I unscrew the top and pour the amber liquid into the glass before setting the bottle back in its rightful spot. With the glass in my hand I walk around the bar, take a seat at one of the tables and lift my eyes to the empty chair across from me.
Not that long ago I sat in this very seat across from Jimmy Gold with a needle full of heroin and threw my sobriety to the gutter, yet it seemed like it was a lifetime ago. I twirl the glass watching as the alcohol dances over the rim and drips onto my hand. Placing the glass down, I swipe my hand along the front of my shirt before leaning against the back of the chair.
Pieces of a puzzle taunt my mind. Charlie’s face, the Corrupt Bastards, Ronan, fucking Brantley, they are all part of this thing I’m trying to put together. I’ve been beating myself up for days but no matter how much I rack my brain to figure the common thread, I come up empty.
The last time we flew blind all hell broke loose.
I got hooked on the shit, turned into the devil himself and along with hurting myself I hurt Lacey.
Reina got kidnapped and Jack lost his fucking mind.
It all spiraled out of control, with no end in sight. Even with Jimmy rotting in jail, our club was still hurting with a threat we didn’t foresee. We lost Bones, Riggs watched his girl nearly die and his kid fight for life, all while knowing we were burying his brother.
I won’t let that shit happen to us again.
I’ve got too much to lose, a precious life to protect—I’ve got Lace.
For the first time we all have something to lose, something that means more than the reaper on our backs, and that scares the fuck out of me.
I didn’t hear the door open, but I knew I was no longer alone. The scent of Lacey cut through my senses like a razor, pulling me out of my head and the devilish whiskey I was staring at. I turn my head, listening as her boots tap against the floor.
Always saving me, girl.
Her leather boots come into my line of vision and slowly I let my eyes sweep over her. First, I see the knee-high boots, my favorite thing she owned. Then I take in the pants painted onto her legs, pausing at the piercing that dangles from her belly button before allowing my gaze to linger over the Rolling Stones tank she wore knotted under her tits.
Goddamn girl.
Whiskey doesn’t compare to the high that sinking into Lace takes me to.
Nothing compares to her.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she says, taking a step closer, then another. Three until she has me pushing back my chair and climbing onto my lap.
My hand closes over her knee, sliding up her thigh as I peer at her through the hair hanging over my eyes. Her dark eyes, full of life and light find mine as she threads her fingers through my hair and away from my face.
I silently vow to keep that light in those eyes.
I won’t let anyone dull her shine.
No threat, no enemy and sure as hell not me and my addictions.
She averts her gaze toward the glass sitting offensively on the table, threatening to ruin our rewrite.
“Plot twist?” she questions softly.
I wrap both my arms around her small frame, joining her as she stares at the glass and the watermark forming around the bottom of it.
“I wouldn’t have drunk it,” I admit.
“Then why pour it?”
She unravels my arms from her waist, reaching for the glass. She stands up and walks to the bar, emptying the glass into the sink. I draw in a ragged breath, my emotions a jumbled mess. I don’t need her babysitting me, worrying I’m going to fuck up and tear this thing we got to shreds. I poured the drink hoping if I stared at it long enough, hard enough, I’d remember the pain she’s made me forget. I need to remind myself of what it feels like to be at the end of my rope so I can keep climbing it, fitting the pieces of the puzzle with each inch I climb.
I hoped the pain would scare me into discovering the link I was missing, the tiny detail that ties this shit together in a neat little package before it falls, without warning, on our doorstep.
She disappears under the bar, popping her head up a moment later holding two bottles of that non-alcoholic beer Reina keeps stocked in the fridge and makes her way back.
“Keys,” she demands, standing in front of me, leaning her ass against the table as she places one bottle on the table and holds out her hand. Lifting my hips, I tug the chain from my belt and hand her the bottle opener attached to it. She pops off the top of the beer she’s holding and hands it to me before opening the other for herself.
“Here’s to you,” I say huskily, touching the neck of my bottle to hers.
“Blackie,” she breathes as her hand pauses before the bottle touches her lips. “Do you need to go to a meeting? Why don’t you call your sobriety coach?”
I take a gulp of the bitter drink, curling my lip in disgust as it works its way down my throat before placing the bottle on the table beside her. My hands take hold of her hips, my fingers drum across her midriff as I rest my head against her chest.
“Girl, you have no idea, do you?” I mutter against her, pressing my lips against the knot of her shirt and jerk my head back to stare into her confused eyes. “You don’t have to worry about me, or my choices, because there is only one choice for me and that’s you. Drugs or you—it’s you. Booze or you—it’s still you. Name any lethal temptation and the answer will be you. Your life or mine—always yours. I choose you, Lace.”
Her fingers glide through my hair as she bends her head, rubbing the tip of her nose down the bridge of mine before she showers me with Eskimo kisses.
“Leather and Lace,” she whispers, a small smile blossoms across her pouty mouth and instantly I picture those lips around my cock. I grow hard, my dick straining against the zipper of my jeans painfully as her tongue traces her lower lip and her eyes travel mischievously around the empty clubhouse.
“Are we alone?”
“Cobra is floating around here somewhere,” I mutter, keeping my gaze pinned to her mouth.
