Lariat

by Marata Eros

  “Ah!” I scream, but Lariat doesn’t stop or let up.

  My throbbing, wet pussy convulses around his pumping finger. His tongue presses against my clit, and the hand that is holding my butt cheeks moves perilously closer to the bud of my ass.

  I try to say no—stop—it’s too much. But I feel another beauty of an orgasm building, so I’m robbed of speech. Instead, I lie there with a man I don’t know filling the cavities of my body with flesh and pleasure.

  When his thumb dips into my back opening, and his other finger sinks deep, he gives a single hard flick over my clit with his tongue.

  I crest again, exploding into a thousand pieces of acute pleasure that’s almost pain. My fingertips go numb, and light dances in the periphery of my vision.

  Lariat’s face is suddenly in front of mine.

  I smell myself on him.

  He presses his lips to my mouth and kisses me so deeply, we’re like one body of movement together.

  His erection seats between my legs, slipping on the wetness he made.

  “Say yes. Tell me to fuck you,” he breathes.

  I wrap my legs around his hips, and with thought born only of emotion, I reply, “Fuck me, Lariat.”

  He throws his head back and plunges his length inside. When he’s halfway in, I realize I didn’t get a really good look at him.

  He’s huge.

  “You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

  My happy female bits give a single squeeze, and he shoves himself a little further inside of me, stretching and pressing.

  I writhe, trying to catch more of him, deeper—faster.

  “Stop! Fuck, Angel, I can’t last. You fit me like a glove.”

  “So good,” I whisper and hike my hips just as he rocks forward. His cock finally comes to the end of me, seated as deeply as a man and woman can be.

  We throb together, and he rises above me in a classic push-up position. Lariat’s eyes search my face, then he does something unexpected—he takes a single strand of hair that is crossed over the bridge of my nose and smooths it away, slowing the moment.

  Then he kisses each eyebrow.

  My lids flutter shut.

  The softest press of lips falls against each lid, and I sigh.

  His cock leaves me, and my eyes fly open at its sudden absence. Lariat smiles, sheathing himself again in a thick, sliding press.

  I tip my head back, and my eyes roll upward.

  His hands cup my ass, lifting me, and he pumps deeply.

  “Oh God, yes—fuck me.”

  I open my eyes and look into the darkness of his gaze. Lariat’s stomach muscles bunch and clench as he rides my body on his knees, gripping my hips and plunging in.

  When his rhythm speeds, I seamlessly rise to meet him, our eyes locked.

  “Gonna come,” he says in a hoarse whisper.

  I squeeze my legs around his hips and shout my orgasm into the room. My only thought is of his delicious seed spreading deep.

  The cords of his neck stand out as he throws his head back. I can’t help but notice his beauty as a male.

  Our beauty together.

  The vision causes joy and anguish.

  I come down from my multiple orgasms in floating pieces of ecstasy, like feathers that never land.

  Lariat lays his body on top of mine like a blanket of protection.

  We fit. I give a delighted shiver, and he presses me closer.

  I don’t allow myself intimacy, but I allow myself this moment.

  And it’s enough.

  *

  Lariat runs his calloused hand from the tip of my shoulder to the valley of my waist then to the swell of my hip. He wraps his fingers around the rise and bone.

  Then he continues the journey over and over.

  I tremble from his touch.

  Though he’s a raw guy, he’s apparently too good of a man to point out that I said I wouldn’t sleep with him and did anyway.

  Yeah. Smooth, Angel.

  My silence is complete, and we lie together comfortably, not like the one-night stand we are but scarily as much more.

  I can’t let assumptions play out. I have to come clean. I doubt Lariat wants more, but I have to bury any potential.

  “I—”

  His hand folds over my mouth, while his free hand cups my sex.

  I suck in a breath and smell him—the sex we had and the subtle smell of soap on his skin. “Don’t talk. Don’t ruin this.”

  I close my eyes as his fingers find my moist center, wet with my arousal and wet with his cum.

