by Cathryn Cade
She took the money, because again, what else was she going to do? It wasn’t Morey’s fault he didn’t trust his old friend who had systematically stolen from him, and besides, she was in that moment, terrified. What were they going to do now?
Where would they live? They’d lose their house, and be reduced to living in her car, or a shelter.
“Are you going to have him arrested?” she asked.
Morey shook his head. “Because we been friends for so long … no. I just need you both outta here.”
She and her father walked out of the place that day, all their co-workers stopping to watch. And although Lesa saw pity in a few gazes for her, she saw only disgust in others, for both of them, as if she were now tarred with the same brush as her father.
That was the day she truly lost her innocence, her belief that if she worked hard and did her best, everything would turn out well, as promised by her teachers, and by the man at her side. Who was no longer her hero, no longer the man she measured all others by.
He was a source of worry, of shame and the object of her pity. But no longer her parent.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Afraid to see what look was in Pete’s gaze after her shameful tale, Lesa looked into her glass instead.
“Even though I’m a grownup,” she said, her voice cracking. “I miss that. Being able to look up to him, and know that while I was out there making my own way, he was there to catch me if I fell.”
When she finished speaking, Pete had filled her glass again, and she took another drink, because she needed it. Pete put his big, warm hand over her other hand on the bar, and linked his fingers with hers, giving her hand a warm squeeze.
“Moye, that’s deep shit,” he said gently. “I’m sorry that happened to you. But this Morey guy was right. Your dad sank that far in the hole, that’s an addiction. He getting help with that?”
She nodded, licking a drop of whiskey from her lower lip. “He goes to Gamblers’ Anonymous twice a week, and he has a sponsor—another veteran. He hasn’t gambled since then, as far as we know.”
He squeezed her hand again. “That’s good. But listen, you’re here now. And all this shit—I’ll make it up to you, I swear it.”
She set her glass down with a clunk, liquor sloshing on her fingers. But she hardly noticed, as anger fired inside her.
“What? I just spilled my guts to you, and that’s what you have to say? You’ll give me money? The money is not the point, Pete.”
“Then what is the point?”
“The point is, my dad broke my trust. I will always love him, he’s my dad, but now I don’t trust him, as far as I can—can throw him.”
Pete's brows lowered, his jaw setting. “Why do I get the feeling there’s more?”
“Because there is.” She looked at him, letting him see all the hurt and anger she felt toward him.
“What—you’re saying you don’t trust me?” How dare he look angry, even offended?
Lesa threw her hands in the air. “Give the man an award!” She slapped her palms on the bar and glared at him. “Hell no, I don’t trust you! You brought me in here, you gave me a job, then you promoted me, and then you just … swept it all away. You stole it from me to make your dumb-ass scheme work—which as far as I can see isn’t working anyway, because I saw Marta drive by today, with her creepy brothers. But that’s not my point.” She waved this away.
“Oh, so you do have one. Wanna show it to me?” he asked sarcastically.
“My point is, my dad drained my bank account. You drained my—my trust bank. I may be gullible, but I’m not stupid. So you and me? Trusting you, and working for you? Not happening.”
He let out a growl of frustration. He set his hands on the bar and gave her a look of sheer determination. “Listen, moye, we can work this out. I want you to stay.”
She shook her head, so hard her hair flew around her. “No. I’ll work out my time here, but then … I am gone, biker man, gone.”
Pete turned and paced away several steps and then turned coming back toward her. And this time he prowled like a predator who was through toying with his prey, and was ready for the kill.
“You walk out that door now, you’ll never know what we could do with this place—you and me, and the others. We can make the Hangar a destination spot. I have a line on a full liquor license. We’ll have the beer, we’ll have mixed drinks, too.”
Lesa groaned inwardly. Of course he had to bring that up now. Because he was right, this place could be a destination, one customers were willing to drive miles to reach. Well, too bad. He’d have to do it without her.
“Nope. I’m leaving. Looking for another job. And the next guy who offers me one, I’ll take it. So there.”
