by Cherise West
“Tony, I shouldn’t,” I mouth breathlessly, “but I w… I want to feel you inside of me so badly,” I admit, tossing back my mess of damp auburn hair with a tilt of my neck so I can see him better, worshiping every inch of me, his tongue swirling along the pink skin of my nipples.
“Good,” he growls, his kisses passing my chest, down onto my stomach. A map of his desire lays bitten, reddened and hot on my skin, each cool brush of wind against those bite marks sending a sensual shiver along my arching spine. His fingers slip into my panties and he drags them slowly along my thighs, kissing down the whole way. With my quaking body exposed, I moan to him, watching with rapt attention while his lips clasp and suckle at my full feminine thighs, laboring intensely, making my body shake, my folds soaked. His tongue darts along my skin, laboring in slow and teasing circles across my thighs; my hands tremble in their bonds, and I want so badly to reach out and grab his midnight-black hair. Instead, all I can do is watch, breath held, breasts heaving in want, as his hazel eyes glinted up at me and his tongue swirled up and down along the sides of my sensitive petals, the tip twirling tantalizing around my clit. Breath rattles rough through my chest; I bury my head against the couch, trying to hold it in.
“Tonnnnyyyy,” it finally comes free from my throat, the name I had longed to moan out, to scream for him, from the minute I saw that confident swagger, that sexy body; that stunning face. Sampling my flavor with his tongue plunging shallow between my feminine lips he laps hungrily along my dampness, and I can’t stop the symphony of sounds raining from my parted lips. My mind reels still from the sensation of his tongue skillfully tasting me when I feel him crawling back across my body, kisses roughly marking another path back up across my stomach, his tongue swirling along my naval. He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing to me all the sweet, gorgeous muscles he has to offer, his abs flexed in erotic need, ink emblazoned on every exposed, olive-toned stretch of his rough skin. I feel the stubble along his chin brushing against my stomach, along my breasts; he clasps my sensitive nipple between his lips, suckling on it before I feel his teeth. I quake hard beneath him, hips flexing out against the stiff bulge under his pants pushing tightly against the inside of my leg.
“I want it,” I groan, “but I can’t…” my fingers squirm, trying in vain to reach out and pull down his pants.
“I know you can’t,” he groans, self-assured. A wicked smile on his lips he rolls off the couch; a mild, lewd panic washes through my mind, thinking he’s going to torment me; leave me here to suffer. Standing in the faint glow of the moon through the windows, he unzips his pants, letting them fall to the floor, his thick leather boots following, leaving Tony St. James, leader of the Wardogs, proudly and lustily naked in my living room. He watches me from afar, doubtlessly enjoying every heated shift of my body; watching my shoulders struggle, my heels dig in and my back arch, trying so hard to get at him; to touch him. His stiff shaft twitches as he watches my naked body shudder, and listens to me groan, and he grips the base of his length, squeezing and stroking it in my sight, letting the light of the night gleam in every chiseled crevice of his cut, powerful, gorgeous body.
“I warned you,” he exhales hard, his leg trembling as he watches my naked body and pleasures himself. “I warned you, I’d be doing the cuffing,” he reminds me. The denial makes the heat in my chest build even more, and I begin to call for him, shriek for him, anything.
“I need you inside of me,” I scream, “god, PLEASE Tony,” I can’t believe what I’m saying; that I want my worst enemy here, on top of me, kissing and moaning as he pushes into my body and fills me hot and hard. He works himself into a frenzy, taking dirty pleasure in seeing me ache and beg like this, and I drink in the sight of him, basking in the glow of night, his body wet with rain and sweat.
He finally obliges me, moving like an animal starved for its prey. My body trembling I spread my legs and he presses his chest against mine, our lips close, our eyelids heavy with lust as he pushes his stiff, erect length between my doting, soaked petals, pumping inside of me with a feeling no one has ever given me, something so intense my eyes flutter shut as stars fill my eyelids. I push my hips out against his and he moans with me, kissing my cheek as I gasp for air. My wrists chafe and my voice soars as he begins to push deeper, over and over again, a steady rhythm causing my couch to creak and the papers beneath my body to cling to my sweat-sheened, shaking skin. He holds my hips and forces them hard against his pounding shaft, my heart throbbing through my chest. I finally open my eyes wide, feeling the sensations crashing into my all at once like an avalanche, my breaths halting and my nerves erupting in stunning pleasure.