  I kiss the hand against my mouth, and his fingers drop away.

  “I have to be honest here, Lariat.”

  He chuckles. “Feelinʼ like we’ve been plenty honest.”

  Heat climbs my face, and I’m intensely glad he can’t see my blush.

  I feel on fire… alive. For so many different reasons.

  Lariat falls away from me. His slick fingers trail over my side, and my chest tightens with the urge to cry. I don’t know why I’m getting so emotional.

  Oh yeah, it might have to do with my stressful occupation and the fear of reprisal I live under constantly.

  “I love having sex with you,” I say.

  “But,” he drawls, knotting his fingers underneath his head.

  I hear the biting sarcasm in that one word, hating that it’s there, hating that I put it there.

  “I’m not into relationships.”

  “Perfect. Me either.” He answers instantly. “We can just fuck.”

  Here’s the hard part. “I don’t keep fucking,” I admit slowly.

  Lariat rolls over, and he’s half on me before I take my next breath. His leg pins me to the bed.

  I grip his hard biceps. God, he’s hot.

  Menace is not part of his hold on me, only the promise of more of him inside more of me.

  The potential drenches my pussy. I’m already sore from his size and his enthusiasm, which I loved.

  But if he said the word, I would go again. Sex doesn’t count as two times if it’s twice in one night. That’s what I tell myself, at least.

  Lariat grasps my face with both hands, holding me still. “We are not stopping at one night. Do you know how fucking rare it is to have two people who can make each other feel that way?”

  His black eyes are intense, and his words are frighteningly accurate.

  I nod at his truth. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “Both,” I whisper.

  Lariat moves away from my body, and I’m cold without him.

  After several minutes pass, he says, “Get some shut eye. I’ll get ya home in the morning.”

  His weight leaves the bed, and he pads naked from the bedroom, softly closing the door behind him.

  I stare at the solid barrier of wood for a long time.

  Sleep finally comes, but it’s not restful.

  Chapter 6

  Lariat

  God damn.

  I charge out the front door, naked and not giving one fuck… any fucks.

  I want a smoke so bad that I can taste the acrid flavor on my tongue. I gave cancer sticks up when I separated from the navy. I’m not going to start up now.

  ʼCuz of a bitch.

  Yeah.

  You’re a dumb sonaofabitch, Lariat.

  I pace the expansive front porch of my borrowed accommodations, loving the solitude.

  Or I did love the solitude before I decided to be all white knight and shit and save Miss Prissy.

  I peg my hands on my hips, and my fingers shake some. Angel has me worked up.

  I’ve never been with a woman that turned me inside out like she does. Angel took charge, and I let her.

  She felt right in my hands, soft but lithe, pliable, meant to be held by me. Usually, I don’t like tall chicks, but she fits me.

  I chuckle. And that pussy strangles my cock in the best way possi
ble.

  I shake my head, plunking my ass down on whatever surface will have me. I’ll probably get splinters in my ass, but I don’t care. I swipe a hand through my short hair and plant my face in my hands.

  How did things get this fucked up? How does a chick call the shots in a matter of hours?

  She says she won’t sleep with me then does. Best fuck of the century. Better than that, even. I felt something. It snuck up on me—feeling.

  A ton of time has passed since I felt anything but numb. I’ve been too busy trying to forget the bad shit I did, that we all did.

  My mind tries to travel that familiar pathway to the night when Noose and I got intel.

  That intel had me killing kids. Kids with guns, but still kids.

  The goat farmer we’d been ordered to wax had been Al-Qaeda.

  Noose had knotted his ass, deservedly.

  My hands quake with the memories. I press my fist to my cheek, biting the inside in an old nervous habit. It’s a gesture I thought I’d lost.

  I’m too fucking soft. That’s my problem. Noose and I have never seen eye to eye on the fucking issue.

  His words haunt me in the dark on Viper’s porch.

