Riding Dirty

by Abriella Blake

  “Yeah. It has.”

  “So, what’s on the shopping list?”

  “She can tell you.”

  Rowan’s heart hammered in her mouth as she felt all the men’s attention rivet on her. Eyes wide and unblinking, she realized she was face to face with the man who would provide the missing piece to her puzzle.

  “My sister.” Rowan cleared her throat, stabilizing her timbre. “She’s a fourteen-year-old girl with Congenital Hepatic Fibrosis and she needs a liver transplant to survive. She’s too far down the wait list. She’ll die if we wait.”

  Rusty nodded, unfazed. “Yes ma’am, we’ll help her out if we can. What’s her blood type?”

  Rowan didn’t need to consult any data; Lacy’s medical history and vital stats were burned in her brain. They were her litany, the hum in her brain when she fell asleep at night. “She’s A, so the liver has to be from someone with type-A. Or type-O. She can take type-O.”

  “That’s right, the universal donor,” chuckled Rusty. “They’re my favorite most popular vendors.” Rowan forced herself to join Rusty’s laughter, but the thin brittle quality of the sound made her feel queasy. She didn’t want to know where he found these vendors. She didn’t want to think about it. “Alright,” Rusty continued. “So we got blood type. Time line, I assume, is as soon as possible. Where are we delivering the parcel? Got a hospital picked out, a game plan?”

  “Yes,” Rowan couldn’t eradicate the shake of stress in her voice, but she was firm. “University of Alabama at Birmingham. They’re the closest, best transplant team to her. She’s not very mobile. Even getting her that far from home will be hard but I have a Bronco...”

  “Alabama?” Rusty’s skeptical surprise made Rowan’s heart sink. “Shit. That’s far, lady.”

  “What are you, Google earth?” Bronson growled. “We know where Alabama is. What we don’t know is whether you got a problem with that?”

  Rusty rubbed the back of his head as if he was smoothing down non-existing hair, mentally connecting the dots and calculating expenditures. His network spanned the globe, but the less his clients knew about his web of sources, drop points, pick-ups, and smuggling routes, the better. “Course not,” Rusty said at length, as if it would be an exception. It would be easy as pie to deliver to Birmingham; Rusty’s blood aunt ran a funeral home a few miles outside the city. But these crackers didn’t need to know that. Besides, Ramsey had just won that big UFC prize pot and could probably stand to be squeezed a little.

  “What do you reckon it’ll run us?” asked Bronson, his tone neutral. He could see the wheels turning in Rusty’s brain and knew it was going to cost him.

  “I’ll give you the family discount,” Rusty said, giving Rowan a sweeping once-over head to toe. She was casually dressed, but well groomed—a well-groomed white lady and celebrity fighter placing a casual little black market order. Merry Christmas to him! “Two fifty.”

  “Two hundred and fifty…thousand?” The last word came out as a gulp. Rowan couldn’t help it. Until this moment, she honestly had no idea how much an organ would cost.

  Rusty laughed again, the sound reverberating off the canyon walls and echoing into the distance until it was eclipsed and blended with the howl of coyotes. “Yeah sweetheart, G’s.”

  “That’s a quarter of a million dollars!”

  “No,” Rusty grinned wickedly behind his sunglasses. “Really?”

  “Two fifty is too much,” Bronson grunted, reining them back in from what could become a dangerous argument. “We’ll give you one fifty. How long will it take you?”

  “Two hundred, Avalanche, and that’s your final offer. It’s going to fucking Alabama, dawg. How long til you get the cash?”

  “Oh,” Bronson crossed his arms, letting the moments pass as if he were calculating. Might as well give the cocky bastard a taste of his own medicine. “A month tops.”

  “Tell you what my man. When our final payment is received, we’ll have the liver ready.”

  “Deal.”

  Rusty clapped Bronson on the back and squeezed his hand. For Rowan, he offered a sweeping bow of the head. With another murky peal of self-congratulatory laughter, Rusty and his associate folded their long bodies back into their polished car and were gone, the hum of their engine answering a screech owl’s cry of good riddance.

