by Cox, Paula
The orgasm is somehow soft, velvety, like a slow gentle ride down a river of pleasure. I close my eyes against the starlight and moan out into the night like I’m singing a song. Slick keeps rubbing against me, as though we are two teenagers who are forbidden to have sex, but want the pleasure anyway. He keeps rubbing, and my pussy twists with the pleasure, my body growing warm with it, my hands clawing at his hair. And then, it passes, and I am left satisfied and yet at the same time hungry for more.
I move my hands down to his hips, and pull. Slick doesn’t need to be told twice; he’s as horny as I am, perhaps more. He slides his cock down from my clit to my hole, and then arches his back as he thrusts deep inside of me, all in one quick movement. I gasp, let out a cry, and then my pussy spreads hotly for him, and at once I begin to move up and down. But Slick reaches down, grabs me by the shoulders, and pulls me up, all whilst he’s inside of me. Before I know what he’s going for, he’s done it, and we’re sitting opposite each other, straddling each other, me on top of him, him deeper inside of me than I knew he could get, somewhere near my belly.
We begin rocking together slowly, back and forth, eyes locked on each other, as much love as pleasure moving between us with each movement. He moves his hands beneath my shirt, bracing my bare back, spreading goosebumps all over my body with his touch. I sit down, over and over, on his cock, burying him within me down to his balls. We moan in unison, surprisingly soft moans, passionate moans, the moans of lovers instead of just people fucking.
I see the pleasure in his face, in the way his lips twitch, in his eyes, getting wider, as though amazed by what we are doing. I feel the same; there is a connection between us. He shifts, and I shift. He thrusts, and I angle my hips so that he slides right into my sweet spot. I grip his shoulders and sit up, high, and then sit down with all the strength in my thighs. He gasps, and I giggle.
“I love you, Sky,” I moan, knowing that it’s a risk. Slick has always been a man’s man, a hard man; even as a boy, he was like that. It might be a turn off for him, for it to be this emotional.
But he just reaches around, grabs my ass cheeks, and then drives into me so hard I let out a scream which echoes around the mountains. “I love you, Brat.”
Grabbing my ass, he slides into me, sensually, deeply, until I feel another orgasm coming, hot, burning, and the heat and the burning is in my chest, as well. The emotion and the pleasure in my pussy combine, each making the other larger, each making the other more intense. I love him the more he thrusts into me, and the thrusts feel more pleasurable the more he loves me. I sit down, again, again, taking in the pleasure, until I feel it building to breaking point, until I feel the lips of my pussy tingling like a feather is being trailed across them, until I feel my hole going tight around him. I kiss him, and that seals it; the orgasm breaks upon me like waves breaking upon a beach, slow yet powerful. I force myself not to close my eyes. I ride the orgasm as I look into his sky-blues, my pussy burning with the heat of a thousand fires, raging beneath me, his body suddenly hot to the touch, his lips scorching into my lips as he kiss. Aching for him, I release all over his cock, my come sliding down the shaft and onto his balls. I arch my back, driving my hips down, sitting once more as another wave breaks upon the beach.
“Oh, fuck,” Slick whispers, and I know he’s about to come.
I grip his face in my hands—my hands trembling with the ecstasy of the moment—and stare into eyes I have dream of my entire life as he comes inside of me. Gazing at each other, euphoria takes us both, throws us about, my pussy burning as his cock pulses and wilts. I’m still coming as he finishes, both of us burning with pleasure as one. And then, after what feels like an eternity spent within each other’s embrace, we fall into each other, my lips on his neck, his hand stroking my hair.
“This was the best night of my life,” I whisper, kissing his neck.
“Mine, too,” he says. And I know he means it.
Chapter Eighteen
Bri
I wake up to the sound of Slick whispering my name. In the sky, birds tweet, and far away car engines growl toward the city. I don’t open my eyes at first, enjoying the way the sun shines through my closed eyelids, enjoying the way Slick sounds when he says my name. I imagine I am in bed on a lazy Sunday morning and Slick is waking me for breakfast, Charlotte already in the living room, playing, reading, and soon we’ll go out there and play with her and read to her. And then I’ll make us bacon, and Slick will call me Brat and pat me on the ass and we’ll laugh and then go for a walk and—
I open my eyes.
“Morning,” Slick says. “I reckon it’s time we got you back.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, though the last thing I want to do is face Heather. “You’re probably right.”
He offers me his hand and then helps me to my feet. As we walk back toward the bike, I ask, “What’s your plan, Slick? About the club, I mean.” In the night, it was like we could forget about everything real, everything that got in the way of us. Now, in the fresh light of day, that’s much harder. Reality seeps in at the edges; it has to be faced.
“Honestly, Brat, I don’t have one,” he says. “I’ve got no goddamn idea what I’m gonna do. They’re gonna be lookin’ for me, I know that much. And I ain’t runnin’. That’d mean leaving you and Charlotte, and that ain’t happening. So what?” He shrugged. “Looks like I’m a courier without a road to ride.”