“Tony!” I cry his name, feeling my body tensing all at once, the tingling sensation surging through my stomach and along every nerve like lightning as I reach my climax. He groans into my throat, and with a bite on my skin and my name passionately hissed through his hungry lips I feel him thrust deep, deep as he can, riding every wave of gripping, clenching sensation that fills my body while I come. He, too, can’t stop himself from exploding in heat, waves and waves and thick, heavy waves of his climax filling me, messy and hard and so perfect. Our voices stretched to their limits, my throat hoarse from a chorus of screams of his name, I arch out against him, enjoying those last crashing waves of my peak while his rhythm slows, filling me with his come before he collapses at my side, breathing hard.
“Tony…” my voice cries, raspy; I feel him sling his hand dotingly across my chest, pulling me closer to him. He unbinds my arms, and my shoulders creak free; I feel a dull pain shoot through them, but Tony chases them away immediately with strong, sensitive hands kneading out the knots in my muscles with attentive rolls of his palms. Glowing cool in the light of the moon, a chilly New Jersey evening wafting in through the windows, my eyes flutter shut. My body spent, my emotions a constant tumult, I start to think about just what I’d done. I’d slept with my worst enemy, a rival I’d dedicated my life to throwing in prison. He holds me close, kissing my cheek as exhaustion begins to claim both of us.
Before I drift to sleep, I remember why I’d been drinking tonight. To spite everyone. To tell the rules, to screw off.
Good. I wanted him. Rules be damned.
Chapter 9
My eyes sleepily part to the noise not of a blasting nuclear launch warning, nor any other obnoxious phone noise. Instead, I hear a quiet rustling.The first sight to greet my groggy eyes is a leather jacket on the floor, in the foyer near my front door. A leather jacket bearing patches, that same medieval-style white lettering… and a patch for the Roarin’ Wardogs, a motorcycle club full of criminals. One I’ve been working my whole life to put away.
Though alcohol blurs some of the memories of last night, the haze hanging heavy in my mind, which pounds in a dull pain, I don’t realize until too late that I slept through my alarm. Or, I guess more accurately… there was no alarm. Because I’m an idiot who left her car and her cell phone at a dive bar last night, so she could get drunk, ride away in a cab, and sleep with the leader of the most notorious biker gang in New Jersey.
Reality starts to set in. I sit up, gathering a blanket around my naked body. Papers crunch beneath me; dossiers and important briefs now crumpled and coated in sweat and rainwater. My eyes dart around the living room. My clothes, thrown onto the floor. But his…
I hear footsteps in the back hall; alert, and a little scared, I grip the blanket tight to my body and wait. God, I shouldn’t have done that last night. I shouldn’t have done any of it. Emerging from the hall to the bathroom, Tony is up and collecting his clothes. He doesn’t say anything; doesn’t look at me. He collects his belt from the floor next to me, threading it into his pants.
“H… hey,” I hazard a word. The sound of my voice gets him to look at me, at least, his hazel eyes alight in mixed emotion, his expression contorted in a quiet, confused rage. He doesn’t say anything. He watches me as he latches his belt to his waist, pulling his tanktop from the floor and once more covering his
sculpted muscles and abdominal tattoos.
“Do you want… want to talk about last night?” I ask. He doesn’t say anything, again. Disappearing into my back hall again, I hear the bathroom sink running. I don’t know how I should feel. Scared. Rejected. Hurt. My stomach knots with a little bit of each of those. I search for a clock, finally finding the digital readout on the microwave across the room, in my little corner-kitchen. Ten fifteen. God, I slept in way late. Scott is going to kill me. The Abruzzi hearing was at nine, and my phone has probably been ringing and pinging like crazy… wherever it might be. Leaving a phone in a place like that, and I’d bet my best recourse is just to go to the mall and buy a new one. The water shuts off in the bathroom; he emerges again, wordless and expressionless.
“Hey,” I repeat, swallowing hard. “Can we say something? Anything? About what happened?” I ask meekly. Tony glances into the mirror in my living room, looking over himself once more, probably to make sure he’s not carrying any lipstick or bite marks or anything from me from the night before. Can’t show any evidence of our night together, I guess. “Please?” I ask. He just looks at me, that same vexed twinkle in his eye. He collects his jacket from the floor, pulling it on over his torso, the wild ink patterns along his arms replaced with leather sleeves patched with questionable accolades.
