by Kim Jones
Heavy blue eyes look down at me. His breath comes in short, shallow pants between parted lips. I open wider. Take him a little deeper. He’s big, so I take it slow. Using my tongue to make up for not being able to take more of him. But he’s not complaining. Although he is struggling with the lack of control. Hands clenching and unclenching as he watches me. Nostrils flaring. Chest heaving. Body rigid.
He tastes better than ice cream. Even better than wine. The power I have over him is thrilling. Toxic. Addictive. I see why he loves it so much. Why he doesn’t want to give it up. Why he’s fighting to let me continue. But as exciting as this moment is, it’s not nearly as gripping as when he’s running the show.
“Tell me what to do,” I say, stroking my hand up and down his length.
“What you’re doin’ feels pretty fuckin’ good, gorgeous.” The hoarse whisper makes me want to shove my hand in my panties. I want him to talk more. Say something dirty. Force his cock down my throat. Treat me like a greedy little slut. I don’t know where the urge comes from, but just the thought has me whimpering.
“Tell me,” I beg, dropping my hands to my lap as I look up at him with wide eyes. His heavy, fully erect cock sits mere inches from my face. I have to bite my cheek to keep from licking it.
Recognition flickers in his gaze. His lids grow heavier with lust. I’m not sure how he so easily reads me, but the man knows my body. My mind. My wants. Especially when it comes to sex.
He slowly becomes the dominant, self-assured, nipple hardening, thigh clenching god he usually is. Tension fades from his face. Breath evens. Shoulders relax. Power exudes him. He radiates confidence. His eyes darken to a midnight blue. Ohmylordhavemercy.
“Take your hair down.” His words are like velvet. Their texture sending goosebumps up my arms. I’m so stunned by their effect, it takes me a moment to get my muscles to comply.
Leaning back on my haunches, I pull the band from my hair and shake out the long locks. My heart is hammering. Sex dripping. Impatiently waiting for his next demand. “Sit up and put your hands behind your back.” I nearly break my elbows jerking them behind me, surprised that I don’t fall face first into his crotch as I sit up. If he wasn’t in “dominant” mode, he would smile. I wonder if I should refer to him as master…
His hands slide up the sides of my neck and cup my cheeks. “I hope it’s me you’re thinking so hard about.” Oh if he only knew. “Open your mouth, gorgeous. Let me give you something a little harder to think on.” I’m salivating as my eyes move to his massive erection. Just standing there. Waiting to be tortured by my tongue.
Cook sweeps my hair into his hands, fisting it at the back of my head as he teases my lips with his cock. “Wider,” he demands. My jaw opens to the point of pain. Saliva immediately begins to build in the corner of my mouth. “Good girl.” Son of a…
He pushes inside, slowly working his cock in and out. It’s thick. Filling. Gliding smoothly over my tongue. Between my lips. He thrusts deeper and I try to pull away. His grip on my hair tightens.
“Relax.” Shallowing his strokes, he caresses my cheek with his free hand. His gentle touch instantly smothers the well of panic building in my chest. “I’m not going to hurt you. Understand?” I attempt a nod. “Trust me.” I already trust him. Why else would I be in such a vulnerable position with a cock the size of a Lincoln in my mouth? One hard jerk of his hips could paralyze me.
“Loosen your throat muscles.” How the hell does one do that?
I try it anyway, and surprisingly, it works. He thrusts deeper again and this time I don’t feel like I’m choking to death. “Breathe through your nose.” I do and he pushes further inside me.
My eyes water, but I don’t move away. Because even through my cloudy vision, I can see his reaction.
As he rhythmically plunges in and out of my mouth, that control begins to slip. The muscle in his jaw ticks. There’s a tiny wrinkle between his brows. His breathing matches my own. I feel his hand tighten in my hair. He picks up speed. Forcing me to take him. Fucking my mouth.
Desire shakes me. My fingers twitch to touch myself. To rub through the wetness pooling between my thighs. But I’d rather he touch me there. So I fist my hands. Focus on my breathing. On pleasing him. Sucking him. Keeping my jaw slack. Mouth wide.
My throat is numb. Eyes watery. Burning from keeping them open and on him. My knees hurt. Shoulders ache. Hair pulled tight to the point of pain. And I’ve never been hornier. Felt more alive. Been given such an impassioned stare. Suffered a more rewarding moment.
