Cutslut

by Kim Jones

  Without the light to reveal the real truth, this is my fairytale. In the darkness, this is my happily ever after. And he is my dream guy. But only in the dark. In the light, he is the guy whose wrath is well deserved. The one who has every right to hate me. To hurt me. To break me. He is this guy.

  Jinx.

  The guy I can’t love.

  23

  WINTER

  The tattoos that run from my shoulders to my wrists are very personal to me. Some of them hold a symbolic meaning. Like the date of my parent’s death that’s inked into the eyes of the sugar skull on my left forearm. Or the bunny rabbit on my right wrist—a drawing of the stuffed animal Pierce gave me when I was ten. And his tears which represent Pierce’s grief that he never got to express because he was too busy putting on a happy face for me.

  Not all of them are symbolic. Some are just things I like—flowers, a bottle of scotch, a smoking .357. Some are stupid—a toilet seat, a company’s patented logo, an owl smoking a blunt. But no matter their significance, they’re a part of me. Which is why I don’t read too much into Jinx’s tattoos as I trace them with my finger—he might perceive their meaning the same as I do.

  We’re still in bed. The clock on the table next to us says it just past seven thirty in the morning. He’s asleep, or at least pretending to be. When I woke up about fifteen minutes ago and first touched him, his breathing quieted as if he was no longer in that deep sleep stage.

  So I’m pretty sure he’s awake and just avoiding the awkward “morning after sex” moment. Or perhaps he’s worried if he opens his eyes and looks at me, he’ll find me irresistible. Or he’ll see a look on my face that tells him I read too much into us sleeping together and now I’m thinking he might be “the dream guy.”

  “I didn’t steal that money for Cain,” I start, unsure of why. I keep my eyes on his chest, my finger tracing the barbed wire wrapped around a tree inked on his bicep. I can’t bring myself to look up and see if he’s awake and listening. Somehow not being one hundred percent sure he is makes it easier for me to tell him the truth.

  “At one time, I would have. But in the time we’d been together, he’d changed. He’d gotten meaner. Violent. Withdrawn. I knew I had to get away. I also knew he wouldn’t let me go.

  “When I heard about the national run, I knew it was mandatory for Pierce to go. I knew Cain would go just because it was mandatory he didn’t. He thrived on being an outlaw. Took pleasure in flaunting it in other’s faces. MC’s would consider him showing up a disgrace. I found it a blessing.

  “I guess he felt something was off. I’d been nervous for a few days, and thought I’d managed to hide it. But it showed. I should’ve known something was up the moment he left me unprotected. I was too excited at the possibility to care, though. I had a plan. One I thought was flawless.

  “One of the whores drove a piece of shit Mercury. The kind you could still hot wire if you knew what you were doing. When Cain left, his pipes could still be heard and I was already in that car.

  “I drove to Pierce’s with nothing more than hope that there’d be something in that safe. I could pick pocket my way south, but it would take a lot longer. I needed money. I found it. Took it. But I didn’t make it out of the driveway before Cain caught me.”

  Swallowing hard, I dig deep to find the courage to say the next part out loud. To tell the nightmare that still haunts me. To relive it like I had last night. The only difference is that I’m consciously deciding to re-experience it.

  “Cain was convinced Pierce gave me that money. Accused me of selling Madness’ secrets to him. In his eyes, I was a snitch. I’d forgotten my place. So he made sure I carried something to remind me and everyone else who I belonged to.”

  Goosebumps break out across my skin when the tip of Jinx’s finger grazes one of the letters on my back. I thought knowing for sure he was awake would make this harder. But his touch makes it easier. It’s like a reminder that I’m safe. Which I’d find ridiculous if I overanalyzed it. So I don’t.

  “He chained me up,” I say, my voice strong. Matter-of-fact. Not a hint of fear lacing my words or clouding my mind. “Beat me. Tattooed me. And once I healed, he shared me. With everyone in the club just so he could show off his property. His cutslut. That part wasn’t so bad, though,” I add, grinning to myself.

