by Bijou Hunter
“I’m never doing that,” I mutter and then add, “What would Lowell think of you talking about Conor’s ass?”
“Oh, it’s a frequent topic of conversation at home,” she says and grabs her purse from the table at the front door. “I know everything here happened fast, and it’s unclear what they want to do long term. Fairuza didn’t seem happy most of the day, and she rolled her eyes at me plenty. But Pixie only worried about where you were and if you were getting beaten up by the biker men. I really need to teach her better ways to say stuff.”
“I don’t want her changing,” I grumble, thinking of my flower child.
“That’s not an option. She learned the existence of microwaves. Everything is downhill now.”
As I offer Topanga a soft smile, my mind is on Pixie. “Should I check on Fairuza downstairs?”
Topanga opens the door and deeply inhales the early autumn air. “I wouldn’t. I don’t know how well they’ll sleep down there. I sensed they might end up on the floor. If you go down, you might wake up the baby. Let them sleep with their full stomachs, knowing they’re safe.”
“Thanks again,” I say as she walks to her vehicle.
Once in her SUV, Topanga waves before looping out of the driveway and heading to her house a few blocks over.
Locking the door, I enjoy the quiet of the house. I thought I lost that serenity when I invited four people to live here. Did I really miss the silence? Wasn’t it just a reminder of how alone I was in this house?
Rather than think too hard about where my head was earlier, I kick my shoes into the front closet and go looking for Pixie.
Though I find the TV playing, my bedroom seems empty. Then I hear Pixie’s voice saying my name and find her on the ground.
“What are you doing?”
Pixie stands up before stepping half onto the bed to give herself enough of a lift to climb into my arms. She rubs her nose against mine and then nuzzles her face in the crook of my neck.
“You smell like summer,” she whispers in my ear.
“I should shower.”
Pixie looks disappointed about that. Then she asks a question that sends all the blood in my large body straight to my cock.
“Can I watch?”
“Sure.”
Her smile is soft and inviting. Women never look at me that way. Even most of my club brothers’ wives seem nervous around me. Probably because I showed up to their community with a duffle bag full of heads.
I swear to myself that I’ll give Pixie everything she wants if she’ll always look at me like she is right now.
I walk to the bathroom with her soundlessly following. I think of her bare feet soft against the beige tile floor. I remember how, back on the road, her toes would dig into the dirt, seeking warmth, maybe. Or just the sensation of the smooth soil against her calloused feet. How many times did I think to reach out and touch her tanned skin?
Back with the Killing Joes, I took what I wanted. I was a monster in a club of violent men. The girls who hung around us didn’t have any self-worth. They let us fuck them any way we wanted as long as we offered drugs and booze. I never feared touching them. If I was rough, what did they care?
Pixie isn’t like those women. She understands her worth and expects me to know it, too. Which is why I never touch her like I want.
Humming to a song I recognize but can’t place, Pixie sways around the bathroom. I yank off my shirt, pissed-off over nothing. No, I guess I’m angry at myself for not improving more over the last three years. I could be smarter, better, more worthy of the girl watching me undress.
I ought to ask her to leave. Is that what a good man would do?
Pixie’s gaze is focused on where she steps between the tiles. I think she’s avoiding the lines. As a kid, we played a game where if you stepped on a crack in the sidewalk, you broke your mother’s back. How many times did I stomp as hard as I could on a crack, hoping to hurt the woman who raised me? One time, I sprained my ankle from slamming down so hard. Yet, I desperately wanted my grandmother to break into a million fucking pieces. Then, she would die and go away.
Of course, Pixie doesn’t want such a dark fate for her mother. Her feelings are more than love, though. Anyone can love their parents. I cared for mine. For a while, anyway.
Pixie also admires her mother. She would never want to break her mother’s back. Is that why she avoids the lines? No, probably not. How would she even know that kids’ game? Pixie is just curious about patterns.