“I don’t want to come in your mouth.” His voice rumbles through me. I moan my protest. His hips jerk harder, silencing me. “I want to be deep inside you when I do. I want to fuck you harder than this.” He pulls out, but allows me to kiss and lick him a moment. Pleasure him at my own pace. Then he tugs my hair, forcing me to my feet.
My head tilted back, eyes still on him, I wipe my mouth and chin with my hand before dropping it. He drags his thumb over my swollen lips. “This mouth...” I fist his cut in my hands, leaning my body into him. “Now I want to feel that sweet cunt.” I grind my pelvis against his thigh. “I bet that motherfucker is so wet…”
Mr. Delicious is Mr. Mercurial tonight. He’s been thoughtful. Funny. Subservient. Dominant. And the explosion of heat in his eyes gives way to the next phase:
Beast mode.
He spins us so he’s behind me. I’m bent at the waist. Chest and stomach splayed across the island. Then his hand is out of my hair. Impatiently tearing at my pants. Forcing them to my knees. I hear the tear of a condom. A light smack to my bare ass.
“Legs spread,” he says darkly. I widen them as much as I can with my pants at my knees. He drags his fingers between my thighs. “Fuck, Carmen.” I shudder at his words. How he says my name. How clearly he’s affected by me. My pussy. Arousal. Desire. For him.
“Ah!” I cry out as he surges inside me. Filling me as he had my mouth, but deeper. Harder. Just like he promised.
His hands are on my hips. Pulling me to him as he shoves inside me. Pounding me. His thighs hammering against mine. A wicked slapping sound filling the room. The city. Notifying everyone of what we’re doing. They might think he was beating the hell out of me if my moans of pleasure weren’t topping the chart on the Richter scale.
“Come, gorgeous. I need you coming right now.” The build is teasing. Or confused. The impalement is too overwhelming. The drive overpowering. And he’s too overanxious.
“No,” I pant. “More. I want more.”
“Greedy girl…” But he gives me more. I didn’t know he had it in him. I thought he was giving me all he had. I was wrong. He barks out commands and I scramble to obey.
“On your elbows. Hollow your back. Lift that sweet little ass for me.” All of this is said and done without him slowing stride, making it a little bit difficult and a whole lot worth it.
My feet are lifted from the floor. The moment they’re in the air, the fuse inside me is lit. He’s found that place deep within my walls that’s elusive to everyone but him. “Still want more, gorgeous?” he asks, his tone just as sexy as it is playful.
I’d answer, but I’m too busy imploding. Dying a beautiful death. Floating to the heavens. Slicing through the clouds like butter. Coming up with ridiculous sayings in my head to try and describe the indescribable.
Sprawled across the island, I shudder when he stills inside me. It’s like gasoline to a flame. Triggering the aftershocks of an orgasm I thought was over. I just lay here and let it crash through me. Immobile. High. Probably from those drugs he’s been slipping me.
“I’ve worked all day,” I mutter, once I find my voice. My sanity. Gravity. “Probably should’ve showered first.” I guess hindsight really is twenty-twenty. Thirty minutes ago, it never occurred to me that I might smell like a goat.
“Waffles and Carmen. It’s hotter than you think,” he teases, his voice becoming more distant with every word. I hear the toilet flush then his voice again—lulling me
to sleep. The voice. Not the toilet. “Besides. It’s gonna take more than an eight hour shift to mask your sweet aroma.”
“Sixteen.”
“Hmm?” he asks, lifting my limp body into his arms.
“I worked a sixteen-hour shift.” The reminder has me yawning as he carries me to my room. Pants at my ankles. Modesty out the window.
“Damn. You off tomorrow?”
“Nope.” He sits me on the bed and before I can kick my shoes off, he’s kneeling to remove them. “This was day three. I have two more left.”
“Of sixteen-hour shifts?” His tone is incredulous.
“Yep.” I fall back on the bed. Physically exhausted. Mentally drained. Completely sated.
Voice low and serious, he asks, “Do you need money, Carmen?” His kindness stirs something in my chest. I quickly dismiss it.
“I won’t by the time the week is up.”
