“Pick-up address?” he asked.
Eden read that, off, too, and Blue let out a low whistle when he circled it. “That’s Doc Gilliard’s place.”
“Shit,” Candy muttered. “How many people have they got under their thumb?”
“Who?” Albie asked.
“A retired cardiac surgeon. His wife was sick, and when she was dying, he had this big ol’ gaudy mansion built for them outside of town. It’s huge: gardens, a pool, like, three garages. When she passed, I think he filled the void with cars,” Blue said.
“It’s private out there,” Talis said. “Plenty of room, and no one to see them move product in or out.”
“He’s got that one big industrial garage,” Candy said. “It’d hold a lot of something.”
“And the girls are being drugged,” Fox said, “so they’d keep quiet. Bundle them up in something, and the trucker would have no idea what he was carrying.”
Albie made a disgusted sound.
“So we know where to go to access the pipeline,” Candy said. “We need to cut it off at the knees. The next order of business is to get hold of this Holy Father motherfucker and put him in the ground. He’ll be harder to find.”
“Unless he comes to us,” Colin said, grimly.
“He won’t,” Fox said. “Now that we know who’s behind him, he’d be a waste of resources. They’ll come for us head-on, now, hard. The war’s on.”
“Which is why we’ve got to hunker down,” Candy said, passing a look across all of them. “No one goes out alone, not even to take the damn garbage out. Be armed at all times. Keep your eyes open, and your head on a swivel. As of right now, we’re officially on lockdown.”
“How are we gonna handle the doc’s place?” Talis asked. He looked like he was frowning, but Michelle had learned that was just his serious, ready-for-anything face.
“Well, normally I’d be all for going in guns blazing,” Candy said. “But while we’ve got the resources, I say we handle it in stealth mode.”
He glanced first to Tenny, and then to Reese, and both boys tensed immediately, like wires flooded with a sudden current.
Fox grinned. “See, boys? I told you you’d have work to do.”
Thirty-Two
Michelle leaned an elbow on the rail of the crib and looked down at TJ, sleeping like the dead, unbothered and sprawled out with his arms flung over his head and the covers kicked down. “Just like your daddy, huh?” she whispered. His fingers curled reflexively, but he didn’t wake. She knew the urge to reach in and touch his face, to feel the baby softness of his cheek on the back of her finger, but he wasn’t that heavy a sleeper. Candy was the same way. He could sleep through any amount of sound, but touch him, and he snapped awake.
She was a bit more sensitive. Those Devin Green instincts, she supposed. For instance, right now, she could sense Candy in the open doorway behind her. He hadn’t made a sound, but she could feel him there, all the same. Felt him step silently inside, and sidle up behind her. Wasn’t startled when his arm came around her waist and he palmed her stomach.
“You think he knows how badass his mama is?” he whispered in her ear.
She smiled. Whispered back, “I don’t think he’d care. You flatterer.”
“It’s not flattery if it’s true.”
She turned around, and stood up on tiptoe so she could slide her arms around his neck. She expected to find him sleepy-eyed, and etched with worry, tired after a long day, and fretting over what was to come.
She paused, though, when she found his gaze low-lidded with a very obvious hunger, instead. “What?” she asked, pulse kicking.
“The baby’s asleep.” Still whispering, but his voice had gone husky with promise. “Come to bed.” It wasn’t a request.
The best kind of chill rippled down her back. “Yes.”
He took her hand in his and towed her there; barely gave her a chance to latch TJ’s door. She saw a bar of light under Jenny’s old door as they passed, where she and Colin were staying for the lockdown, but the common room of the sanctuary was empty. They’d already gone to bed.
She thought he’d turn loose of her when they reached their bedroom, but he didn’t, crowded her back against the closed door and caged her in with his arms. “Do we even have time?” she asked. Her pulse was running, and her skin was prickling all over, and she wanted this, damn did she ever. But they were on lockdown, and Fox and the boys were running an op tonight, and–
Candy reached to hook a finger beneath her chin, gentle but insistent. Locked gazes with her, his eyes blue and starving for her. “Baby.” Only that: entreaty and command both.
