Addicted: A Secret Baby Romance (Rebel Saints MC)

by Zoey Parker

  “Don’t move.”

  I freeze.

  His gaze envelops me lazily, starts at my stockinged feet, sliding up and up, pausing on the garters, then on my pussy, sliding up further, pausing on my tits. It stops on my lips.

  He strides forward, takes me in his arms, murmurs, “I just want to enjoy you. Won’t you let me just enjoy you?”

  He kisses me, a soft wet breath of a kiss.

  I pull away, murmur back, “I want you.”

  “Do you?” he asks, then, shoving his hand between my thighs, a finger between the lips, “Or does she?”

  We freeze, both of our faces registering confusion at his words.

  “Both,” I say softly.

  He nods, face still puzzled.

  I clench myself around his finger, and he smiles.

  Takes one of my breasts and starts playing with it, shaking it, then stroking it, then kneading it, all the while his finger jerking in and out, lazily, unhurriedly, torturously.

  Then he slides the wetness to my clit, starts rubbing it in soft, slick circles, the same circles his other fingers are drawing around the nub of my nipple.

  Moans bubble out of my lips.

  “I’m going to make you cum, and you’re going to like it,” he hisses in my ear.

  He hoists me up and to the floor, his fingers pressing into my clit deeper now, moving faster, while his other hand grabs at my breast, squeezes it, slides over my nipple until it’s hard again.

  Jesus, he knows just what to say, just what to do. It all feels so... good.

  I lose myself in the feeling, the building, surging storm in my pussy, the husky tones of my moans, that seem louder than ever before, my half-closed eyes that flicker slivers of sight, all I can see is that satisfied smile of his as he ratchets up the pace more and more, until his finger is nearly digging into me and my whole body is quivering with it and he tugs at my tit and digs into my clit at the same time and I’m over the brink, in it, in the stream of pleasure, immersed in it, my vision is exploding colors, and, all the while he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up his circling, grabbing, pulsing in the slightest, while my body thrashes with it, with “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  And then I’m a crumpled-up ball, cold, except for the hands that never left.

  A button’s pressed. I’m lifted. I open my eyes.

  “You don’t get this in the tour,” Gabriel says, carrying me into a room with a long line of harnesses attached to the ceiling.

  We must be at the top now. Where they do the Edge Walk. Where there’s no barriers between you and the open air… and falling.

  Gabriel puts me down and, as if reading my thoughts, gestures to the harnesses.

  “Feel free if you’re afraid.”

  And that’s when I remember that I don’t have my gun on me anymore. Or any clothes, for that matter.

  Gabriel drops my clothes with a clatter. Clothes that shouldn’t clatter.

  He glances at me, cocks his head.

  “What do you have here?”

  I’m mute with fear as he crouches down, lifts my jacket, shakes it. Flips it over, slips his hand in, finds it. My little Colt pistol.

  The gun I shouldn’t have. The gun that will give me away.

  Gabriel raises it, points it at me, his face expressionless.

  This is it.

  But then he laughs.

  “What, you’re a cop?”

  His voice is suddenly cold.

  “No-no,” I’m sputtering, stepping back.

  Gabriel tosses the gun back onto the pile of clothes, laughs again.

  “Don’t worry. If you were a cop, you would’ve been dead already.”

  He walks up to me, eyes glittering.

  “I don’t take well to being betrayed.”

  His hand slides over my side.

  “Or not getting what I want.”

  My body trembles, but with what I’m not sure.

  He strides to the clear glass door, presses the button beside it.

  As it slides aside, a cool breeze beckons us out.

  In the doorway, Gabriel turns to me.

  “You coming?”

  I look from the harnesses to Gabriel’s easy smile.

  He’s right. He already could have killed me a hundred times; why do it now?

  I walk up to him, take his hand and let him lead me out.

  One foot out the door, the sight stops me in my tracks.

  Spread out before us is a symphony of light and color, little speckles of luminescence spread as far as the eye can see.

  It’s beautiful. It’s more than beautiful. It is heartbreakingly gorgeous. It’s… there are no words.

  “Toni,” Gabriel says.

  He’s gone and sat down on the edge. His legs are dangling down over the city 350 or so feet down.

  I stand there.

  I stare at this carefree, trusting, strong, vulnerable man, and I think: One push.

  Yes, one push. That’s all it would take. For me to end this fight, end all the Piccolo business problems, end this man.

  But I look at the brilliant white head, smiling at me with an ease that can’t be faked, and I know. I can’t push him when I want to kiss him.

  He pats his lap and, carefully, I make my way over to the edge and sit down beside him.

