by Kim Jones
“And you? Were you the outcast?” I shoot him a mock frown and pretend to wipe my eyes. “Poor little Jinxton. Never able to live up to his parent’s expectations.”
I’m being a dick to him only because on the inside, I’m hurting a little. And I don’t like that I’m feeling bad for this guy. I meant it when I said I’ve heard this story a thousand times. After a while, it’s hard to feel any empathy. Besides, he isn’t offended by my teasing. He’s fighting a smile. Probably at my theatrics.
“Asshole,” he mutters, giving into that smile. “Actually, I was the kind of son any parent would be proud of. Academically, I thrived. I had my pick of Ivy League schools. Athletically, I was the highest ranked cornerback in the nation. Agents were calling my parents before I even graduated high school. Wanting to represent me even though I wasn’t eligible for the NFL for years.”
Wow. Maybe he really is different. In more than one way…
“That’s enough for story time,” he says dismissively, glancing at the check as he pulls his wallet out. “You’re a cheap date.”
Letting the subject drop, for now, I wink. “The night is young.”
We stand and he shoves his hands in his pockets. I loop my arm around his elbow and lean into him as we walk out. “It’s a good thing you got that black card, sweetheart,” I purr, my lips at his ear. “Because you’re gonna need it.”
When Jinx first told me we were going to a blues bar, I protested. Then he explained that it was more than that. That it had something for everyone looking to have a good time. I was still doubtful, so he went on to explain that an authentic, Mississippi blues band would be there covering all the classics that the middle-aged and older generation crowd enjoyed. But at eleven, the band would leave and the crowd would thin allowing room for the younger people to dance and party with the all-night D.J. That sold me.
Now, here we are—Bee’s—a place that’s off the beaten path and caters mainly to locals. Somewhere I never would’ve thought to come.
The building is unpretentious—muted lighting, several tables and chairs lined on either side of the spacious dance floor, and a large, curved bar highlighted in blue neon that sits opposite the small stage. But it’s the atmosphere that makes me fall in love with this place. Everyone’s happy. Swaying. Dancing to the sultry tempo. And I’m kind of sad that the band will be leaving soon.
I’m also kind of drunk.
Not only does this place have great music, but they have kick-ass cocktails. It totally made up for them not having any scotch. Actually, I think I’ve found a new favorite. A blackberry martini that’s smooth and cool and fruity and potent as hell.
I’m in the middle of the dance floor. Drink in hand. My hips moving in tune to The Thrill Is Gone. Jinx, keeping good on his promise, has been at the bar. He ignores me completely. Has barely made eye contact in the few hours we’ve been here.
I’ve danced with several men—some whose hands they couldn’t keep to themselves. It just went with the music, so I didn’t mind. But I expected Jinx to come stomping over, demand the man keep his filthy paws off of me then tell me to, “Chill out.” Or, “Cool it.” Or, “Stop being an attention whore.” He has yet to do any of those things. He doesn’t even look mad. Not that I’ve been looking at him.
“Alright folks,” the lead singer says, breathing hard into the microphone. “It’s gettin’ ‘bout dat time.” Everyone groans—none louder than me who boos like an idiot. “Y’all know how I like to do. Gotta save one dance for my lady. Gotta put my arms around her…” Catcalls ring out. “I gotta squeeze her…” More whistling. “I gotta hold her tight why dey sang her song.” The regulars cheer, knowing what’s coming. I cheer even though I don’t because I want to be a regular too.
“Now, y’all get on ya feet. Grab ya a woman. We all dancin’ to this one,” he says, descending the stairs and never taking his eyes from the woman whose been standing center stage next to me all night. “Yo bartender. Give us some of dem Black Crowes…And let me dance with my Josephine”
The music starts. I stare at the couple next to me. Dancing to my song. Like it’s their song. And all I can do is just shake my head. Damn my shitty luck.
29
JINX
Bee’s is the kind of place you can spend a lot of time in. Judging by the amount of blackberry martinis Winter’s had, money is another thing you can spend a lot of in here. I have to say though—it’s been money well spent.
