by Jory Strong
She entered the house, kicking off her shoes, unbuttoning and ridding herself of her shirt as she traveled down the hallway. The bra she discarded just as she reached the TV room. The best defense was a good offense.
Thirteen
Stepping into the doorway, Etaín was suitably rewarded by very appreciative masculine glances. Her nipples beaded under their scrutiny. Her hands dropped to the front of her jeans, her labia instantly slick.
Eamon stood. Elegant, deadly grace and unmistakable power. She shivered at the prospect of taking him on while surrounded by one of the elements at his command. She licked her lips, wetting them. “In case either of you are interested, I’m going to relax in the hot tub. See you there—or not.”
Cathal laughed. As if either of them could resist the sight of her naked body.
The hell with it. He followed her example, stripping out of his clothes and letting them lie where they dropped on the trip outside. Tall hedges and the house’s position on the hill guaranteed privacy, at least from voyeurs.
A distinctive breeze kicked up when they neared the tub, smelling of tropical islands instead of the San Francisco bay. It swirled, gathering enough force to lift the pieces of the cover and carry them to the ground as though they were no more substantial than leaves.
“Useful,” he said, giving Eamon credit where credit was due, though he couldn’t take his eyes from Etaín as she slipped into the water, disappearing from sight then emerging, skin glistening and nipples puckered, wet and making him want to kiss and lick every inch of her.
He got into the hot tub, Etaín’s smile beckoning so he reached for her, pulling her flush against his body for a kiss.
No regrets. Fuck, he could barely remember what life had been like without her in it.
The ink on his arms hummed. Magic. Desire. He didn’t care.
“Jesus I can’t get enough of you.”
Her hands glided over his ass, up his back, then down again. “The feeling is mutual.”
He claimed her mouth. Tongue thrusting and retreating, in sole possession as Eamon stripped, what they’d shared prior to Derrick’s arrival making it seem perfectly natural to allow space for Eamon’s hands on her breasts when he joined them in the water.
She moaned appreciatively. Rubbed against his cock, and by extension Eamon’s, both of them already hard for her.
Bed would have been a better destination. Hell, the couch in his entertainment room would have been. But he knew her well enough now to understand what she was up to though she had to know Eamon well enough to understand this was just a temporary reprieve from discussing the drawing of the Dragon.
His arms tightened on her with thoughts of it and the conversation that had followed with Eamon, desire taking on the edge of desperation. Christ, he couldn’t lose her.
And then he couldn’t think as her hand found his cock, fingers wet and hot around it, her fist becoming a substitute for her slit, eroding his will to resist with each stroke until he was helpless against the searing need boiling in his testicles, the eruption of it in a jet of semen.
“Happy now?” he murmured against her lips.
“Very.”
He released her to submerge himself in water, rising to find her turned to face Eamon, teasing him about his use of magic, challenging him to demonstrate what he could do in his own element.
Eamon’s laugh promised pleasure. “Very well, Etaín. But it’ll require that neither Cathal nor I be touching you.”
He parted from her, taking a seat on the ledge beneath the water’s surface. Cathal followed his example, curious.
“First something Cathal will find entertaining,” Eamon said, enjoying the shedding of responsibility and worry.
A spell bound to air created a symphony of sound surrounding them, wind song accented by the chimes and bells in the yard, accompanied a moment later by the lift of water in a dance reminiscent of elegant fountains.
Etaín’s laugh was pure delight. Cathal’s easy smile a reward in and of itself.
“Next time I’ll put on some tunes,” Cathal said.
“I’d suggest doing it now but I don’t believe you’ll want to miss the next part of this.”
He let the spells fall away, his will directed in a much more carnal pursuit.
Water became his hands stroking Etaín’s body. His tongue swirling over nipples and clit, invading her channel in thickened pulses.
Her head went back on a moan, face flushed and eyes closed. She was the very picture of a woman in the throes of exquisite ecstasy. Accepting pleasure, uninhibited and uncaring at having them watch her climb toward orgasm then reach it, embrace it, lingering there and drawing every beat out until nothing was left other than lassitude.
She opened her eyes, sending him a provocative glance. “I won’t need a man at all if I gain that ability with the change.”
“Let me dissuade you of that particular notion.”
She laughed with delight when he lifted her, removing her from the water and placing her on the padded deck at the edge of the hot tub. His forearms splayed her thighs, holding them open as he put his mouth on her cunt.
The hungry thrust and lap of his tongue dominated, commanded in a way that water couldn’t. Cathal’s claiming of her lips, her breasts reinforcing the lesson that neither of them could be replaced, though even with her cry of release, he couldn’t stop himself from driving the message home by lifting and turning her to face Cathal.
Magic, another man, and his own arm across her abdomen held her into position as he slammed his cock home. The tight welcome and press of her buttocks into him made him surge against her with the relentless thunder of ocean against land, elements as wild and beautiful as the magic of their joined, perfectly synchronized bodies.
Pleasure was a riptide carrying him under at orgasm. Carrying them both under, though moments later, after he’d watched Cathal thrust inside and drive her to another heated release, he made no protest when she said, “I think I need to just drift for a little while.”