He curled his lip. “Got it. Good to know where I stand. Maybe you can take out an ad on Dave'sList, see if you can get any more takers. 'Brunette with tits and ass, willing to take money from men'. You’d get lots of action.”
Lesa grabbed her glass and drained it. Then she stepped off her stool and tossed her hair back defiantly. “Maybe I will. I’ll just march down to that little Runway bar by the gas station, and find me a man, see what he can do for me.”
“The hell you will," he roared. "You’re not going anywhere.”
She snorted. “Watch me.”
She had no plan, except grabbing her coat and purse and making a grand exit. She didn’t even know if the Runway bar was open this late—or should she say early, as it was now nearly three am, and after working in a pub for eight hours, the last thing she wanted to do was walk into another bar.
But before she reached the hallway, Pete was there, looming in her path, six feet plus of angry, alpha male. And the part of her that wasn’t furious with him, thrilled to his obvious fury.
“Only place you’re going is right here,” he told her, and hauled her into his arms.
Pete grabbed her hair in a big handful and held her still, his other arm locked around her waist, holding her tight against him as he swooped his head and kissed her hard. It. Was. Glorious.
His hand worked in her hair, his other arm clamped around her, his warm lips and wet mouth possessed hers with absolute authority as his beard and ‘stache tickled her skin, and his warm breath gusted on her upper lip.
She grabbed him as well, one arm around his lean torso, his shirt fisted in her grip, her other arm up so she could cup the side of his head in her hand and kiss him back. Oh, yes, he tasted so good, like man and whiskey and something indefinable that she craved more of. And his smell, his skin, aftershave and even the smells of food and beer that clung after a long night here, filled her senses in a dizzying rush.
The kiss he’d given her over the bar had been wonderful but this one was that times ten. Advantage, his body, so big and hard, crushing her against him with her breasts pillowed on his chest and his groin against her belly so she could feel his cock, big and hard through his jeans, pressing into her soft flesh.
He lifted his head enough to suck in a breath, and she did the same, dragging her eyes open enough to look up into his face.
“I hate you,” she protested, bewildered by her need for him. What was happening here?
“Yeah, you’re not my favorite either.” But he kissed her again, and she forgot everything else except the taste and feel of him. Her blood was pounding through her veins, full of fizzy bubbles like champagne.
She clung to him, leaning into his hard, hot body for support as all sheer arousal weakened her knees and rushed to her center, need pulsing there hot and deep.
He groaned into her mouth, his tongue sweeping in to take control as he turned with her, walking her backward. They bumped into the bar, though he took the brunt of that, his arm protecting her.
“You don’t want this, tell me now,” he said, cupping and kneading her ass with his big hand. It felt so good, Lesa arched into his touch.
“Just kiss me.”
Kissing her again, deeply, hungrily, he walked her across the short spac
e to the open office door, and through it. The lights were off, only a shaft of lamplight from the bar falling across the floor, illumining dimly the sofa, and the corner of one desk.
When they ran into the arm of the sofa, they stopped. Without moving his mouth from hers, Pete reached down to find the hem of her tees, baring her back to his hands. He stroked them swiftly down her back, her waist, then down into her hipster jeans, his long fingers sliding down the crevice of her ass. He used that hand to pull her harder into him, his fingers delving deep as he flexed his hips, driving his groin against her belly and mons.
“Wanna fuck you,” he told her, dragging his mouth across her cheek to her ear. “Need to be inside you, moye. Need to be in that sweet little pussy of yours, so deep I can feel every squeeze when you cum on my cock.”
Lesa whimpered, she couldn’t help it, not with that big, hard, hot shape flexing against her, only inches away from where he could fit it inside her, and fill her empty, quaking pussy with himself. She stroked down to cup his ass, and feel the hard muscles flexing under her touch as he moved against her.
“Let me,” he urged, tilting her hips so his cock raked against her clit, through their clothing, each time he flexed. “Let me make us both cum our brains out.”
