Wring: Road Kill MC #5

by Marata Eros

  Shannon's put an end to my misery and given me something to believe in besides surviving.

  I come to a stop in front of the place and kill the engine.

  I'm not a visionary, but I vaguely remember my grandparent's house. It was a solid old farmhouse with a couple of dormer windows above and an expansive front porch.

  Using that as a model, I choose a Terhune house plan called “the Hannibal.”

  A square copula graces the top of the attached garage, which doesn't face the front of the circular gravel drive like the ones on a lot of modern houses. The doors load from the side, so it's all picturesque house from the front.

  Didn't want to copy Snare too much, so the paint's on hold. Just painted with a pure clean white primer at the moment.

  Shannon slides off the quiet bike and stands there, staring at the house.

  God—what if she hates it?

  “Is this your house, Wring?”

  I stay quiet.

  Shannon looks at me over her shoulder, her beautiful clear pale-emerald eyes wide.

  I nod. “It's the one I said I was getting built.”

  “It's beautiful,” she breathes then ducks her face away from my eyes.

  “Hey.”

  Shannon looks up.

  “It can be your house, too.”

  She shakes her head. “I don't want to be a pity case. I've already relied on you too much. I—”

  “No.”

  Her eyes meet mine.

  “I'm a deliberate dude. I don't fucking take sweet butts out to my digs and give ʼem a tour, Shannon.”

  My hands fist. “I don't go to club whore's mom's funeral.”

  I pull her to me, widening my legs, and her small body moves between them. “I don't love anyone, Shannon.”

  Tears begin to run down her face.

  I wipe them away with the pads of my thumbs. “I love you.”

  She nods, smiling.

  Why do chicks cry when they're not sad?

  Then she gives me the answer I'm looking for. The only one that matters.

  “I love you, too, Wring.”

  My chest swells into a tight knot. “Hoping you'd say that.” I take her hand and tow her inside the house.

  *

  I run a finger over the countertop. It's some kind of cold stone, swirly patterns of deep charcoal gray and creamy white look like spilt glitter stirred together into a delicious pattern.

  “House isn't painted yet,” Wring says from behind me.

  I lift an eyebrow. “Oh, I thought white was it.”

  He shakes his head gently. “Nah. Looking for a woman's touch. One woman. One touch.”

  He takes my hand and puts it on his healthy erection.

  I blush. The man's insatiable.

  Thank God for lust, because I think it's all that saved me from my grief. That, and Mom's blessing. She seemed to like Wring from the moment she set eyes on him.

  “We're gonna christen the place.” He leads me to a bed. It's flat on the middle of a living room floor, the only furniture in the place.

  On the center there's a small box.

  Blue velvet.

  I cover my mouth. I've only known Wring a little over two weeks. Blinking back tears, I drop his hand and slowly walk toward the small navy speck in the sea of crisp white bed linen.

  “Wring—”

  “Nope. Open it, Shannon.”

  I lower myself to the bed. My fingers shake as I grab the box. I don't open it right away. The soft plush of the velvet warms inside my fingers.

  Finally, I crack the lid.

  “You didn't have a dad to ask,” Wring explains as I stare at the ring.

  Neither of us says anything about my mom.

  “And I don't know anything about jewelry for chicks.” He gives a rough scrub of his short blond hair with a palm. “So, I saw my mother. Finally.”

  I look up at him.

  His neck reddens, and he swipes a hand over his nape. “Anyways, she said I could have my grandmother's ring when I asked.” Wring looks away, and I see his nervousness.

  I don't say anything. I can't. My heart's so full, I feel like I'm drowning.

  In the best way imaginable.

  “If you don't”—he shrugs—“like it, I can get you something else…”

  I stand and go to him. Hugging him around his narrow waist, I splay my fingers over the muscles of his lower back. “I love it.”

  His shoulders sag in apparent relief. “I know this is fast, Shannon.” He tilts my chin back. “But you feel right.” He grabs my hand and puts it against his heart. “Here.” His eyes hood. “Let's get hitched.”

  I start crying again.