*
Niall Dunne hit the remote, silencing the news reporter’s voice. A cool rage spread through him as he contemplated what he’d heard. Someone had nearly killed his son over this business Etaín had dragged Cathal into.
Maybe. Probably.
She was trouble. He’d known that the moment he’d seen Cathal with her. He could look back now and understand by the time he met her, it was already too late to remove her from Cathal’s life without it also costing him his son.
He had a vested interest in keeping Etaín alive. But his interest only went so far.
He’d take estrangement with a chance at reconciliation over a dead son. There was no reconciling from the grave.
He set the remote down in favor of picking up the gun he’d been cleaning, then the silencer, screwing it into place, the act relaxing him. The weight of the weapon was comforting, the feel of it in his hand like an extension of self.
For now he’d wait. He’d hold off acting, because if he was being totally honest with himself, he had to accept that there was a chance this didn’t have anything to do with the violence in Oakland.
For as long as he lived, he would never forget the pictures Etaín had drawn. They’d known there was risk associated with the one boy, the possibility of ties to a South American cartel, but he’d accepted Denis’s need to put this behind him.
As far as he—they were concerned, there was only one punishment for a rapist. Death.
Some crimes were too heinous to be tolerated. He’d never forget that night the two of them returned home to find their mother dead, her naked, lifeless body bound to the bed, panties stuffed in her mouth to prevent her screams.
He’d been fifteen. Denis fourteen. It had taken them two years to find the man responsible and kill him.
*
When’s this asshole going to show up to work?” Jesus Lucky Fuentes asked as they drove past Saoirse for something like the fifth time.
He lifted
the gun in his lap, aiming it at the picture taped to the dashboard of Sleepy Ruiz’s car and pretended to shoot, same as he’d done every time they passed the club, his arm jerking with the imaginary recoil. “Rich pendejo.”
“Yeah,” Sleepy said. “Probably walking around with a Rolex on his arm and a grand of cash money in his wallet, maybe even some coke in his pocket.”
Lucky pretended to pull the trigger again, wanting to get this done. “If I can’t take him out riding shotgun, I’m going to get him walking from his car to his club. I do that, I’m going to take what he’s got on him, get myself a little bonus for doing this job.”
“Gotta look random, homie. You follow me? That was how you said Jacko wants it.”
“I know man. I know.”
He lowered the gun, loving the feel of it in his hand, the rush of power that came with knowing all he had to do was pull the trigger and the thing would be done. It was a hell of a lot better than walking around with a shank keistered in his ass and waiting for the right moment to pull it out and strike. A lot easier too. Killing someone with a shank was hard. He’d seen guys jumped and stabbed twenty times and live. You had to get lucky and hit the right spot, not easy to do when someone was fighting against you. And you had to get lucky not to get caught trying it, which was how he’d gotten his street name in juvie when he’d made his first kill.
He put the gun on his lap, giving a little salute to Puppy, one of the lookouts he’d put in place. “This is getting fucking old. You feel me?”
“I feel you.”
He and his homeboys had been watching for this guy Cathal Dunne since yesterday, when Jacko had come around, pulling him aside and saying after he got this done, he was going to introduce him to another mafia member, and not just any member but Cyco Chalino.
No way was he going to fail Jacko. Prove himself enough times and he’d become a made member. Already he was a camarada, a trusted associate. Fuck, maybe he’d be put up for a vote after this kill. Who was going to say no if Cyco and Jacko said yes?
“You think it’s true about Cyco being in town?” Sleepy asked, sounding all no-big-deal when Cyco was a fucking legend, a hardcore member in tight with a cartel down in Mexico.
The guy and his crew had invaded a rival’s territory, stormed into a club selling drugs and prostitutes, killing twenty-five of the enemy and getting away with it until he got caught up in a raid by Federales in the pay of another cartel. He’d done a little over a year in a Mexican jail before busting out.
Lucky cut a look at Sleepy, dying to tell him that fuck yeah, Cyco was in town and he was going to get an intro after this, along with a little coke for doing the favor. Instead he said, “Probably just a rumor, man, because of that shit that went down in Oakland.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Lucky jerked upright in his seat. “Fuck man, the fuel gauge just dropped to empty from all this driving around.”
“Time to steal us some gas, then maybe take a break and stop by Rosena’s. What do you think?”
“I get her. You take Tracy.”
“I was thinking we’d switch off, take a turn with each of them.”
They laughed, turning the corner, though this time Sleepy sped up rather than slowing down as Saoirse came into sight.
Lucky picked up the gun, aiming it at the picture of Cathal Dunne, imagining the pull of the trigger, his arm going up in pretended recoil. “Let’s go fuck us some homegirls. We got this place covered. The pendejo shows, Drooler or Puppy will call and we’ll come back.”
*
This is ridiculous. Simply ridiculous.
Deep breaths. Deep calming breaths.
Derrick sucked them in.
They didn’t help.
His heart stuttered and popped like a man facing a firing squad. His hands were wetter than a client dripping sweat and screwing his face up against the pain of getting a tattoo.
Ridiculous.
What he needed was a joint.
A small medicinal toke.