Seeing her move those fucking hips in those tight pants… yeah… it’s worth every penny I’ve charged to that black card. But that smile… that laugh… the way she throws her head back, closes her eyes and loses herself in the moment… you can’t put a dollar amount on that. It’s fucking priceless.
I haven’t talked to her since we walked in the door. Haven’t touched her since she slid her tiny arm through mine at the restaurant. She thinks I haven’t looked at her, either. She’s wrong. My eyes have spent more time watching her than anything else. Moving those hips. That ass. Smiling that motherfucking smile I’m melting over.
“Crown. Double,” I tell the bartender who lifts a brow at my request.
“Not the regular?” he asks, pointing at my empty glass.
I shake my head. “Nah. I need something stronger.”
While he pours, I look back at the vixen standing on the dance floor. Looking around in confusion as the band makes an announcement. I’ve never paid much attention before or stayed long enough to hear it, but apparently, this is something they do regularly. I smile when she cheers along with the crowd despite her having no knowledge as to what the fuck’s going on.
The singer calls out to the bartender just as he sets my whiskey in front of me. My glass is to my lips when I hear it.
Her song.
There’s only a handful of singles in here. She’s danced with all of them multiple times. Even some of the women. I’ve watched in disinterested silence. I’m not a jealous guy. Plus, she’s not mine to be jealous over—even if I was that kind of man. But the thought of her dancing to this song with anyone other than me, bothers me.
I’m not pissed. Upset or the least bit agitated. It just… it fucking hurts. I don’t like to hurt. So I down the shot. Watch as she politely declines an offer to dance. Then another one. Then I see her smile falter. Her shoulders fall. Her eyes drop to her fingers that fidget with the rim of her glass.
Fuck it.
Eight strides later, I’m behind her. Taking her glass. Setting it on the stage. Turning her in my arms. Lifting those long, tattooed beauties around my neck. Placing my hands on her hips. Pulling her flush against me. Staring down at her parted mouth, wide, green eyes and for the second time, telling her, “I’m not your dream guy, Winter. Don’t fall in love with me.”
“Ditto,” she breathes, her cool, blackberry scented breath fanning my face.
Sliding my hand up her back, I cradle her neck in my hand. She instantly buries her face in my neck. I inhale her hair. The mixture of shampoo and her uniquely, sweet scented sweat is soothing. That pain in my chest at the thought of her dancing to this song with another man has long passed.
Josephine… I’ve never really listened to the song. Now, as I stand in for Winter’s dream guy, I’m actually hearing it for the first time. And it describes us perfectly.
This—me and her—this is right. Wrong, but right. I’m telling this girl not to fall for me. That I’ll end up only disappointing her in the end. She says the same, but neither of us can deny what’s happening in this moment.
When the song is over, I realize I didn’t pay attention to all the little things I was wondering about earlier. Like how she would feel against me. How her ass would move. Her hips would sway. Now that I am, I fucking want her. Desperately.
Hard.
Rough.
Fast.
Right. Fucking. Here.
And she just asked for a fucking drink.
While the band takes their break, another song starts to play. I move
through the crowd of people dancing to some two-step shit with Winter in tow. “My regular,” I tell the bartender. He nods once and turns his back away from the crowd as he discreetly fixes my drink.
“I think I’ll have V’s Special,” Winter says, her eyes on the drink menu as she slides on the stool next to me. I take the plastic menu from her hands.
“You don’t want that.”
She snatches it back. “Yes I do. It’s special.” She points at the description. “It says so. Even has all those little stars by it.”
“That’s asterisks. Read the fine print.”
Squinting her eyes, she tries to make out the warning. After a moment, she gives up and tosses it back on the bar. “Don’t care. I want it.”
“No.”
The bartender hands me my drink, looking to me then Winter before coming back to me for approval.
“Hey!” She snaps her fingers in the air between them. “I’m grown, in case you missed that. I’ll order for myself.” Spinning to face me, she pokes me in the chest. “You promised.”
I did. Besides, this might be interesting.