  Rowan stared at the void where the blinding headlights had just been, wondering if it had been real. Only the violent shaking of her body served as evidence that the conversation had taken place, that the money had been passed, that domino chain was set up. Only the adrenaline firing in her veins made her believe she was awake. Her body, mind, heart were on fire, scorching her very spirit with the sparking of the biggest hope she had ever felt. She stood next to Bronson, listening to the wind and the call of the night owls, feeling as if the desert had merged with her body and filled her with its glassy sand and sound.

  “This is it,” she whispered, full. “This is happening.”

  “Yup. Sure is.”

  “You made it happen. You gave me—Bronson—”

  Rowan whirled to look at him, to thank him, to try and express to him what she was feeling. Her gratitude was too vast, too hot, and her throat caught and closed, nothing able to come in or out but silence. The only way explain the calm, the peace, and the joy that she felt from this precipice was to touch him. She had to touch him, to let him know, to be with him in this moment of completion and potential.

  She took a faltering step closer to Bronson, suddenly not afraid of him, his scars, his violence or his past: not afraid of anything. Her tongue couldn’t form words to tell him her decision, but it would still be the vessel to communicate. She would show him with a kiss. She suddenly knew exactly how.

  With a sigh, her heart in her mouth, Rowan hurled herself into Bronson and collapsed against him, her arms clasping around his neck to pull him down to her height. As soon as she could reach, her lips vaulted into his, pressing, coaxing, tasting. Shocked with the intensity of the assault, Bronson stumbled clumsily. He tentatively reached his hands to Rowan’s waist to stabilize, balance, recalibrate as the soft skin of her parted lips tore away at his self-control. Her lips parted and she flicked her tongue under his, exploring, and she matched its yearning motion with the dance of her hips as she leaned and melted against him. Her breasts careened against his chest, coaxing and enlivening him. The force and confidence of her touch left Bronson dazed, and it wasn’t until her kisses began to burn down his neck and into the low neckline of his chest that he allowed himself a response.

  Slowly, carefully, Bronson let one hand slide up and down Rowan’s spine while the other rested on the small of her back. He didn’t want to screw this up, couldn’t quite fathom why it was happening. He dipped his chin down to give him access, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, keeping his touch soft and careful. Her lips were wet and rousing, but Bronson remembered how he had frightened her the last time, how wildly he had misread her signals. Caution wasn’t his forte, but he employed all he had now for Rowan’s sake, ignoring the increasing speed and depth of his breath as she pulled his vest down and slipped it down his arms, effectively binding him.

  Taking advantage of Bronson’s constraint, Rowan’s hands drifted to caress under his shirt, up his stomach and chest. Bronson froze. Her fingers were on his nipples, back down to his waist-band, and with amazement he realized that she was purposefully coaxing him. She let her fingertips trace lightly over his crotch, twisting his body with pleasure, and then ripped his vest and shirt off.

  She was shoving him now, herding him toward the cliffs, until she slammed her body against his, wedging him against the hard stone in an echo of the way he had entrapped her in his room the first night. He laughed, captivated. All the time she was kissing him, growing deeper and sweeter, until their breath was united. She reached for his hands, drawing them around her hips and bringing his palms to cup her ass.

  “Touch me, Bronson,” she whispered, “Please. I want to feel your han
ds on me.”

  She wanted him, Bronson comprehended with a thrill. No doubts. He could be absolutely sure this time, could almost let himself go. A pride beyond victory constricted his chest, filled him with longing and an aching sense of responsibility. He pulled back from Rowan’s kiss, working to catch his breath and focus on holding himself back.

  She’s a virgin, he sternly reminded himself. No matter how aggressively she kissed him, no matter how eager and prime her body was, he had to tread softly. He wanted her. God! He wanted her so much. But, even more, he wanted her to lead. He wanted her to decide. He wanted her to feel safe. He realized that he would never have held her to their agreement, had she wanted out. He would have left her alone in the end.

  “I want to, baby,” he said. “I want to touch you. Are you sure you want me to?”

  “Yes. Touch me. Touch everything.”