“I want to,” she managed, tipping her head against his chest, breathing in his scent. As if that was going to bring her any sanity. “But we shouldn’t.” Although she was having trouble remembering why.
“Oh, we should,” he growled in her ear, tracing the whorl with his tongue, then nuzzling her, the tickle of his beard and ‘stache driving her crazy. She wanted to feel that tickle on her skin, everywhere. “We so should. Say yes, milaya.”
“Yes,” she breathed, and tipped up her head for another sweet, wet, devouring kiss. Yes, she wanted this. Yes, she craved him. Yes, she needed this craziness singing in her veins, pulsing between her thighs, and in her nipples, hard as berries under her bra.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” he groaned. “Fuck yeah.”
Then it was all harsh breaths and quick movements, as he pulled up her tees, urging her with a kiss to lift her arms. He pulled them off over her head and tossed them behind her. Then he turned so the light through the doorway fell on her, and reached to unfasten her bra. As it fell open, he gave a low, animalistic growl that vibrated in his broad chest. He reached up to cup her breasts in his big hands.
“Ah, moye,” he said. “So fuckin’ pretty. So soft." He went on talking in Russian. His voice, the foreign words at once harsh and lilting, his big hands, cupping and lifting her sensitive breasts, his knowing fingers pinching and twirling her nipples, combined to send pleasure and need spiraling through her, straight to her pussy, which contracted with aching need. Lesa’s knees wilted, and she sagged against him, grasping his shoulders to stay upright, and to get closer to him.
“Yeah, you like this,” he approved, leaning in to kiss her again. “Come on, kotika moye, lie down for me. You’ll like the rest even more.”
Oh, God. She was going to have sex with Pete Vanko. She must be crazy … she was probably going to regret this … but right now she did not care about anything but letting him lower her onto the sofa behind her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Pete straddled Lesa with one knee between her thighs, his other foot braced on the floor. He was a big, black silhouette looming over her against the soft lamplight coming in through the open door. Snaps popped as he ripped his shirt open, shrugged it off and then reached down and pulled his tee up and over his head.
She had one dizzy moment to admire the perfection of broad, smooth shoulders, heavy arms and a torso that tapered down to his lean waist before he came down over her. He kissed her again, and his chest pressed down on her breasts, warm, hard, hair dusted male against her delicate softness. His dizzying scent filled her nostrils.
He groaned into her mouth as he rubbed himself against her, and she echoed it.
“You feel so good, moye,” he told her, reaching between them to unfasten her jeans. “Let’s get these off you, da?”
Lesa lifted her hands to help him, but her jeans were already being whisked away. She didn’t realize her panties were going with them until they were already down her thighs and over her legs, leaving her naked on the cool leather sofa. Well, mostly naked—Pete was in a hurry. He pulled one shoe off her foot to get her jeans off, then tossed them over the back of the sofa, still attached to her other leg.
His zipper went down, and he came down over her again, this time with his cock freed—she knew because it slapped against her bare belly, hot and silky and impatient. Instinctively she reached for it, and took him in her hand. Velvety soft skin covered the surging column of male flesh. She wanted to squeeze and fondle him, turn the light on so she could see him—but most of all, right now, she wanted him to touch her pussy again, and she wanted this inside her.
Pete sucked in a harsh breath. “Christ, you keep doing that, moye, I won’t last long. Lemme get this on.”
Cellophane tore, and he reached between them. “Here. It’s on, roll it down. Suit me up.”
As she blindly found the condom resting over the plump crown on his cock, and rolled it down, he reached down and cupped his hand over her mons.
Lesa’s fingers closed on his cock, and he groaned, even as he stroked her wetness, and thrust two big fingers carefully into her. “Whoa, you wrap me up that tight in this little pussy, I’m not gonna last long.”
Neither was she if he kept stroking her like that. He hooked his fingers inside her, pressing on her G-spot, found her clit with his thumb, and she nearly came right then.
“Now?” he asked her urgently, playing her breast with his other hand.
