by Zoey Parker
But I’m merciless, pumping her good and hard. When she tries to speak, I pull it out, shake it in her face, remind her, “You’re for listening and fucking, that’s all.”
Then, when I’ve thrust it back in and she’s writhing with animalistic grunts, teetering on the edge, I pull the gun all the way out.
“You had enough?”
Her eyes flutter open and she gapes at me.
I lift the gun, shrug.
“You’re right, this is sick. Wrong. I should stop.”
Panting, she shoves her pelvis up at me.
“What’s that?” I ask, then, leaning in, add, “Go on – you can tell me.”
“More,” is all she can come out with.
And oh, more do I give her. I shove the gun all the way in, pumping her wet cunt eagerly, so fast she can only moan with pleasure. I ratchet up the pace until she’s thrashing back and forth, her moans growing, her body trembling. Finally, I slam into her so hard she falls back, a cry breaking free of her lips, her pelvis exploding into tremors, while I keep pumping mercilessly, and grab her tit.
After her tremors have subsided to a soft trembling, I pat her head, tell her.
“Now, my dear little slut, I will fuck you.”
Chapter 14
Toni
He throws me onto the bed, which is good because I can barely move. He spreads my legs, then slides himself all over me. Like those full body strokes, only now it’s his cock doing the stroking.
When it gets to my mouth, I slip my lips over it, reveling in its incredible hardness.
He pulls himself back, pats my head.
“Good, but right now, he can’t wait. There’s something else he’s been wanting all night.”
He drags it all along my trembling body. Until he reaches my pussy, which I shove up to join him.
He gives me an amused look, and shoves himself into me.
After so long wanting it, the pleasure leaves me shaking.
Jesus, he’s a perfect fit, just the right size. I’m so… full.
“God, you’re tight,” he says, as his cock twitches with its own joy in me.
He pulls out until only the tip is in, then shoves himself back in all the way.
“I’m going to carve you into my size,” he growls.
My hands claw at his back and he starts pumping himself into me, my pussy screaming ecstasy with every thrust.
“A custom fit,” he says, his half-lidded gaze on my pussy.
He shoves himself in harder, and then harder.
“This is my pussy and I will do to it what I see fit.”
And then he’s jerking himself into me firmly, pitilessly, each thrust more intense then the last.
I grab his buttocks, pull himself into me more, harder. I can’t take any more and yet more is exactly what I need. Already I’m almost at the edge.
His lips meet mine, and my teeth bite at them, draw blood.
He raises his hand, shoves himself into me the hardest yet.
Our eyes meet and I smile, glance at his raised hand.
“Do it,” I say, “Do it.”
And he pulls out then shoves himself back in again, his cock meets the back of my pussy at the same time his hand meets my cheek, and my stinging pain fuses with my singing ecstasy, and my joy is streaming down my legs, his cock jerking inside of me. And I pull it out and he drags it over me, one final full-body stroke leaving a spray of white in its wake.
And then my body is one up-down stroke of his pleasure, and we immerse ourselves in each other.
At some point, I’m being lifted again, brought back to the tub again, my old friend. I’m being cleaned. I’m lying on the floor as something white is tossed beside me, and something white is picked up and put in its place.
And then I’m tucked into the billowing whiteness, into the ivory limbs of the white man, and then all is silence.
###
When I wake, we’re in a tangle of blankets and limbs and soft breaths. Every breath seems slower, more relaxed.
Words spill out of my lips, just part of the calm in-time breathing, just natural.
“What do you think of sex trafficking?”
We both stiffen at the same time, and I close my eyes in horror.
Why in hell’s name did I say that? Am I trying to give myself away?
Now his chest is a hard plate and his eyes probing searchlights.
“Why do you ask?”
I close my eyes again, try to burrow into him deeper.
“I never really thought of it, but lately I found out more about it, looked into it deeper, and it just sickens me.”
He doesn’t answer for a minute, and then he shifts.
For one terrible second I think he’s getting out a gun, a knife.
But he just pulls me in tighter, murmurs, “Me too. It’s always easier not knowing, not really thinking about it, staying in the dark. But it’s not honest.”
I peer into his face.
The words don’t belong to him, to Gabriel Pierson, fearsome leader of the Rebel Saints, the unfeeling, hardened sociopath.
And yet, as my gaze traces the edges of his sculpted profile, the high, proud line of his cheekbones, the noble slope of his nose, the hanging too-big lower lip, I realize I’m not looking into the face of Gabriel Pierson at all.