“It’s been a while since you bent me over that desk in your room,” she teases.
“Never bent you over my desk, Lace, I fucked you right on top of it,” I growl, pulling back from her. I stand tall, towering over her as I brace my hands against the edge of the table and box her into my arms.
“You want to rewrite that scene too, girl?”
“I don’t know,” she says quietly, gnawing on her lip. “You’re looking kind of tired,” she goads, knowing exactly what buttons to push. When your girl is thirteen years younger than you, you make sure your stamina is on point. I take the beer bottle from her hand, set it down beside mine and in one quick motion I lift her over my shoulder.
“Not even a little, and you’re keeping the fucking boots on,” I order as I climb the stairs and my hands glide over her ass, squeezing it.
“Why do you think I wore them?” she taunts.
All my worries fade away, consumed by the feral need burning inside of me to be one with my girl. I open the door to my room, kick it closed, and as I walk us to my desk I try to remember the last time I stayed here, but for the life of me I can’t.
I gently set Lacey on top of the old wooden piece of furniture, grab one of her legs and extend it, resting the sole of her boot against my chest as I work the zipper down the leather covering her leg. She braces her hands on the edge of the desk as she watches me remove one boot and then the other. Clutching them in my fist I jerk my chin and eye the leggings she’s wearing.
“Undress for me, girl,” I coax. “Show me what you got.”
“What about the boots? I thought you wanted me to keep them on,” she says coyly, looping her thumbs under the waistband of her pants.
“Undress for me, girl,” I repeat, pulling out the chair in front of the desk flipping it over so I straddle the back of it. Still holding onto her boots, I prop my chin on the back of the chair and watch as she slides off the desk, peeling the pants off her legs.
“Goddamn, girl,” I
groan as she kicks off her pants and spins around. Her lingerie game is on point as she shows off the little number she was hiding under her clothes. I watch as she grabs onto the desk, glancing over her shoulder as she bends over and gives me a view of the G-string tucked between the cheeks of her ass.
“Take it off,” I growl.
She turns around again, eyes on me as she pushes the lace down her legs.
“This what you want, Blackie?” she asks, her breath hitching as she leans against the desk.
“It’s a start,” I rasp, handing her the boots. “Now, girl, dress for me,” I say, swallowing as my dick rubs painfully against my jeans, begging to be free. I reach down and run my palm over myself as she extends one leg, slides her foot into the boot and works the leather over her calf. She’s got that gleam in her eyes, that look she gets when she’s feeling brazen.
That look that brings me to my fucking knees every goddamn time.
With one boot on, the other in her hand, she widens her legs, exposing her sleek pussy to me, teasing me, taunting me—fucking testing my control.
Careful, girl.
She snaps her legs shut, her thighs clench, and she closes her eyes for a moment before they open wide and she fixes me with a look.
Control still intact, hers teetering, she pulls on her other boot and quickly draws the zipper up her leg. Placing both hands on her knees, she opens and closes her legs as she peers at me through her eyelashes.
“Now what, Leather?”
I rise from the chair, reach behind me and pull my shirt over my head and toss it across the room. I shove the chair to the side as I unbutton my jeans, carefully unzipping them, all the while I keep my eyes on her beautiful face.
“Now, I fuck you, just as hard as the first time I had your legs spread on this desk. The only difference this time is you’ll be coming just as fucking hard as I do.” Kicking off my jeans I close my hand around my shaft. My cock twitches as I watch her lick her lips and her eyes dip below my waist.
I run my thumb over the head, wiping away the wetness from the tip as she reaches out and grabs a hold of my wrist. Tugging me toward her, she presses my wet thumb between her legs and grinds against me.
My control snaps and I stand between her legs. Taking a fistful of her hair I urge her head back and her body arches against me, dark eyes bore into mine.
“Wrap those legs around me, girl,” I rasp. “Dig those heels into my back,” I ground out.
“Pain,” she whispers.
I press my lips to hers, take her lower lip between my teeth and tug gently before swiping my tongue over the sting easing the ache.
“Just pleasure,” my words whisper across her lips, reassuring her, reminding her where there is pain there is pleasure. For she is the one who showed me—wherever there was pain in my life, she came and brought me pleasure.
Her legs wrap around me as I move my hips back and slam forcefully and deeply inside her, touching her in places she didn’t even know existed. Hearing her gasp, I pause, gathering whatever control I have left and give her a moment to adjust to having me completely invade her. Her heels dig into my ass as her body arches. Her ass slides to the edge of the desk, urging me to continue, to stretch and fill her, to fuck her hard and deep, to rewrite the first time I had her on this desk and feel her come all over my cock.
Sweat drips from my forehead onto her shoulder as I work my hips, gliding my cock in and out of her tight pussy. I struggle to control my rhythm but she makes it hard, clawing at my skin, grinding herself against me, desperate for the high I’m going to give her. There are no words spoken between us, the only sounds are our ragged breaths and the slap of skin on skin.
“Give it to me, Blackie,” she cries, grabbing my face. She peers at me through hooded eyes, through the hair that hangs wildly over my eyes, finds my soul and soothes it like only she can.