“Tony, come on,” I press at him quietly. “Was that all this was?” I whisper. “All that last night? Just some kind of twisted ploy to sleep with me?” That question, at least, provokes some sort of a response. A glare. He looks at me, spite in his eyes at my query. He shakes his head, not in dismissal, but disgust; disgust, I guess, that I’d suggest such a thing of him. With his reactions, can I really be blamed? Am I just another conquest for him, one of a hundred?
The door slams shut, and Tony’s gone. Maybe for good, out of my life. My enemy, a man who did things to my body I haven’t felt before; the man I want jailed for the rest of his life. I reach reflexively into the cushions of the couch in search of my phone; anger in my fingertips, I contemplate tapping out an angry Facebook message to him, excoriating him for leaving me like this; wordless, confused. Used. After fishing for my phone a second I remember I left the thing at the bar last night, and I abandon the search with a restless sigh. I guess it’s time to try to act like a responsible adult again.
Yesterday’s outfit drenched in rain and smelling of cigarette smoke, I dip into its pockets to retrieve my keys and then drag myself across the mess in my living room to my bedroom, pulling something out of the closet; anything. I retrieve a familiar suit jacket and blouse from within - the jacket two sizes too big for me, the blouse and skirt to match. Tony’s insult clings to my mind. After I heard it, I’d put these clothes away, just to show him.
Now, I throw the outfit on with a disenchanted yawn and a spite-filled frown.
I don’t have the time to fix my hair, throwing it into an erratic, lopsided ponytail. I grab my briefcase on the way to the door; I don’t know if I even have the paperwork I need for today stuffed inside of it, but who cares? I might take that philosophy from now on. Let Scott do the hard work he’s been punishing me with for months now, as some kind of petty payback against my commitment to justice.
Going out the front door, daylight blinds me; it had to be sunny today, of course, and my alcohol-induced headache throbs harder at exposure to the obnoxious glow. A strange hopefulness guides my eyes along the streets; I don’t see anything, or anybody. Tony has vanished, along with any trail of where he may have gone. I glance to my driveway, sighing; I’d forgotten my car, left parked around the corner from that bar. And I don’t have my phone to call a cab. Perfect.
“I didn’t think you were home!” a familiar, saccharine voice cries out. Normally, my neighbor’s ceaselessly annoying nosiness about my personal affairs would drive me up a wall, but today she might actually be of some help.
“Good morning, Yvonne,” I chirp, “yeah, I had some car trouble yesterday, and a friend gave me a ride home,” I fib. “I left my phone in her car, though, and now I’ve got no way to call a cab in to work. Could I use your phone?” I smile, or try as best I can to.
“Oh suuure, sweetheart,” Yvonne says. “Was that man coming out of your door this morning your friend?” she asks; my heart sinks.
“Oh, no, he was— just a client, making a house call, since he knows, y’know, I didn’t have a car today,” I stutter. She hands her phone over, and I plunk in the number of the cab company.
“I didn’t know lawyers did that sort of thing,” she says in her cheery old woman voice, trying not to sound nosy, which she totally is.
“Well, I mean, I do,” I shrug, anxiously laughing. The cab dispatcher’s voice comes on, asking for an address, and I direct him to mine. He’s right around the corner, thankfully, and I end the call and fork the phone back over to Yvonne quick. “Thanks.”
“Of cooourse, any time,” she sings. “Say, that client of yours, he was quite a looker, eh? Eh?” she asks, clearly prodding for more information.
“I mean, I guess, but he’s just a client,” I laugh off the comment. “You know. I can’t have any kind of inappropriate… relationships, with my clients, or with anyone else, really, involved in the courts or my cases,” I stammer. The more I talk, the more I remind myself of my ethical duties as a lawyer, and the more I begin to regret everything about last night.
“Oh, riiiight,” she nods, “so, that’s good then! That he was just a client. Say,” she taps her chin, “I think he had some of those patches, on that jacket of his, though! Looked like a real bike type of boy,” she recalls. I swallow nervously. “Just like Quentin Hill, and his Jersey City Boys. Boy, they were troublemakers.”
“I don’t know about his affiliations, or anything,” I state, unsure.