  Gently, Bronson obeyed her instruction, slowly moving his hands on her tail and relishing its dichotomy of firmness and yield. While he played with the back, her pubic mound was pressed against him, teetering and pressing against his package. Bronson felt his rod stiffen under her weight and a soft moan escaped Rowan’s lips. The confirmation of her pleasure drew an answering groan from Bronson.

  Bronson let one hand reach down, down, slipping between her thighs from behind, feeling through her jeans to map her out. She fit snugly on his hand, and he couldn’t wait to plunge his throbbing cock inside her. The thought of feeling her sheathe him made his mouth water and skin burn. While his fingers spread and played, he let the other hand slip up under her sweatshirt, polishing and warming her skin, working toward the perky mounds of her breasts. To his delight, he found she wasn’t wearing a bra and with a grunt of approval he ran his fingertips over the soft rise of flesh. So, so soft.

  “Oh, baby,” he whispered, closing his fingers around her supple tits, stroking her nipples until they hardened, erect. Rowan gasped, sucked in her breath, stimulated beyond patience. Bronson reveled in the luxurious, genuine moans of satisfaction that he was extracting from her. He wanted to make her do it again and again.

  “You’re so beautiful.” He kissed her lips again, lightly, lingering an inch away and feeling her rapid breath on his face. “So, so beautiful.”

  “You can’t even see me,” she laughed.

  “You’ll have to come closer I guess.”

  His hand had been resting between her legs and now it strengthened into a fist, pushing her up from below and forcing her mouth to accept his pillaging tongue. Bronson steered her hips and torso in closer so he could feel every curve disburse along his body. When she was as close as humanly possible and pressed tight against him, he wrapped both his arms around her, claiming possession. She merged into him and Bronson let himself kiss her with all the naked hunger he felt, limiting himself to the use of his lips and tongue to preview his intentions, burying her in his energy. Rowan gave as good as she got, turning him on with her passion, stunning him with her enthusiasm. Though his erection was full and pulsing almost painfully, Bronson swore to himself that he would take his time and do this right.

  No sooner had Bronson promised himself chivalry than Rowan immediately threatened his resolve by ripping off her sweatshirt and arcing her back in a siren shape. The mere sight of her gleaming white breasts in the moonlight excited Bronson’s entire body like something from a dream. She was so, so lovely, and alone in the desert Bronson didn’t even have to pretend to his usual coolness. He hungrily touched and looked at her in boyish eagerness as a wide grin ebbed and flowed across his face, chasing away any exhaustion or hesitation.

  Rowan reached forward. With trembling hands, she carefully unbuttoned and unzipped Bronson’s jeans before fumbling to do the same to hers. Grabbing his hips on either side with her hands, she rubbed her pelvis against him, curiously exploring the new texture, kissing his neck and twining her bare arms around his shoulders.

  Bronson literally couldn’t breathe for a moment. How was she doing this to him? He had slept with countless women, all of them skilled and experienced, some of them professionals. And here he was turning to putty in a virgin’s hands. With his fucking pants still on.

  “Oh God baby you’re making me crazy.” He choked on the words, straining against his own mounting need, the reckless crash of his pulse unnerving him. “You’re something else. I want you, I want you so bad.”

  Want wasn’t actually a strong enough word for what he felt. Maybe it was the artless, direct way she touched him that turned him on. Maybe it was the novelty of holding himself back, and putting another first. The buildup was killing him and he physically, mentally ached to fuck her. Fuck her senseless. Fuck her sideways and backwards. No, not fuck her.

  He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to take his time.

  The slow, thick friction through the coarse denim of their jeans was rough, and sent a rush of blood to Rowan’s crotch. She had never felt this kind of awakening, this glowing wetness radiating from between her legs and quivering through her entire body. Desire that made her knees feel weak and her brain heady. It had never gotten this far with anybody else. She had never wanted to go this far. Now, she couldn’t stop, didn’t want to.

  “I want you,” she whispered. “I don’t feel like I owe it to you. This isn’t about the deal. I just want to. I want it to be you, now.”

  Bronson nodded, but didn’t trust himself to speak, and waited.

