“I want that, too.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “Last night was just...a one-time thing. I was drunk. I’m not sorry we did it. But I’m not up for doing it again.”
“You’re not?”
“No.”
“You said you weren’t ready to be my girlfriend.”
“I was scared,” she said, swallowing hard.
“Of what?”
“The way you make me feel.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m more afraid of losing you.”
Cole finished his soda, contemplative. He appeared satisfied with her confession. Somehow being with Tiffany had brought them closer together. Mia was flattered by Cole’s jealousy, and a little surprised. His possessiveness was stronger than his desire for erotic kicks. Her need for him was stronger than her fear.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
Groaning at the thought of food, she hid her face in the pillows.
“There’s a restaurant that serves menudo on the other side of town.”
She lifted her head, intrigued. Menudo was a beloved Mexican soup, a hangover cure. “What does a white boy like you know about menudo?”
“You’re whiter than I am.”
“I’m paler than you are,” she corrected.
“All bikers know about menudo. It’s balls-out road fuel.”
She laughed at his description, which sounded about right. He could give a Mexican man a run for his money in machismo.
“Give me my shirt. I’ll make a run while you stay here.”
She tugged the shirt over her head. His eyes darkened at the sight of her nude body.
“I like you like that,” he said, putting on his shirt.
“Naked and barefoot?”
“I’m going to fuck you when I get back,” he said. “Don’t move.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
She lay there while he was gone, eyes closed, replaying the events from the night before. Her former self wouldn’t have done any of those things. She wouldn’t have smoked pot at a biker bonfire, or slept with Tiffany. A man like Cole would have been beneath her regard, even if he wasn’t a client.
The psychologist in her recognized a downward spiral when she saw one. But the woman she’d become didn’t care. She felt liberated, rather than ashamed, by her behavior. She enjoyed being with Cole and embracing her fantasies.
Her reservations weren’t about her mental health or their sexual exploration. They were about the viability of the relationship. She’d agreed to be his girlfriend, and she was starting to really care about him. Did she even want to find her husband’s killers anymore? What would she do when Cole’s assignment was over? What if he committed another crime or—God forbid—got exposed as an informant?
Being with him felt good right now, but it was bound to hurt bad later. She wasn’t sure she could handle the aftereffects of her indulgence. She’d wanted to feel again. She hadn’t wanted to feel this much.
She followed Cole’s orders. She didn’t move, didn’t touch herself. Her thoughts drifted and she dozed off. When he returned, almost an hour later, she startled awake. He set a brown take-out bag on the table.
“Sorry it took so long. The place was crowded.”
“That’s okay. I fell asleep.” She stretched her arms over her head, drawing his attention to her bare breasts.
“How are you?”
“Better.”
“Let’s eat.”
She got up and joined him at the table, naked. He removed two large foam cups from the bag, placing one in front of her, along with a clear plastic spoon. Then, before she could ask for it, he gave her a foil-wrapped packet with cilantro and lime inside. She added the herbs and a squeeze of lime juice to her soup, watching as he did the same. The first taste was good. Spicy, hot, soothing.
“Okay,” she said. “You know menudo.”
“Told you.”
“Were your friends at the restaurant?”
“A few of them, yeah.”
Judging by his smirk, he’d earned some high fives for scoring with two women last night. Mia watched him eat the soft, fleshy bits of tripe from his soup. She finished a third of hers, along with the rest of her soda. Her stomach couldn’t handle too much.
After breakfast, he stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed. He had something around his ankle, covering the monitor. She hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because it blended in with his black socks.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A muffler. I think the tracking device might have a voice recorder.”
Mia felt the blood drain from her face. “Does it?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t be too careful. I’ve been wearing it whenever I’m with you. During the sessions, too.”
She joined him on top of the blanket, inspecting the fabric at his shin. It was wetsuit material, thick and waterproof. If Vargas had been listening in on them, she was screwed. On the other hand, the eavesdropping tactic might not be legal.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, pulling her toward him.
Mia allowed him to wrap his arms around her. “Telling a woman not to worry is very similar to telling her to relax.”
“Relax, babe.”
Now he was goading her. She tried to wrestle him and lost. They rolled across the mattress, play-fighting until she was panting and begging for mercy. He had her arms pinned above her head and her lower body trapped underneath his. She squirmed against his hold. When he lowered his mouth to hers, she turned her head to the side.
“Do you want to be on top?” he murmured, kissing her throat.
“No, I want to shower and brush my teeth.”
“I like you the way you are.”
“Dirty?”
He nodded and caught her elusive lips, kissing her thoroughly. Their tongues mingled, cilantro-laced. He didn’t taste bad, so maybe she didn’t either. His mouth was hot, spicy, soothing. Maybe dirty sex was the best hangover cure.
He kissed her again and again, letting her get used to his weight. Soon she forgot her misgivings and wrapped her legs around his waist. She could see their reflection in the mirror, the backward tattoo across his shoulders. W-A-L-T-O-U.