“But you said he was a client of yours, right?” Yvonne needles me.
“I mean, I know about, the things he’s done, as a cr- as a client, and—” thankfully, the cab pulls around the corner, coming to rest at the end of my driveway. “Anyway, I really need to get going - late for court. Thanks again Yvonne.”
“Oh! Of course, you be on your way,” she crows, “you be on your way, love, don’t let me keep you.” She doesn’t need to tell me twice. Waving, I hustle down the driveway and slip into the backseat, exhaling deeply. “I need to go to … XKZ? A bar, on the west side,” I tell the cabbie.
“To pick up your car, right, miss?” he answers. My eyes dart up, seeing the same driver who took Tony and I to my house last night. I sigh. “Nice seein’ you again! You gonna leave a tip like you did last night? Where’s your friend?” he asks cheerily.
“Can we just… drive, please?” I request, annoyed.
“Oh, so it was one of those sorta nights,” he says gravely. “It’s okay, miss, I know how those sorta nights go. I see plenty of them,” he says, pulling out onto the street. “I know they leave a bad impression, so I won’t talk none about it. No ma’am. Though I gotta say, he was all over you, and you were kinda the same, if I remember - I don’t know, it’s been a long shift,” he guffaws. “So I didn’t think it was gonna be one of those kinda nights. Those nights, never fun to remember—”
“Driver, please, just shut up, and drive,” I demand flatly.
“Oh, okay, sorry,” he murmurs, “right. Just driving.” He remains, thankfully silent, for the rest of the ride, taking us through alleys and along the freeway towards the part of the city blighted by smokestacks and the stink of industry. Past parkways and shopping malls and rows upon rows of old sunworn houses, into neighborhoods of steel and soot sheened in grease and smog. Nestled here among burned-out factories and shuttered manufactories sits the ugly brick building, the tableau of spraypainted images impressed against the faded wooden facade. Only a few chromed hogs sit outside XKZ this time, the morning crowd of degenerates wandering in for a few shots and some of that horrible heavy-metal music, still droning through the speakers, though much quieter today than last night.
“Fare’s 2
8.17, miss,” the cabbie requests. I drop him a ten and a twenty.
“Keep the change,” I murmur, straightening my jacket.
“Not as nice as last night,” he grunts, “but hey, it’s a little extra. Thanks, miss.”
“Good bye,” I state with finality, once more annoyed at his insistent references to last night’s events. Warily eyeing the street behind me I stride in my heels down the uneven sidewalk, liquor still painfully throbbing in my legs as I round the corner to find my car. Thankfully, not stolen, or destroyed, or chopped for parts or anything. I click the keyfob, and my car chirps to life. Rounding to the driver seat, I feel ready to leave this disaster behind me and drive in to the courthouse.
Though… honestly, maybe my phone, by some miracle, made its way to the bartender, and maybe he didn’t steal it. I might as well try, right? I’d rather not pay for another one. Sighing, I collect myself, getting out of the car and strutting back over and pulling the XKZ doors open. Sunlight creeps along the blackened floors, still stained with liquor and littered with cigarette ash from the night before. A few leather-clad old men huddle in the booths and corners of the bar, sipping away at bottom-shelf cocktails to forget about the miseries of the day.
“Excuse me,” I ask, strutting awkwardly up to the bar. The gruff man, a worn t-shirt full of holes pulled over a black apron, eyes me curiously, giving me a look like I shouldn’t be here. I mean, I shouldn’t. Clearly. I shouldn’t have been here last night, and I shouldn’t be here now. He doesn’t respond, but waits standing there for a question. “Uhmm.. I know it’s a crazy question, and a long shot,” I giggle anxiously, “but… I was here last night,” he grunts a laugh under his breath. “…Yeah, I know, a surprise to me too,” I snark, “…but I was, and I believe I left my cell phone here. I was hoping maybe you had it, back there, or… somewhere?” He lifts a brow, thinking I’m as stupid as I think I am for asking that kind of question in a place like this. When I smile at him, assuring him this isn’t some kind of joke, he rolls his eyes and kneels down, pulling from under the bar a big black box overflowing with odds and ends. He digs through the mess of boots, sunglasses, knives… god, lots of pocket knives, and, with a ‘well hell, look at that’ kind of expression on his face, he pulls out a cell phone. My cell phone. God, really? He doesn’t believe it either.