  He lifts me onto him, spreads his legs so I’m in between them.

  “It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?” his murmur asks my ear.

  “Thank you,” I say, my voice hoarse with emotion.

  I still can’t take my eyes off of the view.

  It’s so staggering. The immensity of the city, the play of the light and the reflection, this tableau of little life extending so far and wide. And us up here, so small and insignificant and yet, lucky – undeniably, incredibly lucky.

  “Toni,” Gabriel says, gesturing down, “You see down there - further down the tower? That’s the revolving restaurant. 360, I think it’s called.”

  I nod.

  “Next time I’m going to take you there,” he says.

  As he scans my face for the answer, I try not to let how I really feel show.

  But he sees it immediately. The easy smile on his face slides off.

  I look away, back to the city. To my wonderful home. Toronto. Where I grew up.

  Then I look back to Gabriel, who’s looking less and less pleased the longer I take to respond.

  He doesn’t understand.

  This can’t last, and it’ll last even briefer if I start taking risks. Going out places with him. Being seen in public. No, no there’s no way.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and anger ripples over his face. “That won’t be good for either of us,” I say, and his arms lock around my waist.

  My heartbeat becomes a hammer. What if that was a test – what if that was my last chance to save myself?

  Mashing his lips onto my ear, he says, “Well, I guess we better get to what we’re here for.”

  Then, in one smooth motion, he lifts me.

  Too shocked to scream, all I can think is: Now, this is it.

  But he only carries me closer to the main building, lays me down, and gets on top of me.

  “Feeling your ass against him was driving him crazy,” he growls, pressing his erection into me.

  His hand sweeps across my tits.

  “Seeing those hard nips of yours didn’t help.”

  I undo his belt.

  My pussy doesn’t feel much like waiting, now that he mentions it.

  Next is his black pants, and I wonder if he shot at my brother in these pants, how many times he’s thought of fucking me in these pants.

  Then it’s the boxers: as pink as my pussy must be flushed now. His hand’s there already, twirling one finger between my wet lips than another.

  “You make it so easy for me,” he growls.

  He squeezes my ass, and I take out his cock.

  We roll, so I’m on top of him, pulling his pants down further, giving his dick a smacking kiss on the way.


  Then his pants are at his feet, off, and I’m crawling up him, over his ivory thighs, the hairs as fine and white as spider webs, his dick tall and wide, waiting.

  When I’m in front of his dick, he lifts me by the waist, then moves me over it, so just the tip’s nestling against my pussy lips.

  Still lifted, I spread my legs further, my bare feet sliding on the metal grate floor.

  Then Gabe slams me down, a cry ripping out from deep within me.

  He grins, the falcon on his pec rippling, smirking itself at the painful pleasure ripping through me.

  This time he lowers me gently, like I’m a porcelain doll, eases his rod into me, a bit further then further.

  I’m bent over, my eyes boring into his, my hands clawing at his chest, begging for more.

  He ups the pace a bit, shoves me down a bit faster, a bit further, each time he brings me down a bit faster, a bit deeper, teasing me so that my pussy sends out more and more desperate fingers of pleasure up my legs.

  Until I rip his hands away and slam my pelvis down myself, so hard that while I moan my satisfaction at the change, he grunts his.

  Now left to her own devices, my pussy goes full-throttle. I claim his rod as my own, fuck myself on it, back and forth, up and down, then harder and deeper, over and over again. And amidst this syllable-grunting, pussy groaning, quivering fuck, it occurs to me that now – this very second, as I’m about to come – this would be the perfect time to do it, for him to kill me, to shove me over the edge, about to come, bound to die, unsatisfied forever.

  On my most intense shove yet, I pause, his cock deep in my pussy, both of us quivering with our pent-up orgasms ready to burst.

  His eyes flutter open, his mouth contorts into a snarl.

  His hand strikes my buttocks, and I’m thrown back into shaking, gripping, shoving motion, lifting myself and slamming down and then again, and amidst it all, as he explodes into me and I him, I welcome death as I die this sweet death of sorts, my whole body convulsing, as he lifts me out of myself and the pleasure is nothing short of divine, the sounds are not mine, and I am free.

  We ride wave after wave of orgasm, of shaking, tingling deliverance, until we flop back, slowly unlatch ourselves.

  After, the city is the first thing I see. The towers of radiance, the sea of shine. And nothing. There is no grate. I am one shift, one roll away from falling to my death.

  I start back, into his arms.

  He chuckles.

  “Pretty lucky, huh? Just noticed myself. Looks like we got too into it, ended up too close to the edge.”

  I don’t say anything, still horrified at how close to death I was, still am.