No. Absolutely not. That wouldn’t do.
Quinn had not seen him at his best the other night. They’d gotten past it, and the sex…
Delicious.
Devine.
He’d never been anyone’s first before. A shiver of pleasure moved through him, sweet and warm, like honey left out in the sun.
A spasm followed, longing and ache, the wild fluttering that was part of the rush of falling in love.
I am not rebounding. I am absolutely not.
Quinn was different. He wasn’t like—
No! That name didn’t bear thinking, not ever again and certainly not in proximity to Quinn’s.
The connection with Quinn was real, totally unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It felt right. Magical even. He touched the spot on his right hip, just one of the places on his body Etaín had tattooed.
He and Quinn both wore one of her Dragons, though his was smaller. Much, much smaller, and that was not a reflection of penis size, where Quinn’s…
She’d outdone herself there. Fabulous work. Exquisite.
Derrick dried his palms against his jeans for a second time. He should have called ahead instead of just dropping in like this without warning.
He and Quinn had talked on the phone since that glorious night Etaín had introduced them. But then between Quinn’s reunion with a family he hadn’t seen in five years and his needing to be there as his father underwent chemotherapy…
It’d only been days but if felt like months. What if the thing with Quinn was all in his imagination? What if it was only about sex?
The craving for a joint returned. He stifled it with an immediate No!
The last thing he wanted was to smell like reefer today. Quinn hadn’t made an issue of it the other night, but he hardly thought an ex-cop who’d eventually need to get a PI license would want to risk having it all go down the toilet because his boyfriend liked to smoke a little weed from time to time.
Derrick took a sniff at each shoulder then bent his head forward to make sure nothing clung to the leather. Secondhand smoke was a killer.
Enough stalling. He patted his zippered pocket, a nervous gesture since there was no possibility the carefully folded sketches had escaped. Do this for Etaín.
Hah! He knew exactly why she’d sent him here.
Matchmaker! She’d given him this excuse to see Quinn again.
His heart took a dive, settling with a hard crash at the pit of his stomach as a reality bigger than the state of his love life gripped him. Twice in two days she’d nearly disappeared from his life permanently. First the Harlequin Rapist and now this brush with death in front of the shelter.
He hadn’t been sure she’d be at Cathal’s house, not until tall, delicious Mr. Edible made his presence known and tried to send him away. Well, bigger, nastier brutes had attempted it in the past but when something mattered, he had a spine of steel.
Not that Etaín had needed him to rush to her side. She had Cathal and Eamon. They were enough. She didn’t need him—
No!
No! No! No!
That was negative thinking.
He was done with negative thinking. He’d had weeks of negativity. Months even, if he was being honest about the state of his life prior to Quinn.
Strength was his middle name now and because of it, he could face a hard truth. There was a reason Etaín hadn’t fully shared. True, she’d always played things close. It was there in her apartment for everyone to see. No personal touches. Nothing. As if at a moment’s notice she might pick up and leave.
Since he’d known her, she’d been the rock and he’d been just plain pathetic. Some of his choices when it came to men…
He shuddered. Bad. Worse. Horrible. Totally awful.
Well, as of now, that had changed. He was going to be her rock. He was going to help her get the police some information, whether it meant working with Quinn or not. He wasn’t without contacts. He’d found her, hadn’t he? He had access to the records at the tat
too shop and he’d been there when she’d tattooed a lot of her clients.
“Time to pull on the big girl panties,” he said, striding purposely to the dock that would take him to Sean’s boat—and Quinn.
Fourteen
Quinn rolled his shoulders. Christ, he’d forgotten how much he hated sitting at a desk and mentally grinding through mostly irrelevant data as a way of gathering intel.
The Internet search on the Curs MC was a slow, excruciating crawl that had landed him on Facebook more than once. Facebook! There was a reason the jails were full. Call it the stupidity of criminals, though unfortunately nothing had popped that had any relevance to the killing at the Curs hangout.
It’d be so much easier to tap into law enforcement files, even kiss someone’s ass in a different agency, but one of Sean’s sources had gotten back to them with a warning that one wrong move would trip plenty of red flags and cause a shitload of trouble for anyone who didn’t have official cause to be looking into the club.
Didn’t mean it couldn’t be done, but their involvement in this didn’t warrant trashing a contact or leaving anyone hanging out to dry. What they needed was the list of names from Etaín, a place to start, and truth be told, an excuse to move.
He was antsy. Itchy. As if at any moment he just might come right out of his skin.
He didn’t like the feeling even if he understood the source of it. There’d been plenty of down time when he was undercover, but even then he’d been playing angles and pushing limits, living at the sharp edge between life and death.
He’d felt like a soldier in the trenches, especially during the stint in prison. He’d longed for freedom more fiercely than a lot of the inmates, because for him freedom was a call away.
And now, days into that freedom after making the call and having supposedly been shanked by another inmate and bled out, he struggled against the urge to escape the chair in favor of pacing as a swell of frustration and helplessness came. He wasn’t used to not being able to take action, but other than being there for his family, his father’s cancer wasn’t an enemy he could fight. And he hated it. If not for Derrick—
