Cutslut

by Kim Jones

  “Nope. Just trying to make friends.”

  “Try harder.” The warning can be heard loud and clear in his tone. After six years with Cain, it’s going to take a lot more than a hard look and a verbal warning to intimidate me. He sees the challenge and smirks. “Don’t underestimate me, Winter. If you play this game, you’ll lose. You have my word on that.”

  I look at the stoic faced men surrounding him. The pissed off women behind him. Then I meet his eyes with a smile. I want to tell him he shouldn’t gamble something as important as his word. Instead, I take a sip of my scotch and tell him, “Whatever you say, boss.”

  It’s obvious the ol’ ladies are pissed at me after my show on the tarmac. So I’m not at all surprised to find myself riding alone in the backseat of a truck, driven by a man old enough to be my grandfather, just so they won’t have to be next to me. Actually, I find it funny as hell. Especially when we arrive at the club thirty minutes later and I’m the only woman in the group not freezing her ass off.

  It seems the women had no intentions of riding bitch tonight. After meeting me though, they decided they’d rather risk frost bite than be in an enclosed space with the infamous west coast cutslut. Unfortunately, they didn’t think to take their purses with them. And I’m three hundred dollars, two tubes of lipgloss and a pack of gum richer than I was when I got here.

  The Country Tavern is packed. I must say I’m impressed with these dirty south Devil’s and their business. With wood floors and galvanized metal ceilings, it looks like a western bar. But the young crowd and pop music playing on the speakers proves that you can’t always judge a book by its cover.

  I’m escorted by Luke to the bar and seated in a less crowded area. “Remember, Winter. I have eyes everywhere,” he warns, practically daring me to do something stupid. I offer him an indifferent shrug. He glares at me a moment longer before telling the young patch holder behind me, “Watch her.”

  Placing my elbows on the bar, I lean my back against it facing the crowd—my legs crossed forcing everyone that passes to walk around me. Looking over at the man to my left, I see him huddled over his drink. He’s looking down, his face hidden from view. The flat-bibbed hat he wears pulled low over his eyes. He’s dressed in a black sweater that molds to his muscular arms. Dark jeans that sit low on his hips—giving me a sneak peak of the boxers beneath. But what I find most attractive is the wallet that’s visible from the front pocket of his jacket hanging on the back of his chair.

  “What you sippin’ on, good lookin’?” I ask, using my best southern accent. Slowly, the man turns his head to look at me. I still at what I see.

  Son of a bitch.

  He is undeniably the sexiest fucking creature I’ve ever seen in my life. A few days’ worth of scruff on his tan jaw. Full lips accentuated by a deep philtrum. A perfectly symmetrical nose. And just below his flat-bibbed hat sits two silver orbs framed in long, black lashes. They seem to glow in the neon light. As if they belong to an immortal, supernatural creature rather than a living human. They’re invigorating. Paralyzing. A little terrifying. Exotic, yet strangely familiar.

  “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  He shakes he head as he studies me with a heated intensity. Taking his time to examine every inch of my body from head to toe before meeting my eyes. Then he straightens in his seat and slides a glass down the bar. I catch it in my hand—the smoky scent hitting my senses and immediately making my mouth water.

  I watch the man with suspicion as I take a tentative sip. It’s delicious. Better than what I usually prefer. “I’m Winter, by the way.”

  “I know,” he says, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. His eyes twinkle at my obvious uneasiness. “I was listening when that guy walked you over here.”

  I let out a breath of relief and smile. “How very stalkerish of you.” I take another sip, still feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You just did,” he says, no trace of humor on his face. He just stares back at me with those striking, vampire eyes.

  “It’s a serious question.”

  “They always are.”

  I swallow, a little nervous about engaging in conversation with this guy. But his wallet sitting only inches from me is enough encouragement for me to follow through on my attempt to lighten the mood.

  “Did it hurt?” I ask, as serious as I possibly can. His lips twitch as if he’s fighting a smile. I find it attractive on him. Even more than that brooding expression he wears so well.