  He crouches down so his face is level with mine. “I'm going to take a leap and guess all these tears mean yes.”

  I give an emphatic nod, too emotionally beaten to verbalize my consent.

  But my answer is a thousand times yes.

  He plucks the box from my fingers and takes out the slim platinum band encrusted with diamonds on its circumference. Slivers of carved half-moons hold the large center diamond. It's old-fashioned. Unique.

  Like Wring. Like us.

  He slips the ring on the ring finger of my left hand. It fits perfectly.

  He chuckles softly. “Fits awesome. Grandma was tiny, too.” Wring kisses my forehead.

  “What were you saying about christening?” I ask, my grin sly.

  “House isn't gonna feel like it's mine until I have you in it, under me.”

  I fall backward on the bed as the sunlight catches the facets of the diamonds, casting them far and wide like chipped rainbows.

  *

  Shannon spreads herself beneath me, and I make short work of my clothes.

  I only take time to carefully fold my cut and put it on the countertop. The rest of my shit gets dumped on the floor.

  Mattress is the only piece of furniture I have in the whole place.

  Shannon's all I need, and now I've made her mine.

  Striding back over to her naked body, I kneel between her legs.

  Conveniently, Shannon shed her clothes. They lie on top of my own.

  I spread her creamy thighs with the flat of my palms, taking in the gorgeous pink sight of her pussy.

  Hot as fuck.

  “You always look at me.” A self-conscious shadow lingers in her voice.

  “I'm a worshiper,” I say softly, running a finger down her glistening folds.

  “Worshiper?” She quirks an eyebrow, but there's a flush to her skin, a depth to her one-word question.

  “Yeah, one of those dudes that wants to get down on his hands and knees for pussy.”

  She frowns, clearly taking my words the wrong way. Talking isn't my best thing.

  “But I never felt like I did much of it until I saw yours.” I put my hand over her mound and sweep the tip of my thumb inside her wetness.

  We groan together.

  “Yeah,” I say softly, kicking my head back. “It's all about your pussy, Shannon.”

  Her blush is a brushfire of red over her fair skin. “You talk dirty.”

  “You like it,” I say, thinking about her coming against my face while I talked about my tongue fucking her cunt.

  She really liked it then, pulsing around me while I stabbed it inside her deep.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Besides…” I meet her beautiful green eyes. “Now I'm making you legit.”

  I hike her hips up and place the barest bit of me inside her, stroking into her about a third of the way. Gets her off fast. Chicks are sensitive that first third.

  My thumb begins to work her clit hard. I keep stroking in shallow thrusts.

  Shannon's so fucking tight, I have to think about doing dirty laundry to keep from coming.

  Then she hooks her heels behind my back, and I groan, biting my lip hard, tasting blood.

  “Shannon,” I grit out with hard-won restraint.

  “Ah!” she yells softly, tossing her arms behin
d her head. Her mouth parts, and she begins to pant, moving her body back and forward with the thrusts of my dick.

  I shove my length in all the way, the end of me at the end of her.

  We throb together for a suspended moment.

  “I'm coming,” she says softly. Her legs spread slightly wider, and I withdraw then thrust again.

  Shannon's pussy pulses around me, clenching my cock tight enough that I can hardly breathe.

  With a final thrust, I bury myself to the hilt, bathing her insides with everything I have.

  Everything I am.

  I grab her wrists and lay myself on top of her, stabbing my elbows at either side of her head. I kiss every inch of her face, leaving her mouth for last.

  I pull back and chuckle at the dazed expression in her eyes. “Hmm…” Kiss, suck, peck. “You seem satisfied.”

  Her soft expression causes me physical pain—it's that powerful. To see that love she's got for me shining from her eyes.

  “I think I blew a circuit or something.” Shannon sighs in total contentment.

  I roll off her and tuck her in beside my body, tossing a leg over hers. “Nope, electrical's good.”

  She wraps her fingers around my cock and squeezes me softly.

  I hiss in a breath.

  “So good.” She kisses me back.

  We don't get out of the makeshift bed for the rest of the day.

