Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7)

by Lauren Gilley

  He parted her folds with deft fingertips, probed her entrance with a teasing press and found her clit with his thumb. The sound she made in response went straight to his cock.

  “God, just get on with it,” she breathed.

  He pressed a smile into her neck and pressed two fingers inside her silken, wet heat. “Patience, love.”

  She leaned forward and took his earlobe between her teeth. “Charlie.”

  “Right, then.”

  The counter was a good height for this. He reached for his belt, and her hands joined his, uncharacteristically clumsy, shaking. He loved when she got worked up like this.

  And when her hand closed on his cock, and he let out a sharp, unsteady breath, he had to admit he wasn’t in any better shape.

  He hauled her to the very edge of the counter, and she guided him, and then, oh, yes, that was perfect, that first breach, the way her body welcomed his, familiar, but still so tight, still with that bit of resistance that squeezed all the air from his lungs.

  She made another sound – she was so vocal this time – and, when he was fully-seated, arched backward. Her head thumped lightly against the mirror, the long, elegant line of her throat offered up like a banquet, nipples pink, and tight, and glistening from his mouth.

  Look at her, he’d said to Ten, and it hadn’t been a joke.

  He did look at her, just a moment, poised and straining on the edge of movement. She should have looked vulnerable like this, he thought, but she didn’t, she never head. She looked graceful, and gorgeous, and unapologetically hungry, low-lidded and dangerous as a cat.

  “You’re beautiful,” he told her, unbidden. The words slipped out before he could think them, his voice jarringly rough, and honest.

  She froze a moment, eyes widening in surprise.

  They didn’t do this: say honest, personal things to one another. It was either all work, or banter, ribbing each other, or desperate need. There weren’t confessions; no soft words.

  The way she stared at him, utterly still, her pulse fluttering in her throat, told him that, though she’d never asked for those things, maybe she liked them. Maybe wanted them…maybe needed them.

  He felt a sharp clenching in his chest that had nothing to do with sex. So he leaned forward, and kissed her. Felt her lashes against his skin as her eyes fluttered closed. Pulled his hips back a fraction, and thrust forward.

  They both groaned, lips pressed together, breath hot and close between them.

  They were in public, and had to hurry, and there were a dozen things they needed to do when they left. But for now, they could have this.

  And maybe in future she could have more, if he kept telling her she was beautiful.

  Thirty-Eight

  Axelle couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken up beside someone else. She had a fleeting thought that that was embarrassing, and then decided it wasn’t, because she didn’t want to think about other guys right now, only the one spooned up behind her, his arm a reassuring weight around her waist.

  She lay there a few minutes, utterly content, listening to the sounds of the clubhouse waking up around them. As she blinked the sleep from her eyes, she saw that dawn was breaking, a faint silver light creeping in at the window, painting stripes across the wall she faced. The scent of coffee reached her, just a hint, but it grew stronger moment to moment.

  Albie took a deep breath behind her as he came awake, his fingers flexing lightly against her stomach.

  They would have to get up, and soon. If not, someone would doubtless come knocking. But she wanted to savor their last few minutes alone. Their only minutes of the first morning after.

  Rolling over left her aware of all the tender, newly-sore places where she’d carry last night with her for the next few days, whatever they held. A good, gentle kind of pain, a pleasant reminder when things got scary – because she knew they would.

  She settled on her side facing him, sliding her foot between his ankles, the roughness of his leg hair causing a friction against her own smooth skin that left gooseflesh pebbling up her legs. His eyes seemed to glow in the early light, an underwater blue full of darker striations. His face was marked with a crease from the pillow, his gaze still sleepy, contented. She noted the mark on his neck, the place where she’d nipped him with her teeth in the throes, when she’d been on her back and he’d been inside her, his hips pistoning…

  Her belly filled with warmth, and her nipples pebbled, and dampness welled between her legs. All that, just from looking at him.

  She bit her lip, feeling stupid, trying to school her features before he could guess where her thoughts had drifted.