When he released her hands, she threaded her fingers through his hair. Her nipples brushed his chest, and his cloth-covered erection nudged her steamy sex. He hadn’t entered her last night, or the night before. She was suddenly desperate for him to penetrate her and give her a good pounding.
“Fuck me,” she said in his ear.
He rolled away from her, reaching for a condom.
“You don’t have to. I’m on birth control.”
“Really?”
She nodded, biting down on her lower lip. She’d started it a few weeks ago in preparation for seducing him. The last thing she needed was an unexpected pregnancy. Cole didn’t ask why she was taking contraceptives. He just kicked off his boxer shorts and climbed on top of her, delighted to go bare.
She studied his face while he entered her, his expression a mixture of agony and ecstasy. He slanted his mouth over hers, plunging his tongue inside as he slid home. She gasped and dug her fingernails into his back.
“Yes,” she panted, filled with him. Skin on skin. “Yes, Cole.”
He buried himself in her, over and over. She was swollen and sensitive and very slick. His cock grew shiny with her moisture.
“Your pussy is so wet,” he said in a guttural voice.
She tried to think of a nice compliment for his cock, but she was beyond words. He felt so good inside her, so big and hard. Her breasts bounced against his chest with every thrust and his face hovered near hers, drawn with pleasure.
“I love fucking you.”
She moaned, glancing in the mirror. The muscles in his back bunched and his tight buttocks flexed as he pumped that thick cock into her, balls-deep.
“Come for me.”
She wasn’t sure she could handle an
y more stimulation to her clitoris, but she loved the feel of him on top of her. She loved the reflection of their entwined bodies in the mirror. She loved every breathless second, every inch of his cock.
She loved him.
He shuddered, spearing her with a heavy thrust. Then another, and another, penetrating her to the hilt as he collapsed against her, sweaty and spent. After a long moment, he withdrew from her and rolled onto his back, draping an arm across his forehead. When she tried to get up, he clamped his fingers around her wrist.
“Don’t move.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m going to finish you off.”
She squirmed at the thought, squeezing her legs together. “I can’t.”
He opened one eye. “Is that a challenge?”
Mia smothered a moan, uncertain. She felt vulnerable and messy, uncomfortably exposed. She wanted to clean up and regroup, before she blurted something...inappropriate. If she didn’t get a handle on her emotions, they might spill out.
He didn’t wait for permission. Throwing one leg across hers, he pushed her thighs apart. He looked over his shoulder at her pussy in the mirror. She was dewy and flushed, like a just-fucked flower. He dipped his middle finger inside, coating it with a mixture of their body fluids. “I like this,” he said, moistening his lips. “My cum in you.”
“I can’t think of anything you don’t like,” she said, breathless. “Except other men.”
“I could say the same of you, with no exceptions.”
She conceded his point and submitted to his ministrations, watching him work. He used two fingers, widening them to stretch her passage. He rested his left hand to the top of her mound. With his right hand, he continued to thrust his fingers into her, stroking the fleshy pad inside her while his thumb stimulated her clit. He went deep, diving in and out, massaging her with slippery fingertips. Her belly quivered under the sensual onslaught. She stared into his eyes, breathing hard.
“Come, Mia,” he said. “Come all over my hand.”
She exploded in a wet, hot rush, her inner muscles contracting, warm fluid dribbling from her pussy. When it was over, he eased his fingers from her gently. She just lay there for several moments, drained and light-headed. “Am I still alive?”
“Did you see a rainbow?”
“I think I saw God.”
He smiled at her, looking very smug. They curled up on the bed together and lapsed into a comfortable silence. She threaded her fingers through his, tracing the tattoos on his knuckles. T-I-C-K T-O-C-K.
Soon, their time would be up.
“I might get some more ink,” he said idly.
“Where?”
“My wrist.”
She touched the blank space there, feeling his pulse. “What do you want there?”
“Rylan. My brother’s name.”
“Is that a painful place for a tattoo?”
“Not really. His wrists were tatted up, so it seems fitting.”
She let go of his hand abruptly. “His wrists were tattooed?”
“He had Forever on the left and Eleven on the right,” Cole said.
Mia scrambled out of bed, her stomach lurching.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she lied. “I just...feel sick again.”
He watched with concern as she fled to the bathroom and shut the door. She studied her pale face in the mirror, horrified by what Cole had revealed. Mia was almost certain that one of her husband’s killers had the “Eleven” tattoo on his right wrist. His brother had been alive at the time of her attack. If Dirty Eleven had been collaborating with White Lightning for several years, it was possible—even likely—that Rylan had been the second perpetrator.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MIA TOOK A long shower, rinsing Cole’s touch from her skin and his semen from her body.
But when she came out of the stall, she wasn’t clean. She couldn’t wash away the fact that she’d been using him to gain information about her husband’s killers. She couldn’t wash away her feelings, either.
Falling for him hadn’t been part of the plan.