But then her gaze lifts and finds me stripped bare. Stepping under the hot water, I try not to think of Pixie watching. Nudity isn’t a big deal to her. While I can’t get the thought of her naked body out of my mind, she likely sees me no differently than her stepdad or mother. People are naked under their clothes. No big deal.
Yet, Pixie sighs at the sight of me. There’s a raw need to her gaze. As a smile warms her face, she tugs her shirt over her head.
I say nothing as she strips down and joins me. If any other woman got in the shower with a man, fucking would definitely be on the menu. But, with Pixie, I don’t know what she’s thinking. We haven’t even kissed, for fuck’s sake.
“You have so many tattoos and scars,” she whispers, walking around me and letting her fingers explore my back. “Your sad story is written on your body.”
Standing there naked and wet in a shower with a woman I want more than any before, I feel like a fucking moron. I don’t know what to say or do. Sure, I’m very aware of what I’d like to do. But my big ugly hands don’t reach for her.
Pixie makes my dick hurt when she touches my skin. Her fingers trace my tattoos, sliding over old scars. She strokes my arms.
I realize my eyes are closed. My arousal mixes with rage at how I can’t just have what I want. There’s always a roadblock holding me back from what I need to be happy.
“Anders,” Pixie whispers, now standing in front of me.
I look down at her and refuse to tell myself no. Her lips have teased me for months. I’ve wanted to taste them so much, but I needed to do the right thing.
Cupping her face with my hands, I lean down and press my lips to hers. I’m too aroused and angry to stop myself or worry about her reaction. In my chest, I feel a rising sadness. Why do I ruin everything? Why can’t I be patient? No wonder people look at me as if I’m an animal. That’s the way I act.
When my lips leave hers, I wait for a reaction. She only watches me with the same soft gaze as before I kissed her. Did she feel anything? Is she humoring me because I kept her family from starving?
That’s the fucking problem!
I hold all the power. By kissing her, I’m saying she needs to repay me. Then when she spreads her legs and lets me inside her body, I’ll never fucking know if she wanted me.
“Did you like that?” I ask, still cupping her face, afraid to let her go. When Pixie nods, I grow more frustrated. “Do you even know what that was? Or what I want?”
“You want to have sexual intercourse. There’s kissing and touching, and then your penis goes inside my vagina. If it’s good, I get to have an orgasm. If it’s less good, only you get to have an orgasm.”
I don’t know why I expected her to giggle or act confused. She’s not five years old. She understands lots of shit. She killed a man protecting me. But because she doesn’t act like other women, I keep thinking she’s a child.
“Do you want to have sexual intercourse?” I say, hating that term. “Fucking. That’s what I call it. Do you want me to fuck you? Is that why you’re in the shower?”
“I want to touch you. I don’t care about the rest.”
Her hands reach up to stroke my shoulders. Then her fingers slide down my wet chest to my stomach. I flinch, always ticklish at the spot above my dick. That’s where her hands are headed.
I try to speak. The words get caught in the back of my throat when her fingers caress my hard cock. She looks down at where she strokes me. With her hair blocking her face, I can’t check her reaction
. Is she disgusted? Somehow, I doubt it. Pixie isn’t a fragile flower. She’s got thorns. She’ll tell me no and scratch if I don’t listen.
With both hands, Pixie strokes my cock, sliding her fingers slowly over my wet flesh. Her face rests against my chest, inhaling my scent, cuddling against me. I don’t dare touch her. My skin is on fire, and every nerve rages. I press my hands against the sides of the stone shower. My palms burn from the amount of pressure I apply, but I don’t dare remove them from the walls.
Pixie’s left hand reaches down to cup my heavy balls. Her touch is too much. My entire body shakes from pleasure and panic. I feel myself losing control. All the signals in my brain are in overload mode. If I touch Pixie, her thin body will break under the weight of my need.
I shudder as she brings me to orgasm. Staring at the ceiling, I struggle to control myself. I’m afraid of what I’ll say. Or worse, what I’ll do when my hands reach for her.
I try to pretend the woman touching me is one of the bunnies. They know bikers are rough jackasses. I can calm down and enjoy the rush of pleasure.