  One corner of his mouth hitched upward in a knowing smile. “Morning.”

  That was all he said, but her cheeks warmed, and she knew she was blushing. “Morning.”

  “You look awfully pleased with yourself.”

  She laughed and groaned at once, and tipped forward to rest her forehead on his shoulder. His skin was soft there, warm and smooth. He smelled like soap and sex.

  His hand settled at the back of her neck, thumb sifting through her hair to find skin, a proprietary side-to-side sweep that, for some reason, felt nearly as intimate as everything they’d done last night. There was no such thing as a casual touch between them, she was learning. Each bit of skin-to-skin contact sparked, weight and meaning – sometimes unwanted, for her part – imbued in even the briefest of brushes.

  In a softer, more serious voice, he said, “Are you okay?”

  She couldn’t stop the little purr that built in the back of her throat, as his thumb circled the knob at the top of her spine, drawing more pleasant shivers across her skin. “Much better than okay.”

  “Promise?”

  She lifted her head so she could meet his gaze – closer now. She could see the grain of morning stubble on his jaw, and the lines around his eyes and mouth, the evidence of too many years in the sun, on the back of a bike. His hair was a wreck, a glossy dark lock fallen over his forehead. It wanted to curl, now, after the pillow, after her fingers.

  She was struck again by the thought that this was him. This was Albie, here with her, without even clothes to warp her perception. She knew that he was one of ten half-siblings, and a Brit, and a furniture maker, and a gun dealer, and a Lean Dog, and a criminal, but this was him, without all the trappings. This was the part of him that she got to see – that he let her see. It was an honor.

  “Promise,” she said.

  Relief touched his face, obvious and endearing. His hand closed on the back of her neck, and he leaned forward to kiss her.

  A soft, thorough kiss, and Axelle didn’t mind their morning breath, or the rasp of stubble – that second part she liked, even. Slipped her arms around his neck and swam through the last bit of sheets so they were pressed together, front-to-front. She was a little shocked, though, at the thrill that surged through her, when her breasts landed against his chest. That slight contact phenomenon, again.

  His tongue stroked hers, and it was hard to think after that.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Axelle pulled back with a soft “fuck,” smiling at the absurdity of it. “I knew that would happen.”

  He groaned, but he was smiling, too.

  “Good morning!” Darla trilled on the other side of the door. “Breakfast will be ready soon, and it’ll go faster with helpers!” Her heels clicked down the hall, and Axelle heard her repeat the exercise at the next door.

  Axelle stared at Albie. She hadn’t anticipated being dragged out of bed to help in the kitchen. “Is she kidding?” she hissed. “I don’t cook.”

  He looked far too amused. “You cooked for me.”

  “I heated shit up ‘cause I was trying to get laid.”

  “Hmm,” he said, doubtful. “You don’t strike me as a sex on the first date kind of girl.”

  She smacked his shoulder, and it made a satisfying sound. “You don’t know.”

  His smile widened, flashing te
eth now. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Ugh, you suck.” She sat up, and started to turn.

  He caught her wrist.

  When she turned back to him, all traces of humor had left his face. He was earnest, now, and that sent a whole other kind of shiver rippling down her back. “It’s going to be okay, you know. We’re going to catch them, and everything will be alright.”

  Six months ago, she might have resented that kind of platitude; it would have felt like being lied to, patted on the head, told to let other people – men – worry about the hard stuff. But that wasn’t what he was doing, and in the moment, her pulse already starting to pick up for reasons far less pleasant than last night, she read the words as an offering. A hope for both of them.

  She didn’t say I know, because that would have been a lie. But she leaned down to kiss him one more time, to thank him for caring.

  ~*~

  Michelle had been awake since Fox’s four-thirty a.m. phone call had set Candy’s phone to vibrating across the nightstand. She didn’t even mind that she was drinking decaf; adrenaline had kept her alert and bright-eyed better than coffee ever managed. She had the volume on the sanctuary TV set almost too low to hear, but when Jenny sat down next to her on the sofa, she bumped it up.