  “You mean when I fell from heaven?” I nod, my gaze zeroed in on his mouth. “No.” Damn he has pretty teeth. “I can fly.” I grin back at him.

  “I bet you can.”

  His eyes crinkle a little at the corners in curiosity. “So what kinda name is Winter?”

  “What kinda name is Jinxton?” I fire back, pulling a cigarette from my purse.

  “I didn’t tell you my name.”

  I wink. “It’s on your credit card.”

  He looks down at the card the bartender laid in front of him only seconds ago. Smirking, he shakes his head. Then, as he lifts the glass to his lips, he breathes out a disbelieving laugh. “How very stalkerish of you.” He takes a pull then adds, “Jinx. Just Jinx.”

  Sliding over, I move to the stool next to him. He turns in his chair, putting his wallet further out of reach. But the view of his chest is worth it. The man is huge. And he doesn’t have to be naked for me to know that he’s chiseled beneath his clothes.

  The sudden flick of a lighter snaps my attention and I lean in for him to light my cigarette. When the scent of him is more pleasing that that of scotch, I decide it’s time to seal this deal. Get out of here, get off on him then get the hell away from Hattiesburg, riding in his car with his money. He might be gorgeous, but all men think with their dick. Even the pretty ones.

  “You know, Just Jinx, if I didn’t have deputy dog breathing down my neck, maybe me and you could go somewhere a little quieter.”

  He glances over my shoulder at the patch holder. “And what are we gonna do when we get there?” he asks, lazily dragging his eyes back to me.

  “You want to hear me say it, or are you just that innocent?” I tease, wanting to touch him but refraining.

  His gaze sweeps my body again—pausing on my legs. He looks at me from beneath his lashes. “You a whore or somethin?”

  I shrug. “Or somethin.”

  Studying me a little longer, he finishes off the scotch. Loud voices draw my attention and I notice a large group of rowdy college guys heading our way. As they pass, Jinx sticks his foot out tripping one near the end of the line. Bodies are shoved, drinks are spilled and tempers flare as the finger pointing begins.

  Moments later, other arguments within the group start. Then people around us join in. The tension is thick. In a matter of seconds, someone is going to do something very stupid.

  Jinx shoots a hard glare to the patch holder behind me. “You gonna do somethin’ about this shit or you want me to?” At the question, the patch holder starts telling the men to break it up. I’m fighting a smile when Jinx turns his attention back to me.

  “Please tell me that wasn’t your grand plan to get me out of here.” I laugh, shaking my head as the crowd starts to break up. If he was trying to create a diversion, it obviously didn’t work. When he smiles back at me, my world rocks a little.

  “No sweetheart, this is.”

  He stands suddenly—turning his shoulder into an innocent bystander and sending him flying into the patch holder’s back. One punch is all it takes for the fight to turn into an all-out barroom brawl.

  Grabbing my hand in his, Jinx pulls me from my seat. He tucks me close to his side as he barrels through the crowd that’s gathered to witness the fight. Behind us glass is shattering, people yelling, cheering, screaming. I keep my head down—not wanting to get hit with a flying beer bottle or worse.

  Seconds later, he’s pulling me outside into the cold, night air. Whe
n the door slams behind us, the sounds become almost muted—making me aware of how hard I’m breathing. It could be adrenaline. Or fear. Or Jinx…

  Letting go of my hand, he shoves his own in his jean pocket. Now that he’s standing at full height, I’m surprised to find I’m nearly as tall as him—the top of my head coming to his chin. But what he lacks in height, he makes up for in width. He’s much bigger than I’d thought. Wide across his shoulders. Broad and hard and a little scary.

  Pulling his key from his pocket, he points it toward the back of the lot. A shiny black Escalade with blacked out windows and custom chrome rims purrs to life. I’m nearly bouncing on my toes at my stroke of good luck. If he rides in something like this, I bet that wallet of his is loaded.

  “Backseat,” he says, pointing to the passenger side as he rounds the hood of the car. He doesn’t open the door for me, which I find I very much appreciate.

  For years men have done that. Not because they were chivalrous, only because they were afraid to leave me alone for two seconds. For me, this is a taste of freedom. And I can’t help but smile when I realize very soon I won’t just be tasting it, I’ll be devouring it.