  Rowan took a step back and kicked off her sneakers. Effortlessly and gracefully, she bent down to untwine herself from her pants, her underwear. She stood completely naked in the moonlight, utterly exposed, and suddenly it occurred to her that she didn’t know what to do next. Of course she knew technically what sex was, but now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure what to do first, where to put her hands. Overwhelmed, she ground to a halt.

  Bronson saw her hesitate, and guessed the reason. He moved slowly to join her vulnerability, stripping himself down and facing her, each crevice and sinew of his powerful body dusted with the shadowy light of the open night sky. They took each other in, breathed, ached.

  “What—” began Rowan, but stopped. She swallowed, suddenly nervous. “What do you like?”

  Bronson laughed and reached for her hand, peering through the dark night at her face. “I like you,” he said, his pulse racing. “I like you a lot.” He pulled her in close and kissed her lightly on the lips, then pulled himself upright. “Come with me.”

  He swiftly unhooked a folded blanket from his motorcycle, threaded his fingers around Rowan’s, and led her a few steps down the hiking trail. The horizon was beginning to turn a lighter shade of teal, the moon swelling to its watery zenith. Bronson knew this area like the back of his hand, knew the hours until dawn, and even in the noisy dark navigated easily to a cozy alcove between a copse of sage bushes and a deep curve of cliff.

  Spreading the blanket under the stars, he pulled Rowan down to join him on it. When she was sitting next to him she shook slightly, giggled nervously. He raised a hand to gently stroke her face.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said huskily. “I never want to hurt you on purpose. Tonight, or later. You tell me if anything hurts you. I want you to feel good with me, all the time. OK?”

  “Ok,” she murmured.

  “Come here.”

  Bronson pulled her chin close and poured his kiss on her, tangling his arms around her waist and stroking her skin until he felt her tension ease. This was going to be about Rowan, about discovering and celebrating with her.

  Surging forward, Bronson used his massive, ravenous body to spill Rowan onto her back. Flat beneath him, she was fully available. He kissed his way down to her breasts, licking and sucking and burying his face in their abundance. He rubbed his thumbs roughly over her nipples, forging a path with his tongue down her stomach and toward her waiting rim.

  Bronson kissed around her inner thighs, laughing softly when she shuddered, whispering to her words of praise. He called on all his experie
nce with women as he touched her for the first time, laying his hand gently and possessively over the full length between her legs and watching her gyrate her hips to embrace his hand. Rowan gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth, happy tears springing to her eyes.

  “I like that,” she breathed.

  She was waxed bare, certainly Lola's doing, her soft skin and sweet taste open to Bronson’s tongue.

  “You’re so, so beautiful,” he rasped, burying his head in her. He stroked and sucked at her clit with his mouth, circling and teasing it with his tongue. Emboldened, he rubbed the small mound directly until she buried her nails in his hair and cried his name, shots of fire spiraling down her legs and up into the roots of her teeth.

  “Bronson! Oh God.”

  Heat flooded his face, but he didn’t stop. Licking with firm, steady strokes, he clutched one of her breasts while he freed his other hand and slowly, deliberately thrust two fingers in to her hot, juicy body.

  “Ah!” She wailed, shocked at the pain and pleasure, the realization of her own depths. “Yes!”

  “Yes baby.” Bronson licked, thrust, and pinched rhythmically, leisurely enjoying her young body and searching for her most sensitive spots. “Let it out.” He started to increase the rhythm, tilting his head back to watch her. She was so responsive, shuddering and rocking into him, her hips yearning toward his inquisitive hand. “I love the way you feel,” he said. “You’re so wet, so tight.”

  She was panting, edging to ecstasy, moaning. She could barely hold herself in her own body, every cell rioting in heat and chaos. “I like you…inside me…Bronson…”

  “I want my dick inside you. Feel this? This is going to be my dick.” He drove powerfully with his fingers, giving her a taste of his reach, watching her groan and thrash her head. He shook his head, electrified and eager. “I’m going to make love to you Rowan. I’m going to take you. But first I’m going to make you come. Come for me, baby. Come. Let it go. Let it all go.”

  He rubbed his thumb in a circle around her clit, faster, faster, sliding in her warmth and playing her like a guitar. With his other hand, he squeezed and crushed her breasts.