  “…Officials still haven’t made a statement regarding this scene behind me at Dr. Gilliard’s home…” a field reporter was saying, hooking a thumb over his shoulder toward the house, which was ablaze with lights against the pearly dawn, all roped off and circled by unmarked cars and SUVs and lab vans. Behind him, someone in an FBI windbreaker was ducking under the tape, and walking toward the camera, furious, waving white-gloved hands. “Oh, hold on, we’re being asked to leave,” the reporter said, eyes widening, and the camera angle shook crazily before the feed cut back to the local news desk.

  “How do they always know to show up with their cameras?” Jenny mused.

  “Someone tips them off,” Michelle said. She turned to her sister-in-law, question poised on her tongue.

  Jenny said, “Colin just told me. Jesus. Are they alright?”

  “Everyone but Tenny, and he’s in the ICU. He’ll be alright, Eden said.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  Michelle shrugged and turned back to the TV. “He’s kind of a dick, and I’ve never even really met him.”

  On screen, the feed cut back to the field reporter, blurry, unsteady footage taken from a distance of a forklift backing out of Gilliard’s garage, loaded with a pallet of crates. “Right there, Bobby, get that shot!” the reporter’s voice said from out of frame.

  “Where are the girls, though?” Michelle asked, thinking aloud.

  “What?”

  A rap sounded at the door, and both of them called “come in” together.

  The door opened, and booted footfalls moved forward. Axelle said, “Oh, wow, you’ve got a whole apartment back here, kitchen and everything.”

  Michelle scooted closer to Jenny on the sofa and patted the spot she’d vacated. Axelle sat down a moment later.

  “You heard?”

  “Albie had a text. That’s the house?” She nodded toward the TV.

  “Yeah, the media are all over it,” Michelle said. “Eden said they found millions worth of cocaine in the garage.”

  “Shit,” Axelle swore.

  “But no girls.”

  “Yeah, what girls?” Jenny asked, for the second time.

  “Eden said Fox checked the whole upstairs. They found Dr. Gilliard tied to a chair, sitting in his own warm piss, but, unless the feds found them in one of the outbuildings and no one knows it yet, there weren’t any girls being trafficked through that house, and we know they’re trafficking girls, so there’s another location.”

  “Gwen said they were doing it,” Axelle said, nodding. “But she could have been lying.”

  “People like this, doing what they’ve done, why wouldn’t they be trafficking girls?” When Michelle glanced over, Axelle tipped her head in concession – and Michelle took her first good look at the other woman.

  Her hair, scraped into a loose ponytail, was still damp, her face freshly-scrubbed and pink, without makeup. She’d clearly just had a shower, and still smelled faintly of coconut shampoo. She wore her own clothes, broke-down jeans and a fitted Ramones t-shirt under a flannel. An old pair of Nikes with pink soles that clearly didn’t belong to Michelle’s uncle. But the way her gaze shifted over, and her cheeks got pinker, she might as well have been wearing nothing but Albie’s shirt and a few hickeys.

  “What?” She looked like she tried not to squirm.

  Michelle grinned.

  “What?” Jenny asked, too, and shifted forward to peer around Michelle’s shoulder. Then she chuckled. “Ah.”

  “Oh, fuck that,” Axelle griped, blushing furiously. “You don’t know anything.”

  Michelle chuckled into her coffee. “Don’t we?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a yes,” Jenny said, laughing.

  Axelle grumbled something unintelligible and looked pointedly at the TV. She wasn’t frowning, though.

  The door opened and closed again, and a moment later Eden strode around the couch so she was facing them. She propped a hand on her hip, and though her gaze was direct – a quick glance at the screen and then toward them – Michelle could see that she was running on pure adrenaline. There’d be a crash, eventually, but that was what caffeine was for.

  “There’s coffee,” Michelle offered, by way of greeting, motioning toward the counter where the Keurig sat.