But no bunny would wrap her arms around my waist and lean into me. They get me off, wait to see if I’ll return the favor, and then go away. Pixie offers comfort after giving me pleasure.
“You look so angry,” she says, stepping back.
I’m ready to give her shit. I don’t know why. I guess I want her to hate me. That’s what I’m used to with women. Pixie can’t pull off cool indifference. This crap is too new for her. No, I’ll have to make her hate me.
But when I lower my gaze to meet hers, I find her face upward, smiling into the water. She’s so relaxed that I can only watch as she dances in the shower.
Finally, her gaze meets mine, and her lips do what they were made for. That smile is more than I can handle. I feel as low as I did in the drug den, staring at Bronco’s gun. Why do I keep living? What’s the point?
“I have a spot,” Pixie says, stepping closer and taking my hand. “Right here,” she whispers, guiding my big fingers between her legs to her clit. “It feels so nice when I touch it.”
“How can you do that when you live around those people?” I ask, yanking my hand free.
Pixie doesn’t answer. Her lips turn downward. I expect her to cry at my rejection. Instead, she looks irritated.
“The story you’re in has many parts that you can’t write,” she says, holding my gaze. “But there are other parts where you get to pick your path. Why do you pick the ugly ones?”
I open my mouth to call her an idiot for believing stupid shit. Her dad isn’t in the next life. He’s rotting in the ground. She’s not a dandelion but a fucking girl. She’s no more special than any other woman. I don’t know why I ever stopped by the side of the road. She’s fucked up my damn life. I’d be better off if I left them to starve.
I feel the words ready to roll off my tongue, but I don’t say that shit. What good would saying them do? If Pixie hates me, then what? I can’t take her back to the Village. The club expects me to pump her for info. They called her my honey. I can’t shut down what’s happening, even if I wanted to.
And I don’t want Pixie to hate me or leave. I need her to tell me I’m special. When she says the words just right, I almost believe her.
“I don’t want to touch you right there,” I finally spit out. “I want to touch you here.”
My finger grazes her right nipple. Pixie stops frowning at me long enough to look down. I imagine her tits are plumper when she hasn’t been starved. There’s no meat left on her body. Only bone and muscles.
But the red flesh of her nipple, already hard from the water, tightens to a point when I touch it. Pixie takes each nipple in her fingers and squeezes them.
“Why here?” she asks, her gaze soft and relaxed again.
“Because when you sit with my head in your lap, I’m close enough to your tits to suck them. I never do, but I want to.”
“Do you want to suck them like a baby?”
“Didn’t your mama tell you that?”
Pixie squeezes her breasts harder as if trying to milk herself. She really doesn’t get it.
I gently push her hands aside and then look at her breasts. They’re right here for me to enjoy. I already touched one nipple. No reason to get fucking shy now.
My rough fingers look wrong against her delicate flesh. Yet, I go slow, making careful movements and remembering I’m not attacking an enemy. This is a beautiful girl. She likes me. I like her. Why lose control? Instead, I gently pluck her nipples.
Pixie exhales softly, and her hips buck at the sensation. I like knowing she’s turned on by me. No one else makes her wet. Just this big hulking asshole. Pixie only wants me to touch her.
A moan leaves her lips, echoing in the shower when I roll her nipples gently between my fingers. She reaches down to the spot she wanted me to touch before. I see myself lowering to my knees. I want to taste her red nipples. I even lick my lips at the thought, but Pixie stops me.
“The floor is hard,” she says, reaching over and messing with the knobs. “It’s slippery here, too. I’ll fall if you...”
Unable to finish, Pixie looks to me for help with turning off the water and making her feel good. I do the first one easily. Then I reach for a towel, but Pixie doesn’t wait. She walks out of the shower and toward the bed. When I see the expression on her face, I drop the towel. I can almost smell her sweet, wet pussy from here.
