by ANDREA SMITH
Katy brought over our chili and sandwiches. I was surprised at how hungry I was. We dug in to our food. It was silent for several minutes.
“Okay, my turn,” I said.
Slate stopped spooning chili into his gorgeous, sexy mouth, looking over and cocking an eyebrow at me.
“Have you ever been married?”
“Nope.”
“Engaged?”
“Hardly.”
“In love?”
“That’s enough questions for you; my turn.”
(He’s been in love; otherwise he wouldn’t have had a problem in saying ‘no.’)
“How often is hubby on the road; and for how long?”
“Often. It depends. Why?”
“Just wondering why you always run off afterwards.”
(I knew what he meant, but I was going to have some fun with this.)
“Afterwards? I’m not following you, Slate.”
“The hell you’re not Sunny. You know exactly what I’m talking about; after we fuck.”
The fact that he had to put emphasis on the ‘F’ word totally pissed me off. He sure as hell was making sure I was clear on that.
I shrugged, “Maybe he was home those times, I can’t really recall. I don’t remember you asking me to stay, anyway.”
“That’s not my thing. I don’t want you staying at my apartment when club members can stop by without an invitation.”
“Oh I see; they are allowed to come by without at invite but I am not.”
“That’s right.”
“Then what exactly is the point of your question?”
“Just wondering why you have never suggested your place.”
“Hey Slate, wait a minute there; I believe you were the one that outlined the rules. It was never on the table.”
“So what about now?”
“What about it, Slate? Don’t you think it’s kind of a moot point since you want to sport fuck and I want some feelings in the mix?”
“I never said that I didn’t have feelings for you, Sunny.”
“You never said that you did either, Slate.”
“I’m just not into all that bullshit about feelings and caring; I prefer to let my actions speak for themselves. I treat you good.”
(Compared to what?)
He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled a small box from it. It wasn’t wrapped; he set it on the table and slid it over in front of me. I looked down at it not sure what he expected.
“That’s for you; Happy Valentine’s Day.”
I was in total surprise and awe at this unexpected gesture. I carefully lifted the lid and pulled a beautiful sterling silver, dual chain bracelet from the pillow of cotton. It had a ring and T-shaped skull ends that served to fasten it. It was pure biker jewelry; but it was lovely and I loved it because Slate had given it to me.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said softly, looking up into his eyes. “I mean what does this mean, Slate?”
“It means that I wanted you to have it, Sunny; here let me fasten it for you.”
He put it around my wrist and fastened the clasp.
I fingered the bracelet gently, looking back up at him. “It’s beautiful Slate; thank you.”
I could tell he wasn’t comfortable with the tender moment.
“I gotta make a pit stop; now’s your chance to use the head before we hit the road.”
"I'm good," I replied softly, still looking at my bracelet.
When Slate returned, he paid the bill and we said our ‘good-byes’ to Katy. I climbed back behind him on the bike and we took off. I felt closer to him on the ride back to Indy. Maybe it was because of the brief moment of sweetness he had given me when he presented the bracelet to me at the café. I leaned into him closer; resting my head against his back and felt better than I had in a very long time.
It seemed as if we were back in Indy too soon. I wasn’t sure what Slate had in mind for the rest of the day. It was only around 3:30 in the afternoon. I could see it on a bank clock as we skirted the business section close to his neighborhood.
Slate had stopped for a traffic light at a busy intersection when the sound of thunder seemed to surround us. There were at least six other bikers from OMC that had pulled up alongside and behind us. I could almost feel Slate’s back tense up as he looked over at Taz whose bike was closest.
(Holy hell; what was this about?)
Taz gave him some sort of signal; Slate nodded. When the light changed green, the bikers turned and Slate went straight ahead, pulling down the street to the garage next to his apartment. He parked the bike outside, shutting off the engine.
He helped me remove my helmet; fastening it back onto the rear of the bike.
“Sorry babe; I’ve got to go to the clubhouse. Some unexpected business issues need to be taken care of immediately.”
“What?”
“I need to go; you need to go home.”
“You mean our day together is over?”
“Looks that way; I can’t wait with you until the bus comes. I need to jet now. You’ll be okay, yeah?”
“Of course; don’t worry about me,” I replied snippily, turning from him and heading to the corner.
“Hey,” he shouted after me, “What the fuck is the problem?”
“There is no problem, Slate,” I replied, “I just thought that maybe we were going to . . . “
“Going to what?” He was becoming impatient at my holding him up.
“Never mind,” I snapped, feeling the flush of embarrassment cross my face.
“I’ll be in touch,” he replied, slamming his foot down on the pedal to start the engine again. He lowered his visor and off he went, leaving me standing there totally confused in his wake.