  Looking up, I find Jinx’s lips tipped in a lazy, sleepy smile—his finger still trailing over the black letters. In this exact moment, the thing that matters most to me is that Jinx isn’t repulsed by seeing someone else’s name etched in my back. Instead, he looks like he might be remembering last night.

  The heat in his eyes is unmistakable. He looks so delicious. So inviting. Without a second thought as to why, I’m straddling him. Dragging my tongue over one nipple, then moving to the other—licking it until it’s as hard as the first.

  His cock, thick and erect, strains beneath the covers. Pressing hard against my pussy that’s already wet and ready for him. I rock against it—sliding back and forth a few times while I lick a path up his chest to his neck.

  “I don’t kiss on the mouth in the morning,” I say, dragging my tongue across his Adams apple. Over the stubble on his chin. Then planting a kiss on it and meeting his gray eyes that are hooded with lust.

  “Me either,” he growls out, capturing me around my waist and slinging his legs over the side of the bed before standing.

  I run my hands through his hair. Rake my teeth across his jaw. Press my naked chest harder against his as he walks us to the bathroom—jerking the covers from between us as he does.

  I can’t keep my hands or my mouth off of him while he moves around the bathroom. Starts the shower. Grabs a couple towels. All while keeping me pinned to him with one strong arm.

  It feels good being here with my legs locked at the small of his back. So much that I frown when he steps into the large shower and sets me on my feet. He grins down at me.

  “Wash me.” He hands me a loofah already foaming with soap. I lift a brow in question. “Shut up.”

  “Mr. Badass uses a loofah,” I tease, lathering his cock from base to tip, beneath, above and everywhere in between. He ignores my jab as he watches my hand work him. I follow his gaze and find the erotic act even more stimulating because I can see all of him. He’s gloriously sexy naked. Flawless, chiseled, hardened perfection.

  My mouth waters.

  I drop the sponge and wipe away the soap as the water washes it from him. Before he’s fully rinsed, I lower my knees to the shower floor and take him in my hand. Studying the thick veins lining his shaft. The smooth skin stretched over it. The head that’s swelled and dotted with a drop of creamy, white pre-cum.

  I flick my tongue over the small slit—anxious to know if he tastes as good as I think he will. He tastes better. His flavor just the perfect mix of salty sweet—not too strong or overpowering. I moan, squeeze his shaft and pump him in my fist in hopes of getting another taste.

  “So fuckin’ sexy,” he mutters, staring down at me with his mouth parted. His eyes flashing. His hands gathering my hair and fisting it at the back of my head. My clit tingles when he drags a finger over my bottom lip. “I’ve been thinking about fuckin’ this pretty mouth of yours for days.”

  Eager to please him, I lay my hands flat on his thighs and take him in my mouth. Only the tip at first, circling it with my tongue. Sucking hard. Then pushing a little deeper. Making sure not one inch of flesh goes untouched.

  He pulls my hair a little to get my attention. “Look at me.” I do and he cups the side of my head with his other hand—stroking his thumb along the underside of my eye. It’s a gentle caress, but I have a feeling he’s about to contradict it with something more harsh. So I relax my throat in preparation.

  His hips pump slow at first. Giving me a little more on every drive until he’s buried in my throat. He holds me there a few seconds. My eyes water. Burn from being open so wide, but I never break his gaze. When he pulls out of me, I hear him mutter a, “Motherfucker,
” over my gasps for air. And it turns me on even more.

  My nails dig into his thighs as he fucks my mouth—sometimes hard and rough and forceful like I like it. Talking in a tone that matches his thrusts. Grounding out dirty praises and rhetorical questions such as, “These lips are as pink and swollen as the ones on your cunt.” And “You like having your mouth fucked?”

  Then sometimes he fucks me easy and slow and sensual, which I also find I like. His tone much sweeter and spoken softer when he tells me, “You look beautiful on your knees with my cock in your mouth. Those pretty green eyes looking up at me.” I’m so turned on, I could get off by just washing my pussy the same way I did his dick.

  “Tell me what you want, baby,” he says, fisting his cock and rubbing the head of it across my lips. Teasing me. Tightening his hold in my hair when I try to lean in for more. “You want me to come in your mouth then bend you over and eat your sweet pussy until you come on mine? Or you want me to fuck you hard against this wall and let you come on my cock?”