  I’m literally in the arms of the enemy. My thighs are wet with his pleasure. What am I doing?

  “So, about that dinner…” Gabriel is saying, “I understand your concern. The place isn’t open now, so why tempt you with tasty things? We’ll have it next time.”

  I say nothing while he rises. I take the hand he offers, avoid his insistent look.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say in a voice we both know is a lie.

  We go to the door, where he pounds a button that makes it slide open.

  As we walk through, my belly gives an angry yowl.

  “What about somewhere else? I know some places,” Gabriel says, leaning over to pick up my clothes.

  I keep my gaze on the pile of clothes I’m accepting.

  “No, I’m not hungry. I want to go home,” I say.

  The silence is his scowl growing.

  My belly rumbles out its own denial of my claim.

  Gabriel grabs my hand, jams the button.

  “Then home you’ll go.”

  He strides in the elevator without waiting for me.

  I stumble in.

  He hits another button and, as the elevator barrels down, I stagger into my skirt and shirt.

  Once I’m done, he shoves out my bra, panties and Colt pistol. Without meeting his eye, I tuck them and my gun in my coat.

  When I do dare glance at Gabriel, he gives me a terrible sort of smile.

  “Shouldn’t carry around things you don’t really know how to use.”

  I say nothing.

  If he really knew how well I can use that gun, he wouldn’t have given it back to me at all. No, in fact, he would’ve probably used it on me himself.

  Going down, the elevator seems to take seven times longer than its trip up.

  Gabriel’s anger is electric, fills the wide metal thing, suffocates me, arouses me.

  I want him to kiss me again, but I’m afraid what he’ll do if I try.

  When the elevator finally stops out the bottom, Gabriel storms off the same way we came, past the empty shop stands. The sunglasses rack Gabriel shoved me into looks strangely poignant, almost accusing.

  If I made the right decision rejecting Gabriel’s offer, then why do I feel so wrong?

  As we make our way through the lobby, Gabriel glides ahead at the same clipped pace until we’re outside. Then, turning to me but not looking at me, he asks, “Where do you want me to drop you off then?”

  “Nowhere. I’ll get a cab.”

  Now he looks at me, his mouth twisting into a snarl of a smile.

  “Goodnight Toni.”

  And then he storms off.

  I watch him, fear and relief and pain and joy all bashing against each other in my head.

  And then, once he’s out of sight, another fear arises, the worst fear of all.

  What if this, all of this – from the first meeting to his anger just now – is an act? What if Gabriel knows who I am, has always known? What if all this is just an act, a ploy to distract me, to get information out of me, to trick me?

  What if Gabriel Pierson knows me and doesn’t care about me in the slightest?

  Chapter 19

  Gabriel

  My release made me more tense. Whaddya know?

  I storm to my bike, get on it, clamp my hand on the gas and take off, trying to move as fast as my thoughts are racing.

  Why do I even care that Tony doesn’t want to have dinner anyway? I don’t want anything serious now after all. I have enough on my plate without some… whatever this is.

  Emptied-out downtown Toronto is calming. Just dim abandoned buildings, a finally-empty road, the hobos and me. Not the worst time for a nighttime drive.

  Really, I should be heading home, but I’m not done with the Piccolos. Not yet.

  They may have gotten away in the office, outnumbered me, but now I’m going to rip through their office.

  I’ll find out what they’ve done with Hannah if I have to burn the place down.

  I fly down the city streets like they’re highways, then the highway like it’s the Autobahn.

  By the time I pull up to the black building, I’ve just gotten started.

  I park in front of the building, call up Pulse.

  “I’m here.”

  “3 am? Boss, you crazy.”

  I laugh and hang up.

  The whole building is dark and locked down, but that’s okay. My boys are coming.

  A few minutes later, some black-hoodied boys are unlocking the door for me.

  Then it’s to the elevator, to the Penthouse.

  Pulse is splayed in the front desk chair, wearing a ridiculous little pink sun hat.

  “Hiya, Gabey.”

  He makes the chair do a little twirl, and the hat sails off his head and to the ground.

  He grins at it.

  “You won’t believe the kind of shit their desk bitch has: Cotton Candy scented Body Butter, Cotton Candy scented hand sanitizer, Cotton Candy scented pens – hell, she has Cotton Candy scented Kleenex. At this rate, I reckon the bitch must shit Cotton Candy.”

  As if on cue, he sneezes into the slightly pink sheet he’s got in front of him.

  “Think I’m allergic,” he says, rubbing his nose with a scowl.

  I nod, staring at him, and he continues, “Yeah, right, the office. We didn’t
touch anything, just like you said.”