The man I’ve heard about is more legend than fact, caricature than real person. This man in front of me, however, this man I’ve experienced first-hand, is nothing like the stories led me to expect.
I grab a chain on his neck.
“What’s this?”
His hand closes around mine.
“That was from my mother.”
“Oh.”
I release my grip, but he doesn’t release his.
“She’s dead,” he says, “She was the kindest, most gentle woman I ever knew. And she died.”
His hand squeezes mine.
“She was shot,” he said, his voice loud, angry.
I glance to Gabriel’s face. The mask of cold fury with narrowed slits of eyes and flared nostrils is almost unrecognizable.
My hand feels like it’s being squeezed into dust.
“Hey,” I say, but he’s deaf to my words.
“Hey,” I say, louder this time, pulling back.
Coming back, Gabriel releases me, shakes his head.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say, curling back into his chest.
He strokes my head absently.
“She was the best thing in my life and now she’s gone. My dad’s never been around, so now it’s just me and my sister.”
His hand stops.
“Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear my whole family sob story.”
The words come out before I can stop them, “My mom’s dead too.”
“What?”
“She killed herself.”
My words leave a long absence in their wake.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I don’t say anything more, wipe away the tears forming in my eyes. If I get started crying, I’ll never finish.
If I tell him how my mom killed herself because of something my dad still won’t admit he did, I’d have to explain that, when my dad stayed at home after her death, I forgave him. If I tell him how my dad is a brave man, a loving father and a criminal all at once, then he’d connect the dots on just who my father really is. And who I am.
“I knew there was something strong in you, something hard,” Gabriel says, half to himself, as he picks up his stroking of my head.
“You have no idea,” I whisper.
And it’s tragic and horrible, because I’m really starting to like Gabriel, whose name I’m not even supposed to know. Despite everything I’ve heard and know, despite the fact that it could never work, I do. I like him, and I know if he ever found out, all this would be over. I like him even knowing this – that he could never like me.
“So, have you really read War and Peace?” Gabriel is asking me, a st
range look on his face.
“Have you?” I shoot back.
He shrugs.
“I always saw myself kinda like Prince Andrei.”
“Well that is dangerous,” I say, “Because I always saw myself kinda like Natasha.”
Our gazes meet, and I find a smile slinking to my face against my will.
I glance away.
“So, no last names,” I say.
When I glance back, Gabriel has an amused look on his face, says, “I don’t know your first name.”
I sit up.
“It’s Toni. With a y.”
Changing the last letter of my name isn’t going to fool anybody, but I’m too tired to think of another name.
But Gabriel’s face betrays no suspicion. He nods. “I’m Gabriel. With a G.”
We laugh, and I almost feel like telling him everything. Everything from me being the head of the Piccolos to me lying about the last letter of my name.
Instead, I turn to face the ugly painting on the wall, address its gray furball of a sun, “This is nice and fun, but I’m busy, you’re busy. No last names.”
“Ok,” he says, his voice competing with mine for hardness.
I stand up.
“And no talking about what we do. Nothing to identify what we do. This is an escape, that’s all.”
His hand grasps my arm, tugs me back.
“Agreed, but just a bit longer.”
I turn into his smoldering gaze. He squeezes my shoulder, and I let myself sink back, back into the bed, into his arms. Into sweet perfect oblivion.
Chapter 15
Gabriel
I wake up happy and get up annoyed. She left. Again.
I’m always the one who leaves first, who sneaks out in the wee hours. Who feels like enough is enough.
Would having had breakfast together been the worst thing in the world?
Yet, as I storm to the bathroom, I see it. Another note.
Let’s do this again. Call me.
I smile at the neat fancy handwriting. Maybe she isn’t as through with me as I thought.
My phone rings.
“You’re up at this time? The famous Gabriel Pierson?”
The voice is sardonic and the voice is right, this is too early for me.
“Who is this?”
“Pulse. I’ve got some information on that sister of yours you may find interesting. Meet at Denny’s?”
I glance out the window. Sure enough, across the street is the promising yellow and red hexagon of a Denny’s sign.
“The one on Clair Creek? I can be there in 10.”
“I can be there in 20. See ya.”
As soon as I hang up I curse myself.
Why didn’t I just ask him right then what he knew? His voice didn’t sound sad or ominous, but what did he care if my sister was enslaved or worse?