She wrapped a towel around her torso and pressed a hand to her stomach, which fluttered with unease. There were too many confusing emotions bouncing around inside her, and she needed some space to sort them out. Surely she wasn’t in love love with Cole. It was just that they had great chemistry. Hot, dirty sex could play tricks on a girl’s heart. She hadn’t felt the weight of a man on top of her in so long.
They’d bonded during the first session, and their connection had grown every moment they’d spent together. Being with him had revived her. He’d stripped away her inhibitions and satisfied her deepest desires. He was exciting, dangerous and wildly inappropriate as a life partner. That was part of his appeal. It was the reckless abandon of a forbidden, ill-fated affair. She was experiencing passion, not love.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror until she believed it. When she came out of the bathroom, he was standing by the table, fully dressed. He’d taken out the soup containers and bought two more sodas from the vending machine. His eyes were watchful. Caring.
All of her artificial explanations for her feelings fell apart, destroyed by his thoughtful gesture and attentive gaze.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She raked a hand through her wet hair, nodding.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted diet or regular.”
“Diet’s fine.”
“I hope I wasn’t too rough.”
Flushing, she cracked open the diet soda. She liked it rough, and he knew it. The only one to blame for her weak stomach this morning was Mia. She’d gorged herself in a number of different ways. Sex, emotion, alcohol...
“You were perfect,” she said.
He grasped her upper arms and studied her face for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Then he kissed her cheek and brushed by her to use the restroom. She tugged on her clothes, feeling melancholy. It was before checkout time, but the room had become claustrophobic. She wanted to hit the road.
He dropped her off an hour later at the Starplex. Her car was sitting in the parking lot. She was lucky it hadn’t been stolen or towed.
“How about an actual movie tomorrow night?” he said.
She scanned the marquee. “What do you want to see?”
He shrugged, naming the animated film.
“You like kids’ movies?”
“They’re okay.”
She supposed his real life was heavy enough. He didn’t need any more drama.
“You’ll have to behave yourself in the theater, though,” he said, smiling.
With a husky laugh, she kissed him goodbye. After she got into her car, he drove away. She wondered if he liked kids, as well as kids’ movies. Then she shook her head at herself and eased out of the parking lot. What did it matter if he liked kids? He was a violent criminal. He’d end up dead or in prison.
And she was in love with him.
“Mensa,” she muttered under her breath, slamming her palm against the steering wheel. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
As soon as she got home, she turned on her laptop and searched the internet for pictures of Rylan Shepherd. There was an obituary, but no images. She couldn’t find a Facebook page. There was a website for Dirty Eleven MC, with a photo of a young man in sunglasses and a green bandanna named “Roach.” His wrists weren’t visible. She didn’t recognize him.
She made a cup of coffee to combat her lingering hangover and curled up on the couch. If Rylan had been involved in the robbery, there was no one to roll over on Gordon Lowe, the president of White Lightning. The only witnesses to the crime were dead. Digging deeper into this lead could be devastating to Cole, too.
Rylan had been killed on another risky job, the kidnapping of a presidential candidate’s daughter. Had Cole’s uncle been responsible for sending Rylan into trouble? Had he arranged for the home invasion also?
She clenched her hands into fists, fingernails
digging into her palms. There was no way for her to warn Cole about her suspicions without revealing too many details and putting him in more danger. She had to think of another strategy.
Their time together was running out. His deadline for delivering solid information to Vargas was Tuesday. Cole might disregard those orders and face Vargas’s wrath. Or he might give in and help bring his uncle down.
Both options were incredibly risky.
Her doorbell rang as she took another sip of coffee, startling her into spilling it all over the couch. She’d never heard her doorbell before. She’d never had a visitor. Setting her cup aside, she approached the front window and glanced through the curtains. Damon was standing on her doorstep.
Shit.
“I know you’re in there,” he said.
She unlocked the door and opened it, tightening the belt on her robe. His suit was wrinkled, his hair was mussed and his jaw was shadowed with black stubble. Maybe this was his weekend-bender look.
“Where else would I be?”
“I stopped by last night.”
Heart pounding, she waved him in. “I went to a movie.”
“Which one?”
Although she’d just glanced at the marquee, Mia drew a blank. “It was a foreign film. I can’t remember the name.”
“Was it about two women?”
“Yes.”
He took his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen. “What a coincidence. I saw the same one.”
Her face went hot as he showed her the image. It was a grainy photograph, probably taken at a distance and downloaded to his phone. Two women were kissing outside of a seedy motel room while a man unlocked the door.
“I have some better ones,” he said, scrolling down. “Very erotic.”
She studied the screen, her stomach tight with tension. There were no explicit shots—thank God the curtains had been closed—but he’d taken several photos of Mia and Tiffany on the blanket by the fire. “You were at the rally?”
“I was nearby.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
“What do you think I want?” he asked, capturing her chin.
She looked away, unable to say it.
He stroked his thumb over her lips. “I want this,” he said. “I want you and her, doing whatever you did for him.”
Riding Dirty Page 18