“Fine.” I give her a shrug and nod to the bartender. He grins knowingly and gladly fixes the drink—probably more excited about the gratuity he’ll make off the fifty-dollar fucker than he is about the outcome.
When she has it in hand, she takes a moment to admire the sparkling blue liquid in the champagne flute before she proposes a toast. I grab my drink and happily oblige. “To a super fun and exciting night.”
“Oh it will be,” the bartender says on a laugh.
She shoots him a funny look then brings her smile back to me. “Thank you.”
“No sweetheart, thank you.” I clink her glass and wink. She’s oblivious to what she’s getting herself into and I’m stifling a laugh when she tips her glass back and downs it.
“Mmm… that was like… the most delicious thing ever. I’ll have another.”
I shoot a why-the-fuck-not look to the bartender who tells her it’s a two drink maximum. She’s giddy at that.
“Must be some good shit. See?” She playfully slaps my arm. “And you didn’t want me to have it. So selfish….”
“So selfish,” I reiterate.
“You gonna hold my hair if I puke tonight?” she asks, draining half of her second glass before pausing to light a cigarette. When she crosses her legs, I drop my eyes to them. They travel up her flat stomach, to her bulging tits, her delicate throat, pink lips then stop on her eyes.
“No.”
She grins. “Yes you will. You can’t help yourself.” Turning her shoulder toward me, she looks over it and bats her eyelashes. “Are you falling in love with me, Jinx?”
I take the cigarette from her fingers. “Nope.”
“I love this song!” she screams suddenly. I wasn’t prepared for it and nearly jump out of my fucking skin. She laughs at my expression, tosses back the rest of her drink and leaps from her stool. I watch as she saunters onto the dance floor and grabs one of the women.
The music comes from the speakers in the bar as the band joins the crowd to dance. I don’t know what it is, but it’s definitely not blues—likely a transition to what’s to come. I cringe at the thought.
“How much do I need to pay the DJ to not play any of that techno shit tonight?” I ask the bartender who’s still fucking smiling.
“No techno. Just pop and rap. Don’t worry, I’ll request some good, bass hitting hard shit.” He leans in and drops his voice. “You’ll need it to keep up.”
“Yeah,” I say, my cock already swelling at the sight of her dancing and the thought of what’s about to happen. “You’re probably right.”
30
WINTER
Son-of-a-bitch.
For some reason, I’m so fucking horny I could dry hump a fence post. Or the leg of this really nice lady who is innocently dancing beside me. Unknowingly making me question my sexual orientation.
What I thought was only a slow build to my usual drunken-horny state, has exploded into a desperate need to be fucked like an animal. My tits feel heavy and just the feel of my bra rubbing across my nipples has me clenching my thighs. When I do that, I’m reminded of my pussy that is so wet, it has soaked through my panties and dampened my pants.
My clit feels like it’s the size of a golf ball. And it’s throbbing… pulsing. Pressing against my swollen lips. Trying to break free, find a rough surface and rub against it over and over until it finally gets release.
What the hell is wrong with me?
My thoughts are so fucked up. Next, I’ll be naming my lady parts something stupid like Thelma for the right tit, Louise for the left and Tawanda or some crazy shit for my vagina. Not only that, I’m stupidly wondering how I can get off on this lady next to me, a hard surface or a fence post, when my very own wet dream is sitting on a stool merely feet from me.
Pushing through the crowd, I make my way over. As I get closer, I can make out the concerned look on his face. I don’t stop walking until I’m standing between his knees. His hands reach out and grab my arms. Eyes roam my face. Then he’s pushing my sweaty hair from my face and feeling my forehead.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, a little panicked. A lot of sexy. God he’s so sexy. Baby. My pussy clenches.
I swallow hard and stare at his lips. Wondering what it would feel like if my golf ball sized clit were being caressed by his tongue. “I don’t know,” I breathe. Moan. Same shit. I grind against him. My fingers digging into his thighs.
“I do!”
I look over Jinx’s shoulder to the bartender who’s performing pelvic air thrusts. I moan again.