“Maybe you should run,” I say, when we’re at the bike. I see Slick has put the photo box in the storage compartment.
“It’s for you,” he says, seeing me looking.
“Something to remember us by?”
“I ain’t running,” he says.
“Then what . . . Wait a second.”
An idea occurs to me. It’s dangerous, and relies on Heather, and Dad, being reasonable for once. It will mean that I have to be as convincing as I’ve ever been in my life. But if I make it clear that I won’t budge, it might work. And might is better than anything we have right now.
When I tell Slick, he shrugs. “Give it a go, if you want,” he says. “But I won’t hold my breath.”
He climbs onto the bike, nods at the leather and the helmet, and waits. “Drop me down the street,” I say, before climbing on behind him. “They might have Heather’s place staked out.”
“Yeah, most likely,” Slick replies. “My own damn club, staking me out, after all I’ve done for ’em. Clint really has twisted the bastards. Hell, Grizzly has twisted himself.”
“You’re right,” I say, hugging close to him. “Dad has made a mistake, the way he’s treated you. Hopefully he’ll see that.”
“Yeah.” Clint kicks the bike to a low growl. “Right.”
We leave the dirt track, and the wonderful memories, behind us.
When Slick drops me off at the end of the street and I’ve handed him his jacket and his helmet, we kiss briefly. Then I ask, “How will I reach you?”
“Wait a sec.” He reaches into the jacket pocket and takes out a pen and scrap of paper, and then scrawls down a phone number. “We used to use this for drops, back when I was a courier. It’s a payphone. When you wanna reach me, dial it, let it ring twice, and then hang up. Then dial it again and let it ring until I answer.”
“Why not just let it ring?” I ask, taking the number.
“’Cause the club might still use this phone,” he says. “Don’t wanna risk it.”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath, looking at him as he shrugs his jacket on, as sexy as ever, as captivating as ever. “I hope this works.”
He doesn’t look hopeful, just stares at me for a long time. As he gazes at me, all I can think about is climbing onto the back of his bike and riding with him to someplace far away, taking Charlotte and just escaping. It’s a thought that has reoccurred countless times since we’ve been apart, and something both of us know can never happen. We have too much holding us to Denver. Slick would never leave his father’s club. And I could never take Charlotte away from Dad. We�
��re the only family he has left.
“Alright,” Slick says, pulling his helmet on. “It’s time to ride. S’you soon, Brat.”
“See you soon,” I say, swallowing nervously.
Slick rides away. I walk down the street towards Heather’s apartment building. The street is alive with people heading to work. I see an old lady shooting me a dirty look over her long, crooked nose; she’s seen me with Slick and doesn’t approve, apparently. The whole world doesn’t improve of me and Slick. Everybody wants us to just give up. But we won’t. After last night, I know we never can. It was too special. We were too close. How could I go back to some other man after what we shared? How could I pretend to be happy without anybody but him?
Walking up the stairs to Heather’s apartment feels like the long walk to the gallows, except that I have something worse waiting for me at the end of it than a noose: Heather’s fearsome anger, her righteous outrage. When I walk through the door, I hear Heather pacing up and down, her feet clopping on the floor. When I walk around the corner, I see her wringing her hands, her hair a mess, her face bright red. She wheels on me, lip curling over her teeth. I feel like a teenager when she asks me the age-old question, the question Dad asked me countless times when I was a kid.
“Where have you been, young lady?”
I tell her, as I sit on the couch, about sneaking out to see Slick, about being with him, about loving him. In the other room, Charlotte is playing with her toys. I can hear her sweet giggling noises. After I’ve told her, I interrupt her from unleashing on me to go into the bedroom and see Charlotte, giving her a kiss on the head and making sure she’s okay. Then I return to the living room, to find Heather once again pacing, once again wringing her hands. She’s tried to smooth out her hair but has only succeeded in smoothing more kinks into it. She tries to smooth it out a second time, and only succeeds in making her hair more bush-like. She gives up, makes a loud huffing sound, drops onto the couch, and folds her arms.
“Well?” she says, staring at me.
I get the feeling she wants to leap across the coffee table and scratch my eyes out. She’s looking at me like it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Eyes brimming with outrage. I reflect, not for the first time, that Heather has done an admirable job of bringing all the terrifying characteristics of a mom into my life.
“Well, what?” I ask.
“Well what, she says!” Heather leaps to her feet. I’m pretty sure she only sat down so she’d have the opportunity to leap to her feet. “Now you listen here, young lady!” she snaps. “I have not been an auntie to you all these years just to have you skulk away in the night and go off with some—with some—”
“Leather-wearing bandit?” I offer.
“Yes!” she screams, waving her arms frantically. “I only want what’s best for you, you know that, you have to know that! Ever since you were a—”
“I need your help,” I say, cutting her off.
“My help ?” She brings her hand to her chest like a melodramatic actor. “What help could I possibly offer you? Why should I help you? You abandoned our daughter and went gallivanting off into the night with a man who has no business being with you, who can only do you harm, who will most likely cause you heartache one day. And you want my help .”