Another hard shiver moved through her, and her belly clenched tight. She thought he might say something else, but he didn’t, only stared at her – and she understood. This wasn’t just things-are-bad-let’s-fuck energy. There was some of that, the kind of pent-up adrenaline that left you wanting to feel alive in the most fundamental ways. But there was something else there, too, in the touch of his finger, and the lift of his shoulders and the heat of his gaze.
He knew she was capable, and he respected that she wanted to reclaim a part of her past life. That was evident from the meeting, just minutes before. The way he’d kept the old ladies in the room, and listened to their contributions.
But like he’d told her before, he’d been worrying. Wondering if he was enough. If he was still her man in her eyes. Oh, love, she thought, how could you have doubted? He was more man than most. But even Greek gods could doubt. Even Casanovas could be made to feel like they didn’t measure up. He needed to assert himself tonight – and she needed that, too, she realized in that moment, staring up at him.
She let her body go soft, and parted her lips, and tipped her head back against the door. “Derek,” she murmured.
He ducked his head and kissed her, and it was the sort of kiss that left her wondering if they’d ever really kissed before, the way he lavished her mouth with insistent, heated attention. Thank God she was standing up against the door, because she wouldn’t have been able to hold herself up otherwise. Her knees and her neck turned weak, and he caught her with a gentle hand at her throat, his massive palm covering the whole of it, his thumb resting on the hinge of her jaw, pressing there lightly, encouraging her to open wider for his tongue.
The outside world – the threat of the cartel, the simmering panic of what lay ahead, the club and their allies – faded. There was only this room, this moment, and the two of them.
She reached for him, wanting to slide her hands beneath his shirt and feel his skin – but he caught her wrists and pinned them both back against the door, on either side of her head. Pulled back from the kiss as a startled little gasp escaped her lips. And grinned, wide, and sharp, and glittering with dark intent.
Oh, she thought. Oh, wow, yes.
“Not yet, baby,” he said, and bent to kiss her neck.
She tipped her head to the side, offering him better access, rewarded by the damp softness of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, and then the sharp sting of his teeth, as he bit her, lightly, right over her pulse. She made another sound, sucked in a breath, and he chuckled again, the rumble of it moving through her throat and down to her breastbone; her nipples hardened to tight, aching points inside her bra, and she wanted it off; wanted everything off both of them.
But that wasn’t the game they were playing tonight. Now, she could only lean back against the door and bask in the sensation, limbs restless, fingers curling, as he kissed and nipped a path up to her earlobe, and then sucked that into the heat of his mouth.
“Candy,” she murmured, not even sure what she was asking, just wanting to say his name.
He pressed a butterfly kiss to the shell of her ear, and whispered into it. “You getting restless, sweetheart?”
“Yeah.” And this time, it had nothing to do with wanting to work.
“I’m sorry,” he said, without an ounce of sincerity.
One of his hands opened on her wr
ist, and moved slowly, slowly down the tender inside of her forearm, a firm, methodical caress, unhurried, that left her trembling. It was the anticipation, as his thumb grazed the knob of her elbow, as he shifted up the inside of her biceps. The promise of where he was heading.
She was wearing a soft flannel shirt, unbuttoned, and he teased it off her shoulder. Played with the strap of her tank top a moment. Then, just as purposeful, slipped his whole hand down into the scooped neck, and cupped her breast.
Please, she thought, and bit her lip to keep from voicing it, as his thumb rasped her nipple through the satin of her bra.
“What do you want?” he murmured, pressing kisses to her jaw. “What do you need, baby? This?” He pushed down the cup of her bra and took her bare breast in his hand, finally.
She arched into his touch, overstimulated, needy.
He chuckled, and pinched her nipple between thumb and forefinger, whispering against the corner of her mouth. “Oh, yeah, you like that.”