He’s silent as he removes my pants. Straddles me. Pulls my shirt over my head. Unclasps my bra. Frames my face with his hands. I can feel his heated stare, demanding I open my eyes and meet it. I do. And I don’t like what I see.
“Don’t feel sorry for me, Cook. Like I told you before, my independence means something to me. If I have to work my ass off to keep it, I will.” Respect drowns the pity from his oceanic eyes. He’s thoughtful a moment longer before he smiles.
“So no time for a date this week?” I shake my head, feeling a sense of relief knowing I won’t have to do that anymore. Now that I’ve moved on from Jud, what’s the point? “Cheer up, buttercup,” Cook says, and I realize I’m frowning. “I got you something to remind you of what you’re missing.” He winks. My eyes narrow. “Just in case you get lonely.”
Sliding gracefully from the bed, he tucks my legs under the covers then pulls them up to my neck. He kisses me sweetly, his big hand cupping my jaw. Straightening, he cuts off the lamp and turns to leave. “See you soon, gorgeous.”
“Wait!” I call, struggling to sit up. Pausing mid-stride, he looks over his shoulder. “What did you get me?” I drop my head and fidget with the covers. “You know … in case I get lonely.” My mind goes crazy with the possibilities--a puppy. Life size poster of him. Mixed tape full of his dirty talk to masturbate to.
But then I catch his smile. That shit-eating grin he wears when he’s about to say something to piss me off. And as always, he manages to do just that.
“Bologna.”
Pops’ Bartender Kat
“Carmen please come,” Kat begs, pausing to tell someone to “hang the fuck on.” I glance at the clock behind the dishwasher. It’s barely ten.
“What are you doing at the bar this early?” I ask, spraying off one of the millions of dirty plates from the morning rush.
“I’m not at the bar.”
“Well who are you telling to hang on?”
“This bitch at McDonalds. One sec, Carmen.”
I smirk, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as she continues to yell.
I’ve been on the phone with Kat for only a minute. In those sixty seconds, she’s asked me three times if I’d be her date to a river party. It’s for one of the guys in the MC I’ve never met or even heard of. The event is being held on a private piece of land on the Calcasieu river in Lake Charles. I’d declined her offer the first two times, but she just isn’t getting the hint.
“You still there?”
“Still here.”
“Hate this place,” she mumbles. “But they have the best damn orange juice. Anyway, will you go?”
“I’m tired, Kat. Saturday is my first day off in a week and I just want to relax.” Tired is an understatement. I’ve been dragging all day. I still have twelve hours to go. Then sixteen more tomorrow. Next time I get hard up for money, I’ll prostitute.
“You can relax. I even bought you a lounge chair. Besides, you need some sun.”
“I’m really not in the partying mood.” Even as I say the words, I can feel the sun kissing my skin. Cold drink in my hand. Water lapping at my feet.
“Nobody is really partying. It’s just a nice, quiet get together.” I’m still on the fence. Sleep sounds just as appealing as a day in the sand. As if she can sense my apprehension, she sweetens the deal. “I’m makin’ those margaritas you love.”
I groan, thinking of how delicious one would be right now. At ten in the morning. “Can I think about it?”
“No. I want you there. And you’ve spent the past two months going on dates that I set up for you. After all the work I’ve put in, you owe me.”
“You got paid. Fifty bucks a date, if I remember correctly.”
She smacks her gum loudly. “That’s beside the point. Please?” Her whine would be annoying if I didn’t find it so humorous. And so unlike her.
Nervously chewing my lip, I try to find the courage to tell her I’m not particularly thrilled about seeing any of the Eagles. I may be over Jud and “the plan,” but I’m not ready to hang out with him and his new fiancé. Or his estranged brothers.
“Kat … I really don’t want to see Jud right now,” I say, figuring it’s the simplest explanation that doesn’t require additional reasons.
“Don’t worry. He won’t be there. None of the Eagles will. It’s a Devil’s Renegades party. Only club members and property will be there. Oh, and a select chosen few which includes me. And I’m inviting you.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, I agree. I try and tell myself the reason for my sudden change of heart is that The Eagles’ won’t be there. But really, it’s because Devil’s Renegades Prospect Cook, will be.