Pixie stands next to the bed, waiting for me. My hands cup her face, and Pixie lifts her lips. She understands what I want. When I lick her lips, she opens up. My tongue slides against hers, showing her what I like. Pixie takes her hands and cups my face. She imitates my movements in a way that is both adorable and makes my dick hard again.
I only leave her lips so I can kneel down before her. Panic rises in my chest. I’m certain we’ll be interrupted, and I’ll never get to taste her red nipples. Sucking one into my mouth, I wrap my arms around her so she can’t run away.
Pixie moans, stroking my head. Her hips arch forward, searching for relief. One of my hands grips her ass, the other slides between her folds from behind. Pixie groans as my finger finds the spot she wanted to show me earlier. Her hips move until her pussy grinds against my fingers.
“Anders,” she whispers, wanting more.
I suck her tit deeper as my tongue rolls back and forth over her hard nipple.
“Anders,” she said with more urgency.
I slide her clit between two fingers and apply the tiniest hint of pressure. Pixie whimpers, grinding against my drenched hand. Then she chants my name in a hushed, wobbling voice.
After she goes limp, I rest her on the bed. I quickly drape her long legs over my shoulders and press my face into her wet pussy. Pixie moans, squirming as if wanting free. I press my hands flat on her stomach and keep her in place while lapping up the sweet juices of a woman who belongs to me. No one else can have Pixie. I’m the one who found her. I won her heart. She can’t leave.
I don’t care if that’s crazy. Pixie isn’t normal. She should want me to claim her. That’s why she let me touch her and no one else.
Right now, I doubt she knows what she wants. Her body is on fire. Her pussy clenches wildly as I lick her from clit to asshole. She moans my name before dissolving into animalistic noises. She comes, I think. Maybe more than once. I can’t stop drinking down her pleasure. Her pussy addicts me.
But I don’t fuck her. My dick begs for a taste, but I can’t have it pounding inside her fragile body. So I fist my cock while fucking Pixie’s pussy with my tongue. I think she might want me to stop. I don’t, though. Not until I jizz on the fallen comforter while giving her pussy a few final licks.
Then, I crawl over her body and kiss her lips without thinking. I want what I want, and my brain is no longer running the show. My instincts are in control. That’s dangerous. I’m a selfish asshole if I don’t force myself to behave.
For Pixie, I need to become a better man. Or, at the very
least, I need to learn to fake that shit better.
PIXIE
Anders scares me. When his big hands hold me down, I can’t break free without hurting him. And I don’t want to cause Anders pain. That’s why my heels never dig into his back when he holds me still and licks me past pleasure into pain. I also keep my hands from hitting or scratching him. I focus on the good part, even after it ends and I want to escape.
Finally, Anders lets go and kisses me. He doesn’t put his penis inside my vagina, though. I expect that to happen next, but he relaxes next to my body and presses his hand against my stomach again. I can’t move when he does that.
“Can we go outside?” I ask when he closes his eyes.
“Did you not feel good?”
“I feel trapped in this room,” I say rather than explain how his big hand is the reason I can’t free myself.
Anders opens his eyes and frowns at me. He’s in that angry mood again. I wonder if this is how he always feels, and I enjoyed only the short moments when he was calm.
“Did you feel good?” he asks again, trying to intimidate me.
“I had too many orgasms. My vagina feels strange now. I want to sit outside with you and talk like we did on the road.”
The scowl on Anders’s face falters, and his hand slides up to my right breast. “I could smoke a little weed. I’m not ready for bed. We could eat and talk and go in the hot tub.”
“I don’t know what that last part means, but I would like weed and food. Mostly, I want to spend time with you without a lot of people around.”
Anders finally smiles in the way he did on the road when we were alone. I miss how simple those times were together. I crave that Anders instead of the angry one who keeps trying to scare me.
He rolls his large body off the bed and then stands in a smooth motion. There are times when he seems too large to exist in the world. Other times, he moves as smoothly as a dancer.
“I ought to put on pants in case your family comes upstairs,” he says, sounding younger now. I even catch a sheepish grin on his handsome face.