One look.
That’s all it takes for her to take the reins and make me hers.
I thumb her clit, stroke it to the beat of our song playing inside my head, ringing in my ears.
Knew with you to light my night.
Somehow, I’d get by.
“Get it, girl,” I ground out, thrusting myself as deep as I can, watching in awe as she throws her head back. My name sounds like a prayer when it escapes her lips.
“So fucking pretty,” I murmur as I push deeper, her body clenches all around me and I lose myself buried deep inside the sweet nirvana that is Lace.
Pleasure blinds me as I chase the high she brings, dragging me to bliss—a peaceful place where she’s all I need in this world to get by.
A place I never want to leave.
A place where nothing else matters.
Not even mayhem.
Not even the reaper.
Chapter Thirty
“This is Ben Lithmore, and I am live in front of Bennettsville prison where a riot has broken out resulting in the prison being placed on lockdown. We have just received word that two of New York’s most notorious criminals were recently transferred to Bennettsville. Convicted mob boss, Victor Pastore, and gang leader, Thomas ‘the G-Man’ Gregorio, both serving life sentences are inside the prison. We learned earlier that Pastore has been suffering from cancer and was transferred here to Bennettsville for medical purposes. There is no information on why the G-Man was transferred or his condition at this time. There are reports that several inmates and correctional officers have sustained injuries and at least two fatalities. At this time, we have no confirmation of bodies.”
“Shut it off,” Grace demands, her tear stained face frozen as she stares at the television.
I walk over to the television, bend down and power it off before rising and glancing around Vic and Grace’s living room. My mother-in-law continues to stare at the blank screen in shock. Watching the usual poise my mother-in-law portrays diminish from her was torturous and nerve-racking all at the same time.
She knew about the transfer, she knew what her husband was going to do, we all did, but none of us expected this. I figured it would be quiet, like when he whacked Jimmy inside Otisville, not a fucking media frenzy. I didn’t think we’d be sitting here watching the news waiting for a reporter to declare him dead or alive.
Grace stood, but before she could make a move, Nikki stood in front of her and grabbed her hands.
“Let go,” Grace orders. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Nikki argues as Adrianna walks into the living room with the phone glued to her ear.
“Okay, thank you,” she says before disconnecting the call. “That was daddy’s lawyer,” she announces to the room. “He still hasn’t heard anything, but he promises to call as soon as he does.”
“So what’re we supposed to do until then? Sit here like a bunch of idiots waiting for some stiff in a suit to call us and let us know if we call the funeral home or not?” Gina shouts.
“You really think that’s helping?” Mike fires back.
“Nothing is helping! We’re sitting here while the media plays games with us,” she argues back. “My ninety-five-year-old mother has to watch this shit and wonder if her son is dead.”
“Take her upstairs if it’s too much for you people,” Nikki sneers.
“Princess—”
“No, Mikey. Everyone wants to feel some kind of way but they forget we’re his family too.” She averts her eyes to her aunt. “That’s my mother’s husband, our father,” she adds, pointing between her and her sister. “And while Nana may be upset so are we, we’re the ones who will call a funeral director—not you.”
“No one’s calling anyone,” I interrupt. “You all need to have faith in the man who’s hung onto life this long,” I clip, lifting my head as the doorbell rings. “Think about Vic, do any of you really think for one second he will go down like this? At the mercy of another man?” I shake my head. “Have faith in the man who only does things one way—his.”
I point a finger to Grace.
“You know better
than anyone,” I remind her as I start for the door. It rings again as I pull it open and my sister throws her arms around my neck. I wrap my arms around her and turn my gaze to the leather clad man standing behind her.
“Any word on the big guy?” Riggs asks.
“No, and they’re all losing their shit in there,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder.
“Have no fear, Riggsy is here,” he says, stepping around Lauren and raising his hands holding a box from the bakery.
“What’s he doing?” I question my sister.
“We brought cannoli’s.” She winks, taking my hand and pulling me into the house.
“How you doin’ ‘Mrs. Soprano’?” Riggs asks, bending down to take Grace’s hand and kisses her ring, mimicking a scene from The Godfather.
“Who’s this?” Gina curiously croons.
“She’s all yours man,” Mike says, getting the hell out of dodge.
Returning Lauren’s embrace, the phone Adrianna is holding rings, forcing them apart.
“It’s the lawyer,” she says glancing at the screen.
Noting the fear working across her features, I close the distance between us and take the phone from her trembling hand and swipe my thumb across the screen.
“It’s Bianci,” I answer.
“He’s alive.”
“And?”
“He did it.”
“How?”
“With a pair of scissors and apparently a riot.”
“Thank you,” I say, closing my eyes briefly.
“He’s in solitary. Give the media twenty minutes and that shit will be all over the news,” he sighs. “It’s over, that’s it, Bianci. Vic ain’t going to see the light of day anymore. The next call is the one we’re dreading.”
“I know.” I clear my throat, lifting my eyes to the room and the expectant glances of the people who loved Victor Pastore. “Thanks for calling,” I say, ending the call.
“Well?” Grace croaks.
“He’s alive.”
The Tempted Series: Collectors Edition Page 180