  “Fuck them.” He’d glared at me, and I know it hadn’t been in anger, just sheer frustration over the horrible circumstances. “Those ʻkidsʼ would’ve been Al-Qaeda the instant they could run. They had no choice. They never had a choice.”

  His light gray eyes had narrowed on me. “Just like you had no choice.”

  Their small bodies had jumped and danced in the pale silver moonlight, illuminating their deaths forever.

  That dance continues to replay, burnt into my memory.

  The men I served with tell me the women they committed to help them live without the constant ghost of violence hanging in their heads like a noxious vapor. Noose, Wring, even Snare, have all fallen to the almighty pussy whip.

  I’m the only holdout.

  I don’t know if I can believe them, that there would be any reprieve from my fucked-up thoughts. But for an hour or two tonight, I wasn’t in my head.

  That time had been spent with Angela Monroe.

  I chuckle. Can’t fuck her twenty-four hours a day to forget. But the potential to have some kind of existence free of the lingering foulness of my deeds is a sweet motivator.

  However, Angel says she just fucks. One time.

  Makes me think she’s as slutty as any sweet butt that shoves her snatch and tits in our faces at the club.

  What makes Angel any better?

  Everything. That single revelation weaves sorrowfully through my mind.

  I’m so fucked.

  But I’m not begging. That’ll be the day when I have to convince a bitch that she needs to be with me.

  Standing, I stretch, lightly tapping the solid wood porch ceiling with my fingertips.

  Dawn spreads icy fingers of white light over the forest and hills that surround the lone cabin. The woodland appears to breathe awake with a pale light frosted by gold.

  My eyes hunt the hills, remembering another country with mounds of sand and heat. The land was so dry, thinking of one’s own saliva could make a man thirsty.

  I shake the cloying memory off as a board creeks behind me.

  I whirl, crouching as my arms swing in a semicircle.

  It’s Angel, looking like her namesake. She stands there, wearing only my black Road Kill MC T-shirt.

  Her nipples pebble against the dark fabric in the chill of early morning.

  Just like that, I want to fuck her again.

  My dick betrays me, sticking out like a divining rod toward water.

  Angel doesn’t look down but at my face, searching the residual expressions left behind from my thoughts. “What is it?”

  Fuck. I hold back a shudder. She sees me. I can’t have that. I shut down my expression, thinking of a few choice torture events.

  Losing the boner, I gain my frozen exterior back.

  “Nothing, why?” I bark, more harshly than I mean to.

  Angel shrugs warily, appearing to sense my mood. “I don’t know.” She looks away, her eyes traveling the same scene mine just went over. “You seemed a little lost is all.”

  Angel has to go before she unravels secrets I don’t even know I have.

  I swing a hard smirk. “I’m naked, not lost.”

  Her eyes swing back and roam my body. When she’s through with her slow perusal, her chartreuse eyes lock with mine. “You’re beautiful, Lariat. Truly.”

  I grunt. I hate the compliment, but I crave it. Which makes me hate it all over again.

  I ignore her words, shouldering past her into the cabin. I gather my jeans from the couch where I dumped them and stalk into the room where we just fucked.

  My eyes flick to the door.

  The bed is made as though we were never in it. My cut is laid out on top.

  “You made the bed.” My voice is utterly empty. Is she trying to erase our time together?

  I pivot, facing her, prepared to be angry, and she’s right there, close enough to touch.

  Angel nods. “Yes.”

  My hands ball into fists. “You ashamed of being with me?”

  She frowns as if the question is stupid. “Never.”

  My hands unclench, and my shoulders drop. Maybe I’ve gauged shit wrong. That would be rare. I’m pretty fucking good at understanding undertones. I’ve needed to be.

  Her hand rises, and I snatch it before she can touch me. What I really want to do is kiss its center until she melts against me.

  “I’ll take ya home now.”

  My eyes move to our hands, my hold on hers. Her hand is so small in mine. I release her.

  Angel gives me a sad little smile that makes me wonder. But her words were clear. I don’t remember everything she said word for word. But the gist of it is that she fucks. Once. Then she boots the guy to the curb.