  Epilogue

  One year later

  I toss my books in the back of my VW Rabbit and slide behind the wheel.

  The late summer sun slants through the windshield, momentarily blinding me. My wedding rings twinkle back at me.

  My smile is its own light. A lot has happened in the last year.

  Miracles. Love. Loss.

  And most importantly—hope.

  *

  Wring takes me there.

  I should go to Mom's graveside on her birthday each year. Celebrate her life instead of the day she died. But that's not how life works.

  I'm marking when mine began.

  Mom released me. She gave me advice, which I took. She left earlier than I wanted, but somehow, in a way, she gave me Wring.

  Wring hangs out against a tree, knee bent and biker's boot planted against the deeply furrowed bark. His hooded eyes watch me, constantly scanning the area.

  He takes my protection seriously.

  There's no reason to worry, though. The Bloods disbanded after their leader was killed and cops were crawling all over their turf.

  Wring still worries. I think it's just in his nature. And Noose’s and Snare’s. The jury's out on Lariat. Maybe there's no woman to be his other half.

  Arranging the flowers at Mom's gravestone, I talk to her. “I did it, Mom. I believed. I trusted.”

  The diamonds inside my wedding set sparkle as I spread the petals perfectly at the base of the granite marker.

  A fat tear drops on my hand.

  Then another.

  I wish Mom could have been there to meet Wring's mom and the guys—even Viper. That thought makes me smile.

  But she directed me toward the man who’s now my husband. He didn't tell me until after we were married that he’d spoken to her before she was taken.

  Wring told her he would always protect me. No matter what.

  Mom believed him.

  I’d wondered how she could have died so peacefully, in a building full of gangbangers who'd done everything but steal our property. I know now that it was because I was her greatest possession. Not our house.

  Me.

  That's what I finally realized: Mom loved people above things.

  I turn and look at Wring.

  He straightens from his perch against the trunk. “Ready, babe?”

  I nod then giggle, shooting my arm straight up in the air. “A little help?” I wink at him.

  He saunters over.

  “And to think that I was forcing you to eat.” He gently pulls me to a standing position, and I put a hand to my aching lower back.

  He puts his hand on my swollen belly.

  “Love that I knocked ya up.”

  I smirk. “I think you liked the process.”

  “That, too, babe.” Wring bends over me, kissing me thoroughly over Mom's grave.

  I have to think she's up in heaven, smiling down on her daughter and unborn grandchild.

  I finally found my slice of heaven, right here on earth.

  THE END

  Coming winter 2017!

  a Road Kill MC standalone novel #6

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  Acknowledgments

  I published both The Druid and Death Series, in 2011 with the encouragement of my husband, and continued because of you, my Reader. Your faithfulness through comments, suggestions, spreading the word and ultimately purchasing my work with your hard-earned money gave me the incentive, means and inspiration to continue.

  There are no words that are sufficiently adequate to express my thankfulness for your support.

  I truly feel connected to my readers. It is obvious to me, but I'll say the words anyway for clarity: a written work is just words on pages if they are not read by my readers. As I write this I get a lump in my throat; your enjoyment of my work affects me that deeply.

  You guys are the greatest, each and every one of ya~

  Tamara

  xoxo

  Special Thanks:

  You, my reader.

  My husband, who is my biggest fan.

  Cameren, without whom, there would be no books.

  About the Author:

  www.TamaraRoseBlodgett.com

  Tamara Rose Blodgett: happily married mother of four sons. Dark fiction writer. Reader. Gardner. Dreamer. Home restoration slave. Coffee addict. Digs music.

  She is also the New York Times Bestselling author of A Terrible Love, written under the pen name, Marata Eros, and over eighty-five other titles, to include the #1 international bestselling erotic Interracial/African-American TOKEN serial and her #1 bestselling Amazon Dark Fantasy novel, Death Whispers. Tamara writes a variety of dark fiction in the genres of erotica, fantasy, horror, romance, sci-fi and suspense. She lives in the midwest with her family and three, disrespectful dogs.

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