“Listen to me, Heather,” I say, walking around the coffee table and standing close to her. I put my hand on her shoulder, which softens her a little. I see it, in her face, in the way she lets out a begrudging sigh. “I need you to know something. I need you to listen, and know I’m being serious. I love Slick. I have always loved Slick. I want to be with him. I’m going to be with him.”
“Now wait one second—”
“No!” I break out. “Why don’t you wait a second, huh? I’m so sick and tired of everybody telling me what’s good and bad for me. Everybody telling me what I should do, who I should be with. I love Slick! I love him, and he’s good for me, and he’s Charlotte’s daddy! Isn’t that enough?”
“Dadda?” Charlotte murmurs, from behind me.
I turn and see her standing in the doorway, clutching onto it, face tilted at us, mouth in a cute O. “Dadda?” she repeats.
“Dadda,” I say, going to her and picking her up. “Dadda, sweetie.” I kiss her, and then whisper in her ear, “Do you want to meet Dadda one day soon?”
“Dadda!” Charlotte squeals, clutching my neck and kissing me on the cheek. “See Dadda—lemme see Dadda!”
“You will,” I say. “Soon, baby, you will. But first we have to sort some grownup things out, okay? Why don’t you go and play with your blocks, alright, honey?”
I set her down and she returns to the bedroom. Not for the first time, I thank the heavens for making her a well-behaved kid.
“You see,” I say, returning to Heather. “Charlotte wants her father, too. She doesn’t want some asshole you set me up with pretending to be her dad. She wants her real dad. And her dad is a good man. So what’s the problem?”
Heather shifts from foot to foot, a cornered animal, cornered by logic and emotion. She must be able to see how much I care for Slick. And there’s no way she can ignore how badly Charlotte wants to see her father. You can raise a kid without a dad, but it’s difficult to tell a kid they’ve got a dad and then take that away. If there’s one person Heather loves more than anyone, it’s Charlotte. She doesn’t want to see her hurt.
She slumps onto the couch. I go to her, sit beside her. For a while, she just gazes at the coffee table. I see our reflections in the huge TV: both of us looking flustered and disheveled, but for different reasons.
“You said you needed my help?” Heather mutters.
“Does that mean you’ll help me?” I ask.
“Don’t twist the knife,” Heather says. “I just—look, Brianna, I can’t be the one to keep that girl away from her father. You know that. I think you planned that. I think you went in there and told that little angel to come out there and say Dadda to trap me.”
“I didn’t,” I say honestly. “But that’s a good idea. I should have, instead of leaving it to luck.” I grin at her. She returns it, a little weakly, but with real emotion in there.
“You Shields,” Heather says, groaning. “There’s no talking to you. What do you need help with?”
“I want you to set up a meeting with Dad and Slick,” I say. “He’ll listen to you.”
“What!” Heather cries, throwing her hands up. But it’s a performance, meant to trick me.
I’m not tricked. “Heather,” I say, taking her hands and looking closely at her, “I know you like to pretend that you have no contact with Dad, but I know that’s not true. I’ve seen you two, over the years, meeting in the clubhouse. And even since I’ve been living here, I’ve heard you on the phone. And let’s face it, arranging for me to stay here didn’t happen by telepathy, did it?”
She blushes, looking away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she murmurs.
“Heather!”
She starts, and then shakes her head slowly. “Why do you want me to set up a meeting with Jacob?” she asks.
Jacob, I note; only a select few have ever called him Jacob.
“Because I need him to see Slick. I need him to hear Slick out. I can’t have him treating Slick like this anymore. I need him to properly hear Slick out, really listen to him. I’m tired of him treating Slick like some kid. He isn’t a kid. He was the best courier this club has ever had, and now he’s one of the best earners. And—he’d done things, for the club—”
“I don’t want to hear that,” Heather says with dignity. “I don’t want to hear any of that.”
“But you’ll set up the meeting?”
“What’s the alternative? Being the reason for Charlotte never knowing her daddy? A lifetime of resentment from you and her when Slick is hidden away from the two of you? Being forced to see you reduced to tears when the love of your life is sent away, or worse? Is that the other option, Brianna?”
I don’t need to answer. She
knows it already.
She stands up and goes to the phone as I watch. It seems like the conversation happens very quickly. When she returns to me, she tells me she has arranged for the meeting to take place in a bar down the street.
“Why not here?” I ask.
“Because he thinks Grizzly might use the privacy as an opportunity to hurt him.”
“You’re kidding!”
She shrugs. “Let’s get her ready. I’ll come into the bar to say hello, but then I’m waiting in the car with Charlotte. I want no part of this—more than I’ve already had, I mean.”
About half an hour later, we’re sitting in Heather’s stylish sedan outside a bar called Primadona . It’s a fancy place, with pink neon letters and a bright lit-up figure of a curvy woman leaning on the P , holding a cocktail glass in her hand, and waving for the customers to come through the doors with the other. Inside, it’s mostly empty, apart from a few women in the corner with pink bands across their torsos, the word Hen on them.