  I whimper with indecision. Shiver beneath the hot spray of water that feels mildly warm against my fiery skin. I’ve never been given a choice. Now that I have one, the only conclusion I can come to is that I want it all.

  I want to taste him and feel him. I want him to taste me and feel me. I want to be fucked hard and caressed softly. I want to be fucked softly and come hard. I want to stop thinking so fucking much and find that high I’ve been chasing since we got in the shower. I want to think about it forever and enjoy the build because I don’t want it to end.

  Either he’s tired of waiting for my answer, or he has a solution to my problem, because next thing I know, he’s pulling me to my feet. Turning me to face the wall of the shower. Lifting my knee. Spreading me open. Sliding his cock between the swollen lips of my pussy. Finding my wet, heated entrance. And impaling me in one, swift plunge that has my eyes closing, my mouth going slack and my toes curling.

  Fingers dig into my hips and beneath my thighs as he holds me in place and fucks me hard and fast. The sound of our wet bodies slapping together can barely be heard over my cries of ecstasy. I scream for him to fuck me harder and without breaking stride, he angles his body a little to the left, lifts my legs a little higher and gives me exactly what I asked for.

  I come so hard my knees go weak and his arms are all that hold me up. Millions of tiny sparks ignite inside me. Sending an electrifying shock of pleasure rocketing from every nerve. Blood rushes fervently through my veins. Causing every pulse point to pound against my skin.

  While my body still hums from my release, I’m lowered to my weak knees. My matted, wet hair is smoothed off my face and fisted at the back of my head. He tugs and I look up. Open wide. Ready to take what I know he’s about to give me. And pleasure begins to swirl and build deep in my belly at the thought.

  “Play with your pussy,” he says, guiding himself between my lips. “I want to see you come. Like the first time I fucked you.”

  The first time. When I was tied to the bed. When he fucked me out of anger. When I was angry too. When I told him I hated him. When he said it back. It feels like a lifetime ago. But I still remember how good it was. His expression when he witnessed me having one of the best orgasms of my life. And damn if I don’t want to see his same reaction from that night too.

  Vigorously, I circle my clit with my fingertips. Working the over sensitized nub with as much fervor as he works my mouth. Plunging deep. Stealing my breath. Causing my eyes to water. Forcing me to take him despite my throat that threatens to constrict.

  I swirl my tongue. Hollow my cheeks. Rake my teeth down his shaft. Furiously stroke my clit. All while keeping my eyes on him. Watching as his stay centered on me.

  His eyes flutter. Hands tighten. Hips jerk. Still. Then he’s flooding my mouth. I’m desperately swallowing him. His heady taste coupled with my violent touch pushes me over the edge.

  My vision clouds at the corners. Heart hammers an unsteady beat that’s too fast. Heat pulses through me. Blood rushes to everywhere but my mind and I can’t think straight. All I can do is feel. Ride this high. Experience this euphoria. Drift through the abyss of pleasure. Until I slowly float back to reality. Only this time, it’s as welcome as my escape.

  Jinx is standing over me, looking down on me with a lazy, infectious grin. His sated look compliments him. He appears relaxed but composed and in control. Meanwhile, I probably look like a wounded, wet dog begging for a table scrap.

  He pulls me up and keeps a grip on my elbow as he retrieves his loofah from the shower floor. I smirk when I see him holding the fluffy, black sponge that not even he can make masculine.

  “Shut up,” he says, smiling at me as he lathers it with soap. He holds it up and gives me a pointed look. “I don’t share my loofah with anyone. But I’m making an exception for you.”

  I can’t drop this big, goofy grin on my face as he begins washing my chest and arms as if the task required the deepest level of concentration and attention. “Awe…” I drawl, batting my eyes. “I feel so special.”

  He gazes at me from beneath his lashes. His eyes soft. His expression serious. And I know whatever he says next will most definitely have shit fluttering in my belly when it shouldn’t.

  “That’s because you are special.”