“Please,” she said, out loud this time.
“Damn, baby.” He kissed her mouth again, deep, languid, thorough.
And he released her other wrist so he could push her shirt back off that shoulder, too; push her undershirt and bra down, and touch her other breast.
He was good at this; God was he good at it. He kissed her into oblivion, and plucked at her nipples, massaged her breasts with just enough force to leave her pushing her chest shamelessly into his hands, panting against his mouth.
She actually whimpered when he pulled back.
“It’s alright,” he soothed, and pushed her flannel shirt totally off. She lifted her arms readily when he pulled her tank top over her head. And then his expert fingers were at the clasp of her bra, and then she was bare, and he ducked his head, and took one of her nipples into his mouth.
He’d worked her up so thoroughly that the sensation – the heat of his mouth, the faint scrape of his teeth – was almost startling. She clutched at his hair, held him to her, breathing fast and harsh through her mouth. She tried to say his name again, but her tongue wouldn’t work, and so she let the door hold her – the door and the wild strength of his hands on her waist – as he suckled at one breast, and then the other; until she was damp, and red, and aching.
She wetness gather between her legs; felt it soak through her panties, her pulse pounding in her sex. She needed him. Needed him now.
But he was hellbent on taking his time. He nosed gently at the undersides of her breasts, and he dropped a slow trail of kisses down her stomach, down to her waistband, and opened it with teasing slowness. He followed the path of the zipper; nosed at her curls through her panties. Worked her jeans down off her hips on one side, and then the other.
“Candy,” she finally managed to pant. Her legs shook, and she gripped his hair so tight it had to hurt.
He chuckled, breath hot through the cotton that covered her. “We’re getting there, don’t worry.”
She lifted her legs in turn at his urging, and the damned jeans were finally off. He slipped both hands beneath the waistband of her panties, in the back, cupping her ass, petting her, before finally skimming them down to her ankles so she could step free.
Then she was naked, and he was fully clothed.
He stood, suddenly, a fast surge of movement, and pressed the whole hard, strong, masculine line of his body against her – pinning her even more thoroughly against the door. The denim of his jeans rasped against the tender, bare skin of her legs; the cold buttons of his flannel dug into her stomach. The contradiction, the imbalance of it, drover her pulse to new heights. She felt small, and fragile, and feminine – and none of those things felt like a fault or a threat now. They felt like great offerings, like what he needed now, in this moment.
He ducked his face against her throat and inhaled; breathed in the scent of her.
What do I smell like? she thought wildly. He smelled like leather, and smoke, and Scotch, and dust, and the wild outdoors. Like danger, and freedom, and every good thing she’d ever wanted.
He kissed her neck. Sealed his lips and sucked. She’d have a mark, and she’d wear it proudly; tipped her head to the side so he could have better access.
His hands shifted over her body, restless. Down her arms, and round her waist. He petted her sides, gliding his fingers along the channels of her rib bones; weighed her breasts and squeezed her nipples until the bright little sparks of pain left her breathing out wounded sounds.
Finally, he gripped her hips, and hoisted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist on instinct; felt his clothed erection press boldly against the wet folds of her sex, the denim rasping and scraping as he ground against her.
A knife-edge, electric sort of pleasure rippled through her, mostly anticipation, and the burn of friction where they touched – and where she wanted him deeper, and more solidly; where she wanted more.
He hiked her legs up a lighter higher, securing her, and then cupped her ass with one, steadying her, and reached between them with the other. Found her slick and ready for him. Found her entrance, and pressed right in with two large fingers.
She gasped.
His face hovered over hers, shadowed, eyes smoky dark, the pupils blown. Voice rough: “Sweet Jesus. You are such a little baby thing.” He thrust hard with his fingers, and circled her clit with his thumb, and she came in a sudden rush; a froth and tide like champagne bubbles, surprising, and hot, and mind-wiping.