  9

  WINTER

  “That’s a happy smile.”

  I jerk my head up at Jinx who sits next to me in the backseat. The intensity in his gray eyes as he watches me is as flattering as it is unnerving. It’s like he’s looking inside me.

  “I wasn’t aware there was another kind of smile.”

  He averts his gaze—snapping out of whatever trance he was just in. Something tells me he didn’t mean to say those words out loud. My curiosity is peaked. But I don’t have time for questions. I need to move this along. Luke will no doubt be searching for me very soon.

  Sliding across the cool leather seat, I throw my leg over his and straddle his waist. My hands grip his shoulders for support—squeezing him hard. He’s like granite. Usually, I’m not turned on by something as simple as touching another man. But there’s something about this one that ignites a fire inside me.

  My position is inviting. My dress riding high on my thighs. Breasts inches from his mouth. Pussy hot against his crotch. I’m readily available and expect him to fist my hair. Grab my hips. My breasts. Instead, he lays those big hands on my thighs in the most informal manner possible.

  “Tell me what you want,” I whisper, glancing up at him with that same sultry expression I use on Cain’s clients. Shadows dance across his face. The darkness making his eyes shine even brighter. I try to read them like he so easily reads mine, but I only get a blank look in return. He’s completely guarded.

  Licking my lips, I drag my finger along his jaw—noting how square and hard it is beneath my touch. “Know what I want?” I ask, tracing his lips with my nail. These lips…I feel like I know them. “I want some music. Something sexy.”

  He reaches around me, bringing him closer to my face. The scent of his breath fills my nostrils. It smells like cologne and scotch. Scrumptious. He holds my gaze as he grabs a small remote before leaning back once again. With a push of a few buttons, Ty Dolla $ign’s Or Nah sounds from the speakers. I lift my eyebrow in amusement.

  “How fitting. So I guess you want to cut the small talk, huh?” He responds by turning up the volume until the bass hits hard enough to vibrate the windows. My eyes fall to his lips and I lean in slowly, seeing if he’ll meet me the rest of the way. When he doesn’t, I smile. Then my mouth is on his.

  You wouldn’t know the man kissing me back is the same man who was a statue only moments ago. Though his hands and body don’t move, his lips melt beneath mine. He moves his mouth effortlessly, his tongue soft as satin when it strokes lazily against mine. There’s something so erogenous about it, I moan. It’s not forced, fake or for show. It’s an involuntary reaction to the hottest fucking kiss I’ve ever had.

  My fingers curl around his shirt. His lay lifeless on my thighs. My hips grind against him. He remains still beneath me. My chest presses against his—begging. Pleading for just a single touch. But there’s no reaction from him. As if I’m not affecting him at all. It’s infuriating. I want more. I want him to give it to me. Obviously, he wants me to take it.

  I’m so absorbed in the feeling of his mouth fucking my mouth, I almost forget why I’m here. But as I tighten my thighs around him, I feel something hard against my knee. Dragging my hands down his chest, his stomach, the waist band of his jeans, I easily slide the key from his pocket and tuck it into my palm.

  Seizing my wrists in his hands, he pulls his mouth from mine. I stare back at him frozen. Fear prickles my spine at the look in his silver eyes. It’s not cold or hard. Just knowing. I’ve been caught.

  Before I can start spitting excuses, he lifts my arms until my hands brush across the ceiling. Then, lazily, torturously slow, he drags the backs of his fingers down my arms. The sides of my breasts. My ribs. Over my hips. The tops of my thighs. Beneath my dress. He lifts it slowly, exposing the cheeks of my ass. I shiver beneath his touch—not out of fear. Out of pure ecstasy.

  Gripping my waist, he flips me so I’m on my back. My arms over my head. His big body between my legs. Then he’s kissing me again. Drawing circles on my stomach with his thumbs. His cock thick and hard inside his jeans—sending a surge of pleasure through me every time he rocks his pelvis against mine.

