the law is concerned, anyway. But I don't think he's hurt anyone who didn't have it coming."
"Maybe."
Polo took a little bit of a risk. "You know, he could have had you just then. You dropped your guard when you went for your gun. A street fighter like him, he'd have had you, if he'd wanted you."
Dad was silent a while longer. "Rassi?"
"Yeah."
&
nbsp; "Get him on his feet."
During this exchange, I had helped Archer up into a sitting position, wrapped some ice in a towel, and had been holding it against his head. Now, I helped Archer up. He was pale, but still strong, and met my father's eye unafraid. Dad returned the stare.
"You all right?"
"I've had worse," Archer said.
"I've given worse," Dad replied, with implicit threat
"You've got a good arm.”
"I'm guessing you have, too."
"In my day."
Dad nodded. "You and I are going to have a little talk about some things. In the living room."
I tried to walk with Archer, but he stopped me. He could manage by himself, and, clearly, I was no part of this conversation. I watched the two most important men in my life walk out, Dad closing the door behind them.
Polo poured himself a cup of coffee. "Well, this is either going to go very bad or very good. Nothing in between."
"You think there's a chance of very good?" I was grasping at whatever hope there was on hand.
Polo shrugged. "I think stopping your father from beating Archer to death is a definite step in the right direction. I wouldn't have put money on that. Father and daughters, you know?"
I wasn't sure that I did. "He's never really taken that active of a role before."
"I don't think he was ever really scared before," said Polo. "Your dad doesn't confide in me, or anyone else, really. But, if I had to guess, I'd say that whoever you've been with in the past, he hated them, but never feared them. With Archer, he's torn. On the one hand, he wants a man who'll be with you forever. On the other, that's every father's worst nightmare. He'd rather a man who cared about you than a one-night-stand. On the other hand, it's the one who cares about you who's going to take you away from him. I got chased by a couple of angry fathers when I was younger. They were all angry, but it was the father of the girl I cared about who I thought was about to kill me. No father wants their daughter to be treated like a sex object, but at least those men aren't going to take her away."
I listened carefully. I had never really thought about it like that before.
"There again," Polo continued, "Whether it's a quick fling, or a lifelong relationship, there are several billion men in the world your father would rather you picked than Archer Cyprian."
"If it wasn't for me, Dad would give Archer the deal," I assessed glumly.
"If it wasn't for you, he wouldn't even be here," Polo corrected. "Before last night, I'd have laid money that there wasn't an ounce of good in Archer. You didn't make him good, but you showed us—hell, you showed him—the good that was there all along. That's a bit of something."
I smiled. I was more grateful than he could realize to hear that.
"Your dad's trying to take the personal out of this," Polo went on. "Which is a tough ask under the circumstances. Hopefully, he'll give Archer the chance to explain why he told your dad to pick you up at the motel and then ran off with you again. Once your dad understands that he had your best interests at heart, I think he'll get down to business. Then, it's up to Archer."
"What do you mean?" I asked. I didn't pay much attention to my dad's work.
"If he's got the goods on Rassi, then he's home-free," Polo said. "Hell, even if your dad had heard what the two of you were up to last night," I blushed vividly, "if Archer can give us Rassi, then your Dad will throw him a parade."
"You really want this guy," I said. It was a pretty dumb thing to say, when I thought about it.
"We want him. We want his organization. I'd tell you some of the things we think he's done, but which we've never been able to tie him to, only the thought makes me sick. He is a bad man on a whole other level. But that's why we have to be sure. If we go into this and fail, then your dad and I, and especially Archer, are going to be targets for Rassi and his boys. And the sort of executions they stage aren't the nice polite ones that the state is inviting him to. They take days."
I shuddered at the thought. But I was feeling better about Archer's chances. Dad might never have liked him and might like him a whole lot less because I was in love with him, but he believed in serving the community. He was a good sheriff, and the chance to rid his town of someone like Rassi was not one he would turn down.
As I thought this, the door re-opened, and Archer came through with Dad behind him. Dad looked from me to Polo, his face as frustratingly unreadable as ever.
"All right," he said, finally, "Let's do it."
Chapter Twenty
Archer
I've done stuff in my life that I haven't wanted to do. I've done things that have needed to be done, but have been difficult. I've found myself in awkward situations and places I would rather not be. Never, in my life, have I felt more uncomfortable or less happy in the place in which I had ended up, than when sitting down to negotiate the terms of my freedom with the man whose daughter ran off with me. And, of course, that was only the tip of the awkwardness iceberg where relations between myself and Ben Dupont were concerned. I found myself unwillingly wondering, would he ever be able to look at me and not think, 'This man is doing my daughter?’ Certainly, I could never look at him without thinking, 'I'm doing this man's daughter, and it's the best sex I've ever had.’ Of course, I tried not think about it, but the more you try not to, the more it dominated your mind. I could only imagine how it was affecting Dupont.
That being the case, our conversation went extraordinarily well. At the start, I was constantly on the alert for him leaping across the room to pistol whip me again, but soon I realized this was not going to happen. As ever, the one thing you could say about Ben Dupont was that he played by the rules. He might have let his emotions get the better of him earlier, in the heat of the moment, but that was an anomaly. He was here to do a job, and he would do it professionally, only ever mentioning his daughter when it was necessary to clarify the story I was relating. I, in turn, tried to be equally upfront and honest. I hid nothing. I gave him the bare facts, exercising a certain laxity over detail where Cassidy was concerned. Dupont neither needed nor wanted a blow by blow account of our relationship.
The sheriff remained tight-lipped and stone-faced throughout, but at the end, he nodded curtly and outlined how we might proceed. I had told the truth, and he had recognized that. We got up and shook hands, not as friends, but as men who found themselves on the same side and trusted each other. Perhaps also there was an unspoken bond in that we both cared for Cassidy.
"One more thing," Dupont said as we headed for the door. "I hardly think it needs to be said, but I'm going to say it anyway."
"If I hurt Cassidy, you'll kill me?" I suggested.
Dupont shrugged. "I was going to say 'cut your balls off and feed them to you,’ but I guess that would probably kill you. So, yes."
I nodded. "I would never hurt her."
Dupont watched my face with the same granite expression he had worn throughout, and I think he once again recognized that I was, indeed, telling the truth.
When we re-entered the kitchen, and Dupont delivered his verdict, I kept my eyes on Cassidy. The sight of her face lighting up in relief and happiness was worth everything. Whether she admitted it or not, Cassidy had been torn by the loyalty that she felt to me and to her dad. These few days had been difficult for her and had forced her to address feelings that had lain dormant a while. It had been so easy, a week ago, for her to go against her father's wishes and hook-up with the bad-boy biker. In fact, it had been a wicked pleasure for her to break his rules. But, strangely, in breaking those rules, she had learned how much her father meant to her, and how much hurting him rebounded on herself and was an almost masochistic urge. I liked to think that I had played some part in that learning process, and that I had brought daughter and father closer together. If all this went wrong, which it easily still could, then perhaps that might be the legacy of my relationship with Cassidy—that she and her father would be closer than they had been for years. It might end up being the one
honestly worthwhile thing I had done in my life.
As I watched her now, these thoughts playing through my head, I found myself a little woozy, and leaned against the door frame. Cassidy reacted instantly.
"If that's all settled, can we please do something about Archer's head? He's bleeding."
"Barely at all," Dupont said, perhaps feeling a little guilty for hitting me.
"I've had worse," I said.
Cassidy rolled her eyes. "God save me from men who think medical care is an affront to their masculinity. I'm sure you'll make a very manly corpse, but not a very useful one. So how about you let me put a bandage on it?"