  Damn butterflies…

  24

  JINX

  This girl and her ability to make me say shit I never thought I’d say…

  You’re special?

  What the fuck was that about?

  Bitches like her are a dime a dozen. She’s not special. She’s a pain in my ass. A nuisance. A thief. So she’s a great lay. As hot and sexy as she is beautiful and graceful. Has the most perfectly fat ass that shakes with the smallest movement. Big, gorgeous, flawless tits that I want to suck, fuck and come all over. And I could never tire of those long, shapely legs of hers wrapping around my waist. My hips. My back. My shoulders while I grip her ass and eat her until she’s flooding my mouth with her sweet juices that I can’t get enough of.

  But special? Nah. Not even close.

  So why the fuck am I bathing her with my very manly loofah, drying her off, letting her use my toothpaste, then kissing her good morning while I hold her face like that motherfucking dream man of hers? Because I’m a good guy.

  She had a rough night. Me fucking her pretty mouth this morning probably wasn’t the best way to show my appreciation for her opening up to me and giving me some truth. So I kissed her in a shitty attempt to make up for being an insensitive dick. That’s all.

  “You seem angry,” she says, leaning against the door of the closet. I stiffen when I turn to face her. So does my cock.

  What she’s wearing isn’t special. It’s just a pair of them tight ass yoga pants. Coupled with a shirt that’s short enough in the front to reveal her belly button. It falls off of one shoulder and I can see the top of her left breast. No bra. My eyes flit to the pants that cling to her like a second skin. No panties.

  “I’m not angry.” My tone is gruff. I sound like a liar. She calls me out on it.

  “You’re a shitty liar.”

  “You hungry?” I ask, wanting to change the subject. Get her out of my personal space so I can think.

  “I could eat.”

  Fuck. Me too. Her. Right now. Grab her ass, lift her to my shoulders, rip open the crotch of those pants with my teeth and feast on her cunt until lunch. Then do it again. And again.

  I clear my throat and turn back to my clothes hanging in a color-coded order in my very neat, very organized closet. I’m a little anal.

  Anal.

  “There’s cereal and shit in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

  I don’t allow myself to breathe until I hear her walk away. Even then, I can smell the distinct, lingering scent of her around me. Choking me. It’s suffocating. I need some air. Some space. I need a break to clear my head before I lose track of what’s important here. Or get attached to someone who’s not important. Or at leas
t who shouldn’t be.

  My phone rings and I’m so thankful for the distraction, I’m tempted to tell whoever it is that I love them. When I see Pierce’s name, my chest tightens with indecision. I’m not sure what to tell him or if I should.

  “Pierce,” I greet, grabbing a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans from the rack.

  “You ever heard of a riding club that goes by the name of Ten’s Testament?”

  “Nope.” Shit. I left the empty hangers hanging in the wrong place. “They some Christian club?” I ask, forcing myself to get dressed and forget about the hangers.

  “Doubt that. They’re a Madness support club. Madness started with ten originals. Think that’s where they got the name?”

  “Maybe. Why are you suddenly so interested in them?” Fucking hangers. I give up trying to put my clothes on head toward the closet. But Pierce’s words halt me.

  “Because they’re suddenly interested in Mississippi.” I sit back down on the bed—giving him my undivided attention. “They stopped a couple hours north of you. Luke seems to think they may be making their way to Hattiesburg.”

  “Think they’re here for Winter?” I ask, looking over my shoulder to make sure she’s not listening. Come to think of it, it’s awfully quiet in the kitchen. Damnit…

  “What other reason would they be there? I swear I thought the fucker wouldn’t show his face until her birthday. I thought he’d want the money. I knew we should’ve covered our fucking tracks better. Now he knows where she is. He’s coming sooner than we thought. This whole motherfucking plan is going to shit. I need to relocate her. Texas. Oklahoma. Arkansas—”

  “Hey,” I snap, my voice stern. “Quit fucking rambling. He’s sending some punk-ass riding club down here. He’s not stupid enough to show his face this early. The plan is working. Stop overthinking this shit. She’s safe.” Probably running through the woods right now.