He worked her through it with those clever fingers. Kissed her cheeks, and her forehead, murmuring endearments she couldn’t register, but didn’t need to. He had her, he had her.
She drifted, flushed and pulsing all over. Eventually, she became aware of the fact that she was whispering his name over and over, clutching at his shirt, clinging to him.
She couldn’t have tolerated anyone else seeing her broken open like this, shaking and vulnerable and outside herself. No one but him.
His hand withdrew, and she started to protest, but then she heard the zipper on his jeans, and a moment later the blunt head of his cock was pressing at her entrance, blood-hot and already slick where he’d been leaking. Her body was primed, but he was big, and she was so sensitive now, after coming.
He pressed in – and in, and in, and in. Every inch. Her body welcomed him, but it was tight, so tight, and he hissed, teeth flashing white as he bared them, as he worked his way inside. And then he was there, right there, crowding the breath from her lungs, inside her, and over her, surrounding her. Shielding her.
She wanted to touch his skin, to feel the heat and sweat of him. But when she glanced up through lids low and pleasure-heavy, she saw the raw hunger and love on his face, and he was more naked to her than he could ever be without clothes.
Michelle arched into him as best she could, heels digging his back as she shifted the angle and managed to take him even deeper.
“Christ,” he swore, pressing his face to the side of hers, breathing hotly in her ear as he started to move. “Oh, Christ, baby.”
“Give it to me,” she said. “I want it. Want to feel you.”
He groaned and clutched her hips, and he gave it to her. Almost frantic. Her head thumped faintly against the door on every powerful thrust – until he slid his other hand behind her head, protecting her, even in the throes of an almost-violent passion.
She melted. When he came – biting at her shoulder, hands spasming where they touched her – her own pleasure swelled up and overtook her again.
They clung to each other, heartbeats tangled, ribs pushing back and forth, giving and taking air. This was how she loved them best. Both of them dangerous in their own rights…but raw together. It didn’t feel like a concession, being weak with him. It felt like being loved – stronger and more deeply than she’d ever hoped.
Thirty-Three
Axelle stood with her back to the showerhead, hot water pounding against her back, head tipped forward to keep her tied-up hair from getting wet. She stood, and she stared down at h
er toes on the tile, and she marveled at how turned on she was. “I’m gonna grab a shower,” she’d said to Albie, a few minutes before, in the common room, and the way he’d looked at her…Like he’d nearly volunteered to come with her.
Today had been wild. It had been dangerous, and people were in the hospital…
But she’d gotten to drive. Really drive, like she’d been raised to. And then Albie had come riding in on his bike, her knight in leather armor and she…well, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been pulsing with awareness and desire like this. They’d been dancing around one another, been so careful and full of doubts. But right now, none of that mattered. Nothing mattered save the way her skin was sensitive and rippling with gooseflesh, even under the hot spray, and the way she felt empty inside.
Finally, she turned off the water, and toweled off in front of the fogged mirror, her reflection a blur in the steam on the glass. That was good. She didn’t want to look at herself – examine herself. Didn’t want to find faults or second guess. When she was done, here, she supposed she’d venture back down the hall, and…
When she opened the door into the dorm room, she found Albie sitting on her bed.
He had his feet braced on the floor, leaning forward, forearms on his thighs. His head lifted when she entered, and his gaze very respectfully didn’t move across her bare, bath-heated arms or legs, went instead straight to her face and stayed there. What a gentleman.
“Did I overstep?” he asked. His pupils were dilated.
In a fit of rare bravery, she unwrapped her towel and let it fall. “No.”
He stood – her pulse leaped. But when his gaze stayed fixed on her face as he approached, slowly.
She couldn’t repress a smile. “Oh my God, just kiss me.”
He reached her, finally. Cupped her throat; hovered over her, his breath fanning warm across her face, whiskey-scented. Poised and quivering on the edge of letting go of all that lovely, terrible restraint.
Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7) Page 27