Forty-eight hours later, I’m stumbling down a steep slope with a chair, beach bag and sun hat in one hand and one side of a cooler in the other. When we finally make it to the river, a million freakin’ years later, we find the sand bank filled with people.
Tents are scattered across the wide strip of land. Grills are smoking. Rock music blaring. Men laughing. Women sunbathing. Kids playing. A nice, quiet get together my ass.
“Who’s party is this again?” I ask Kat as we head toward an unoccupied spot near the water.
“Glen. That’s his place up there.” She points in the direction of the cabin we’d seen on our way in. “He’s another one of the original Devil’s Renegades.”
“Like Ronnie?”
“Yep.” I collapse on the cooler, my arms and legs aching from carrying the damn thing, as she closes her eyes and pulls in a deep breath. “I’ve so needed this. I’m not even gonna socialize. If they wanna speak, they can come to me.” Good thing. It would take her all day to greet everyone. Considering there’s probably a hundred people here.
Shedding my sweaty tank, I stand and push my cutoffs down my legs. When Kat pulls her sundress off revealing a modest, black one piece, I fight the urge to cover myself. Feeling like a complete slut in my mint colored, bombshell bandeau top and matching cheeky bikini bottoms.
I’m digging for the crotchet tunic in the bottom of my beach bag when she notices me. “Oooh. Cute suit.”
I glance at her over my shoulder. “You don’t think it’s too slutty?”
“Asks the Patchwhore?” she teases, giving me a smirk. “Girl please. The only reason I’m wearin’ this shit is because Glen is like a father to me. Respect thing, I guess. Besides, look around.” She motions toward the women scattered across the beach. “You don’t see anyone else shyin’ away from showin’ skin.”
She’s right. Most of the women wear tiny bikinis similar to mine. The only difference is the air of confidence surrounding them. Even though not everyone has the slimmest or most fit body, they walk with poise—head held high. Classy in their own way. It’s admirable.
It doesn’t take long for me to gain a certain level of confidence myself. Granted it could be Kat’s margaritas, but soon, I’m lounging back in my chair. Sun on my skin. Feet in the water. Drink in my hand. Enjoying the company of two women who’ve joined us. Our chairs are partially submerged in the water in a semi-circle, facing the
sun and beach.
The women are from a chapter out of Mississippi. I was intrigued to find out one is the infamous Dallas Knox-Carmical, owner of Knox Realty—the largest Real Estate agency in the south. My father has actually done business with her. But what was really fascinating was learning that she’s also the wife of Devil’s Renegades President, Luke Carmical aka LLC, Mississippi. Small world.
I’m mindlessly listening to their chatter about people I don’t know when Red, the other ol’ lady from Mississippi, mentions a name I know all too well. “Cook’s body belongs on the cover of Men’s Fitness magazine. Or GQ. He’s like a younger version of Luke. But hotter.”
“Hey!” Dallas, snaps. “Luke’s still hot.”
Red shakes her head. “Yeah, but not that hot. I mean…” She sighs. “Just look at him.”
Their voices fade as I scan the beach in search of Cook. It’d only been three days since I last saw him or talked to him, yet it feels like weeks. When my eyes finally find him, I liquefy at the sight. Today, he’s not a Prospect. No leather. No jeans. Just low slung, black swim trunks. Chiseled, bare chest. Muscular legs. Dark shades. Backwards hat. Drink in hand. And … son of a bitch… flip flops.
“ … I could kill that bitch for doing that to him … ” My attention snaps back to the conversation at Red’s words.
“Doing what? Who?” I’m asking questions I have no business asking. But I’m too damn nosey to care.
“Elise. His ex. She fucked his brother. His real brother. Blood kin brother.” My heart sinks as Red continues. “Then the dirty skank showed up at Cook’s father’s funeral with his brother, wearing his dead mother’s engagement ring. Crying and making a scene. Going on and on about how he was just like a dad to her. Greedy bitch. She did it all for the money.”
“Money?” I ask, unable to pull my eyes from Cook as he stops to speak to a few men.
“Yep. His dad was a wealthy man. You wouldn’t know it by the way he lived. He was conservative. Believed in hard work. When he got sick, rumor had it Cook’s older brother was to inherit everything. Elise smelled money. So she made sure to sink her teeth into the brother who would benefit the most.”