  And Lariat is not going to be yesterday’s trash.

  She nods, looks down at her bare legs, and walks back into the bedroom. When she comes out a couple of minutes later, her skirt is back in place and her wrecked blouse is in her hand.

  Angel lifts her blouse. “Guess this is kaput.”

  My smile is genuine. “Yeah.” I kind of feel as though fate brought us together, at least for the night. I really want to regret her.

  But I can’t.

  Best sex I ever had. Or maybe it was the best connection.

  I’m not going to analyze the difference.

  *

  We pull up to Garcia’s Bar and Grill in the bright light of Sunday morning. Everything looks whitewashed, glaring back at us. The magic of the bar and how we met is overshadowed by what Tommy did. Angel’s side will hold bruises for a couple of weeks. Her face has a shiner just offset from her left eye.

  I scan the parking lot a second time. Tommy’s gone like I knew the sack of shit would be.

  Her car’s not. My eyes widen. Too bad it’s completely fucked.

  Angel seems shell-shocked, taking in the tiny tin can she calls a car. Her fingertips bite into the seat on either side of where she sits.

  I throw the truck into park and hop out. My eyes seek the corners of the parking lot a third time, assessing.

  I stride to the passenger door and open it.

  Angel looks down at me, her eyes shining with tears. Tough girl. If she loved her car, I wouldn’t know it.

  “You okay?” My voice is gruff. I don’t want her to get the wrong impression—that I give a shit. It’s still a tough break, though. She got her ass kicked, and her ride is fucked.

  She gives a single nod, and a stubborn, fat tear slides down her cheek. Just one.

  Scrubbed free of makeup, her face is even more beautiful—not classically, like some made-up model, but real beauty.

  She slides out of the truck and walks, uncaring of her bare feet, to the driver’s side.

  A hole about the size of a fist is plugged through the driver’s side window. The size looks
like it would fit the end of a bat to me.

  Angel’s laugh sounds like brittle glass falling.

  I wince at the sound.

  “Fuck,” she says softly. The curse word sounds wrong coming from her mouth in this context. It didn’t so much when we were sexing it up at the cabin.

  My gaze travels the length of the car. There’s no driving this vehicle anywhere. All four tires are slashed, and the window is the least of the abuse.

  “This is just perfect.” Angel swipes angrily at another tear. “I’m beat up, my car’s unusable, and I have court this week.”

  “Hello,” I say from the peanut gallery, lifting an arm in the air like a student waiting for the teacher to notice him.

  Angel whirls, and I throw up my other arm to join the first. “Thinking work might not matter when you’re considering the alternative.” I slap my arms against my sides.

  Angel puts her hands on her hips. She looks hot when she’s in a rage.

  I smirk.

  She stomps over to where I stand and pokes me in the chest.

  “Don’t be poking me, Angel.” My voice is low and dangerous.

  Her eyes flash like flames. “Don’t laugh at my situation.”

  “Not laughing.” I capture her finger and suck it into my mouth.

  Her lips part.

  I move it back and forth, fucking her finger like I did her sweet pussy just hours ago.

  The pupils in Angel’s golden-green eyes dilate.

  “Thinking you should be taking things slow”—smack, suck, lick—“instead of flying around like a target.”

  I release her finger, and her hand drops limply by her side. She blinks up at me then covers her face as though she’s hiding. “I can’t do this anymore. I want to be decent, be the good guy.”

  “Girl,” I correct automatically.

  She nods, wiping her nose, which is now red with snot and tears.

  “But these idiots keep trying to intimidate me. They’re never going to succeed.”

  “They will if you’re dead,” I say quietly.

  Her gaze meets mine. “Do you think they would really kill me? While their dumb godfather cools his heels in jail?”

  Fear takes up residency in my gut. “Yup.”

  She crosses her arms, leaning away from me.

  Here we go.

  “And what do you know about mob stuff, Big Bad Biker?”