I race around the room, throwing on crumpled clothes and shoving belongings I’m pretty sure are mine into my messenger bag.
Then I sit on my bed and stare at the bag.
It’s a Visconti oil tan classic. The leather was distressed already, so the stains I’ve accrued of the dirt, grease, and the less-than-legal things I’ve done over the years look natural.
Hannah bought it for me years ago. I don’t think she ever really grasped the full extent of what I do, but she knew it wasn’t good. And yet she accepted me, supported me, loved me. She knew this bag was just the thing I needed – some fine leather already battle-worn and ready for some more action.
I look at the bag, at all I have left of my sister now, and I say, “I’ll get you back, Hannah. I swear on my life, I’ll get you back.”
###
Even before I get into Denny’s, Pulse is easy to find. He’s the skeleton at the booth by the window, waving at me gaily.
“Hiya, Gabey,” he calls as soon as I’m through the door.
I wave back, trying not to let how jarring I find him show.
Odds are I’ll never get used to the high-pitched nasally tone or its bizarre owner.
As I sit down, I allow myself one quick once-over of Pulse: his skeleton-tattooed face, his black and pink pinstriped t-shirt showing a sliver of a very tattooed chest, his chest’s swirl of faces, clawed hands, shapes and shades, all of which somehow mesh together into an Escher-esque optical mindfuck.
“I got a kitty,” Pulse says, angling up his arm to show me a little snarling monster of a kitten on his elbow.
“Cool,” I say.
He grins, puts both hands, palms-down on the table.
“You like beans? I ordered us beans.”
“Yeah, man, I—”
“Right, your sister, of course, sorry.”
Just then Jaws comes in, smiling apologetically.
“Sorry I’m late boys,” he says as he sits down.
“It’s fine,” I say, my gaze immediately switching back to Pulse.
“Pulse here was just about to tell me about my sister.”
Pulse nods.
“Hey, nice shirt man,” he tells Jaws, his gaze flicking to the snarling tiger that looks like it’s barreling out of Jaws’ abdomen.
Jaws pats it fondly.
“Yeah, thanks, man. Tinsley found it on the internet. One of those Chinese eBay outfits that have everything but take at least forty business days to send anything. When I wear it, she just goes wild.”
Jaws stretches his teeth into another wide metallic smile, that, seeing the expression on my face, falls.
He picks up his napkin and says, “Yeah, so about Hannah, yeah?”
Pulse nods.
“Right. So, I have some contacts, okay– a contact – who will remain anonymous. Anyway she – I mean they, right, they – might have seen your sister around the Rebel Saints. Or that guy’s son. The big Piccolo head – but not him. His son. Carl of Carson or something. You got me?”
I unclench my hands, the knuckles now pink.
Before I was pretty sure that that Carlos bastard was involved, but now that I know for sure? Oh, there’s going to be hell to pay.
“So, you’re telling me,” – I inhale, then exhale, lowering my voice – “You’re telling me the Piccolos have my sister. That they took her.”
Pulse gives his head a sideways wave, the snake on his neck pulsing up then down.
“Right – well, nah. I’m telling you, according to the contact, they probably may have something to do with your sister. Or right, okay, maybe they even took her. Right, you could say that.”
“Here are your beans!” a cheery redhead says, putting a bowl in front of Pulse and, at his direction, me.
“Right, I think this guy wants beans too,” Pulse says, flicking his thumb at Jaws, who gives a noncommittal shrug.
“Great, another bowl of beans coming right up!”
“Ah and wait one second-” Pulse says.
“Yes?” the redhead says, her blue eyes widening in concern.
“Can I just say something?” Pulse asks, spreading his arms on the booth.
Jaws and I exchange a look. Here we go again.
“Of course,” she says, nodding out the vehemence of her statement.
“I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve gone to Denny’s now. And can I just say that the service you’ve provided here today, the out-of-this-world speed and – damn, just that smile of yours. I mean, what I wanna say is, it’s really something. It really is something.”
The redhead blushes to the roots of her hair.
“Oh, thank you, thank you so much for that.”
She pauses, then sweeps away, Pulse’s close-set gaze on her ass as she leaves.
“Pulse, my man…” Jaws says.
Pulse shrugs, runs a finger over the bird on his tattooed lower lip.
“Women want what they fear.”
Jaws and I burst out laughing.