  “Yeah, thanks.” She turned to sort through the array of pods.

  “And your fly’s unzipped, by the way.”

  Jenny and Axelle both stifled sudden snorts in their hands.

  Eden went very still, hand poised with a K-cup in it. Then, slowly, she set it down, and zipped her jeans with a quick movement. Cleared her throat, and loaded the machine. “Right, so.” Mug under the spout, press of the button, and she turned to face them, arms folded. Her fly was zipped, and her expression gave nothing away, but a telltale pink flush darkened her cheekbones. “The girls.”

  “That’s what I was just saying,” Michelle said.

  “If y’all are gonna play Sherlock Holmes,” Jenny said, “like you’re so much smarter than us, it’s gonna get real old, real fast.”

  Eden flicked a smirk. “We are British.”

  “You’re annoying right now, is what you are,” Jenny said.

  The smirk turned into a true smile – a tired one laced with the edginess of the hunt. Michelle felt an answering smile tug at her own mouth, and when Eden’s gaze flicked to her, they shared the barest of nods. They got it; they felt the same thrill. Axelle loved driving, that was her adrenaline rush, and Jenny would never shy away from whatever ugly or dark things the club required of her.

  But it was different for Michelle and Eden. They thrived on this.

  “It’s a guess,” Eden relented, resting her weight more fully against the edge of the counter. “An educated one. Organizations like the Chupacabras have been using human drug mules for years. Young people – innocent looking people. Girls, young women, young men. Sweet faces. You can’t send some big hulking, tattooed thug across with a fistful of balloons in his belly, because he’s under all sorts of suspicion anyway. But the young people, the sweet ones…and then, at the end of the line, after they’ve made their deliveries, they can’t exactly be turned loose, can they? So they sold them off to the highest bidders, or were kept on as pets. Then they realized you could sell flesh for just as much money as you could sell drugs.

  “The cocaine we found at Dr. Gilliard’s wasn’t the piddling amount smuggled along in digestive tracts. It’s clean, and uncut, which means if they’re selling humans – and Gwen says they are – then they’re moving them separately.”

  “Like I told Michelle,” Jenny said. “Gwen could have lied.”

  Eden nodded. “Which means we need to question her again. And the other three.” She surv
eyed them all with a glance. “I expect the boys have something daring and bike-related in the works. I say they leave the talking to us.”

  Michelle took another sip of decaf to keep from grinning like a loon. “Seconded.”

  ~*~

  Fox was the last one in the chapel, a steaming mug and a lit cigarette balanced in one hand, the other holding a half-eaten piece of toast.

  Candy fought to keep his knees from bouncing under the table. “That’s all of us that are here,” he said, reaching for his own coffee, glancing down both sides of the table. Reese had refused to sleep, so they’d sent him to the hospital with Gringo to keep watch. He now faced Colin, the twins, Talis, Blue, Cowboy, Albie, and now Fox, settling into his usual seat down at the end. Everyone wore some version of the same expression: tired, but wired.

  “I just talked to Cantrell a few minutes ago,” he said, fingertips drumming on the tabletop. He had to move in some way, and it was either this or crack his knuckles. “He’s got Dr. Gilliard in an interview room and he’s not sending him on to the hospital until he spills his guts.”

  “My money says he wasn’t just a hostage,” Blue said.

  “Mine, too. We–”

  A knock sounded at the door, and all heads whipped that direction, chairs creaking.

  Nickel opened the door, the wireless handset for the landline held almost gingerly away from him, like it was a bomb about to go off. “Um,” he said, scanning their faces before settling his gaze on Candy. “He says his name’s Luis, and that you’ll want to talk to him.”

  Mouths opened, breaths were drawn in.

  Candy made a sharp motion, and mouthed shut up. A few chairs creaked, but no one spoke. His pulse beat high and fast in his ears, like right before a fight. Adrenaline bolted down all his veins. He swore, somewhere, a bell was dinging.