  Fingers loop through the thin lace of my panties. He breaks the kiss to lean back and drag them down my legs. His eyes following their path. After freeing me from them, he pushes my knees apart with his hands. The scorching heat from my pussy alone fogs the windows.

  I want his face there. His cock. What I get is his finger—eventually. He takes his time dragging it down my leg. Stopping sometimes to draw something. He waits until I’m writhing beneath him. On the verge of begging. I’d grab him and pull him to me if I knew I could do it without dropping his key.

  With a touch as soft as a feather, he brushes his finger over my clit. My back bows. Throwing my head back, I squeeze my eyes shut—anticipating another stroke of his finger. When it doesn’t come, I glance up at him. He stares back at me with that same patient, cool look he always wears.

  “Touch me,” I mouth, my nails digging into my palms. My heels burrowed into the expensive leather seats. A ghost of a smile touches his lips when he rubs his thumb against the inside of my leg with his other hand. I almost growl.

  “If you want me to touch you, you’re gonna have to be more specific than that,” he says, his voice barely carrying over the music.

  How the hell did I let this guy get me so worked up? When have I ever been so turned on, I was more worried about coming than anything else? Not just anything, but escape. Freedom. Important shit.

  Swallowing hard, I try to rein in my desire. But the need is almost haunting. I need release like I need to breathe. And for some reason, I need it from him.

  “Touch my pussy,” I manage in a voice that sounds nothing like me. But I don’t care. He’s touching me. I’d have sung my request if that’s what he required.

  He traces the lips of my pussy with the tip of his finger. Then he sinks one thick finger inside me—just to the knuckle before pulling it out and spreading the wetness across my lips. I squirm. Shake. Can barely breathe. Waiting. Anticipating the touch I know will send me over the edge.

  Every few strokes of his finger, he grazes my clit with his knuckles. The process is maddening—lips, finger, lips, clit. I’m so close. At this point, he could blow on my clit and I’d explode.

  He’s teased me and worked me up so much, a sheen of perspiration covers my entire body. The once cool leather is now slick beneath me. Wet with my arousal. My sweat. This—the buildup—is the best part. When he does let me come, it’ll likely shatter me. And it’ll be worth it.

  I’m lost. So absorbed in the thought of my imminent orgasm, it takes me a moment to realize he’s no longer touching me. I open my eyes and through the haze, I find he’s no longer kneeling before me either. He’s sitting beside me. And
someone is knocking on the window.

  “We’ve got company,” Jinx says, matter-of-fact. His tone doesn’t possess the slightest hint of anger or annoyance. He’s not even slightly winded. Meanwhile, I’m panting. Gasping for air. Anger rising inside me. Whoever is on the other side of this glass is going to die. I’m going to kill them with my bare hands.

  Hands.

  I straighten, looking at Jinx out of the corner of my eye. He’s focused on something in his lap. Slowly, so not to draw attention to myself, I lower my arms to my side. My hands tingle from me fisting them for so long. When I open them, there’s nothing there.

  “If you’re looking for my key, it’s behind the seat.” He turns his head toward me. “That’s where you dropped it.” My expression matches his—blank. Stoic. I’m speechless. Appalled. Disappointed in myself. More so in him. But looking at me, you wouldn’t know any of those things. Looking at him, you’d know he doesn’t give a shit what I’m feeling.

  He holds out his hand. Between his fingers is a crisp, folded hundred-dollar bill.

  “What’s that for?” I ask, glancing between the money and him.

  “It’s your payment. You are a whore… or somethin’, right?”

  A sense of something foreign washes over me.

  Shame.

  I am a whore. A cutslut. I sleep with people for money. Revenge. Respect. But it’s never been my decision. I’ve always done what I had to do to stay alive. To survive Cain’s wrath. This time somehow felt different. Clearly, it wasn’t. My reputation has preceded me.

  Another rap on the window has me quickly straightening my dress. I avoid Jinx’s stare and the money he still holds in his fingers as I blink back tears and search for my panties. Before I can locate them, the door opens and Luke’s face appears. He looks at me a moment before glaring over at Jinx. Something unspoken is passed through the air between them, but it only lasts a second.