“I need you to break your promise,” I say, my hands desperately seeking out his skin. Wanting to touch him. Wanting him to touch me more. The band begins a bluesy rendition of the song Changes, originally recorded by Black Sabbath, and I lean in closer so he can hear me—putting my lips against his ear.
“I need you to fuck me. Now. To this song. Hard. Harder than you’ve ever fucked me,” I pant, nibbling his earlobe. Kissing his neck. Biting it. “To hell with our deal. Fuck me like I’m yours. Like I’m your property. A dirty whore. A bad girl. Spank me. Beat me…Fuck…Me…Please!”
He grabs my shoulders and pushes me back a step to look at me. His concern is gone. Replaced with pure amusement. Maybe desire. Fuck I don’t know. Don’t care. I need his dick. Not his facial expressions.
“Well…” His grin stretches across his handsome face. The face I want to sit on and ride like a Harley Davidson motorcycle. “If you insist, sweetheart.”
I grab his hand. Spin on my heel. Pull him through the crowded dance floor and to the door beside the stage. My thoughts are choppy. Disjointed. I can’t focus. I mean, I can, but only on one thing.
Sex.
Dick.
Cock.
Lips.
Hands.
Well, several things.
I push through the door. Find the nearest wall. Start to throw myself against it, but he beats me to it. Turning me. Kissing me. Holding me still. Forcing me to perform those pelvic air-thrusts just like the bartender.
Tearing my mouth away from his, I struggle from his hold and move backward—further into the room. He stalks after me. Slow. Predatory. Like a smirking fucking vulture. I’m trying to walk, get these tight ass pants off and keep some distance between us. Having him be close and try and take things slow is worse than him not touching me at all.
“Ever been on a road trip?” I’m rambling. Trying to distract him. “Stopped at a store. Bought one of those big gut-busting, kidney-infection-giving fountain sodas, knowing good and damn well you’re gonna have to pee before you stop again? Forty-four ounces later, it hits you. You hide it for the first twenty miles, then some asshole in the car notices your struggle and tickles you. Ever had that happen?”
He shakes his head. My pants are now halfway down my thighs. He’s still coming toward me. Still smirking. Still wearing that promising look o
f torture.
“Well, that’s where I am. Kinda. I mean, I don’t have to pee, but I’m forty-four ounces deep in arousal and if you tease me, I’m going to explode. So I’m asking—no, I’m begging you…please don’t tickle me.”
He lifts an eyebrow at that. My back hits a wall. He closes the distance. I moan when the heavy rise and fall of my chest has my nipples brushing against his cut. His hands move to his jeans. The buckle of his belt. He pulls it through the loops and holds it up. My legs shake in anticipation. Smiling, he drops the belt to the floor. I’m still watching it fall when he descends on me.
His kiss is quick. Thorough. A sweep of his tongue through my mouth. Then I’m spinning. My hands splayed against the wall for support. He presses his hand against my back and I bend over. Spread my knees wider. Bend deeper. Touch my toes. Cry out when the cold air hits my exposed pussy.
“Damn girl,” he says, his voice thick. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.” I shiver and make some strange unintelligible noise as he drags his fingers up my damp thighs to my dripping, weeping cunt.
He kneels behind me. “So swollen…” His breath tickles my sex and my knees nearly buckle. “So pink…” Oh my God, I’m going to die. “So pretty and wet and…” he trails off. Then his tongue is on me. Circling my clit. Lazily sweeping between my lips. Darting inside me. “Tastes so fucking good.”
Know this: If a man uses his mouth in the same way he uses it when he gives you those toe curling, heart hammering, forget the world and fuck me now, kisses—he can eat pussy. And Devil’s Renegades Jinx can most definitely eat pussy.
Problem is, I need more. Him. Inside me. Pounding the fuck out of me.
“You okay, baby?” he asks, standing slowly. Taking his precious damn time.
“Jinx…” It’s a warning.
“Fuck.”
That was a bad fuck. A disappointed fuck. A we-have-to-stop fuck. Well… fuck that.
Struggling to stand upright, I glare at him over my shoulder. “What—“