“Yes! Hurry.” She tugged on him, and he came down to her, all heat and strength and surging male, all hers … at least for this moment.
He fitted himself to her and forged slowly inside. Lesa gasped at the sting as he stretched her, and dug her hands into the satiny, muscled flesh over his ribs.
“Fuck, moye,” he groaned, tipping his head down to nuzzle into her hair. “Been a while for you?”
“Yeah.” She turned her head into the strong curve of his neck and shoulder, and inhaling his scent. He smelled so good, she’d do this just to sniff him. But then he moved cautiously inside her, and everything zinged to life and she wanted more. Lots more.
She moved under him, bracing her foot on the edge of the sofa seat and moved under him, rising up to meet his next thrust. Oh, that felt … amazing. He was so big and hard inside her, stretching her pussy to the limit, every withdrawal and thrust ravaging delicate nerve endings that her vibrator sure didn’t cover.
“Oh,” she moaned. “Harder. Harder.”
“I’ll give you harder,” he promised. His big hand slid underneath her ass, and he put his head down and began to hammer into her, long hard strokes that hurt a little, but hit her G-spot with every stroke, driving her higher and higher up a sweet, narrow precipice of pleasure until she reached the top and he pushed her over, and she fell into clenching bliss, coming so hard she cried out senselessly.
He gave a muffled shout and stiffened in her arms, shuddering, his cock jerking inside her, sending another, slower orgasm through her.
Then he collapsed, luckily with one elbow braced at her shoulder so he didn’t crush her. He mumbled something into her hair. His broad chest moved against hers with his deep breaths, and under her hands, his skin was damp with sweat.
She wanted to hug him to her, and pet his satiny skin, but as she came back to herself, Lesa felt strangely shy.
Then her nerves started to kick in. What had she done? She’d just had sex—fast, raunchy, in-his-office sex—with her boss. The boss who had lied about her to the other staff. The boss who was not only a biker, but who thought he was God’s gift to women. Although after this performance, heck, maybe he was.
But she hadn’t meant to partake. She opened her eyes and stared at the slice of pub she could see through the open off
ice door. Which is when she caught a flash of movement, followed by the soft scrape of footsteps.
She grabbed Pete again. He grunted. “Ow, ease up, moye.”
“No, get up," she hissed. "There’s someone out there—in the pub, I mean.”
Pete lifted himself up and out of her with stunning speed, vaulting to his feet and yanking his jeans up. He prowled to his desk, then to the office door, standing in the shadows to look out into the pub.
Lesa scrambled off the sofa, and nearly tripped over her jeans, dangling from one foot. Somehow, in the dark she managed to get them up—which was when she realized her panties were caught inside them, around one thigh but not the other. Well, she’d deal with that later. She yanked her new tank over her head, and shoved her hair back, looking for Pete.
The doorway was empty. She hurried over to peer out just as two deep chuckles sounded from the bar. She froze in the shadows. Oh, great, one of the Flyers was here. Oh, God, had he heard them having sex? She’d never be able to show her face in front of them again.
* * *
“Saw your truck in the lot,” Rocker said to Pete. “Just came in to make sure everything’s cool, what with the shit goin’ down.” He wore his leather jacket with a fleece underneath, and a stocking hat, dusted with big snowflakes.
“Thanks, brother. Everything’s good.” Pete set his Ruger on the bar and finished fastening up his jeans. Then he shoved back his hair, which was falling in his face after Lesa had her hands in it.
Rocker cocked his head, looking toward the office, then waggled his brows. “Sorry I interrupted you an’ whoever.”
“No worries,” Pete said. “Round one was finished.” He chuckled, just because he purely felt so fucking good. Best medicine in the world for stress and for arguments was a good fuck, and this one had been …amazing.
Rocker laughed quietly as well, shaking his head. “There’s gonna be a round two, you better bring it to the club house or get your lady home before the roads close. Shit’s comin’ down out there. They say we’ll have seven or eight inches before morning, and it’s gonna blow and drift.”