CHAPTER 23
It was two days later before I heard from Slate again. I had been sleeping with my track phone placed on the nightstand; when I wasn’t sleeping, I had it in my pocket on vibrate. I was determined I wasn’t going to miss his next call or text message. Hopefully, there would be a next call or text message. Come hell or high water; we were going to fuck again; my pride be damned!
When my phone vibrated as I was doing laundry, I snatched it up to my face and answered immediately.
“What’cha doing, Diamond?”
(This is weird - what is with ‘Diamond’ instead of ‘Sunny’?)
“Laundry,” I replied flatly. “What’s up?”
“Just wondering if we are still friends?”
“We are,” I stated honestly, “Friends with benefits.”
“What?”
“I’m coming over Slate; we’re going to fuck.”
I heard silence; I could feel his smirk over the phone. I held my breath waiting for him to tell me ‘no.’ I fucking dared him.
“See you soon, babe.”
(Click.)
I flew into ‘prep’ mode as I showered, shaved, inserted my diaphragm, applied make-up, dressed and donned my wig that I had just washed and put into a fancy french braid.
Slate was waiting for me at the bus stop when I arrived; I shamelessly flew into his arms as soon as I stepped down onto the curb.
“I fucking missed you,” I said, “I don’t want to hear shit about it either.”
He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me close as we walked to his apartment.
We were like two savages that hadn’t been fulfilled for months rather than a couple of weeks. I tore at his clothes; he tore at mine. He unceremoniously lifted me from the pile of clothes that had been shed and placed me on his bed. I watched as his gorgeous blue eyes studied the length of me; his desire was evident as my eyes took in every inch of him, noting his full erection bulging from beneath his jeans. He quickly finished discarding the rest of his clothing.
He lowered himself to the bed, gently gathering me into his strong arms where he kissed me softly all over. His lips grazed my lips, my neck, my tummy and my sex. His tongue gently and thoroughly blazed a path from my breasts to my wom
anhood where it lingered, bringing me pleasure I never thought possible. I writhed beneath him; clutching him closer to me; moaning softly as he brought me to near climax.
“What baby?” he asked as he sat back on his haunches watching me in my near frenzy state wanting him inside of me.
“Fuck me now, Slate. I need you now.”
He needed no further encouragement as he freed himself from the confines of his jeans and plunged his very large, very erect cock into me. I moaned in pure pleasure; my hands were on his ass, pulling him in closer and closer.
“That’s it, baby,” I cooed, not caring how bold it sounded. “Fuck me like that Slate; keep it going, baby. This is mine; no one else's."
His rhythm was deep and forceful. I clutched him tighter, rocking back and forth, meeting his thrusts with my own. I heard him moan loudly, saying my name, telling me that I was his forever. I loved it. I wanted it. I only prayed that he meant it.
My mouth was on his; our tongues danced playfully and erotically together; we were in perfect sync.
“God Sunny,” he groaned, his momentum picking up even more. “Oh God, baby.”
He cried out as did I, when the force of our climaxes sent us both spiraling into pure, pleasurable oblivion. Our orgasms seemed to go on forever which was fine with me. I was moaning and telling him how good he made me feel.
“I need you, Slate,” I moaned as we transcended into complete rapture.
It took several minutes for us to wind down after the explosive climaxes we had both enjoyed. Slate had pulled me into his arms that were now wrapped protectively around me. Our breathing returned to normal; his fingers were gently caressing my post-orgasmic skin. My thoughts were returning to normal. Then it dawned on me what I had said to him only moments before.
(Oh shit! He knows now. He knows that I need him. Christ! As if I wasn’t already at his mercy . . .)
I didn’t move; I didn’t say a thing hoping that perhaps he hadn’t heard me. After all, he had been pretty damned caught up in his own climax; maybe it had somehow slipped past him. I could only hope. I didn’t want my admission of how I felt to interfere with our relationship.
I felt his long, lean fingers cup me beneath my chin as he turned my face to meet his; his eyes were even bluer at this moment. Perhaps it had to do with the blood flow increase during orgasm; whatever had caused it, it was hot.
(Oh God. I have fucked up; he is ready to put me in my place yet again.)
I looked into his eyes and I waited for him to say what he had to say to me. I braced myself for the sting of pain I was going to feel when he did.
“I need you too, Sunny.”
He lowered his lips to mine, kissing them very softly; very gently over and over again. Then he pulled me closer to him and we fell asleep entwined together; we were satisfied and content. It was a great feeling for me; one that I had never felt before.
I’m not sure how long we napped before I was awakened by Slate’s phone ringing. He mumbled a sleepy curse as he disengaged himself from me and picked his cell phone up from the nightstand.
“Yeah,” he greeted the caller.
“What time? Uh huh; will Slash be there? What about the inventory discrepancy?”
(Shit! Did I even want to know what this conversation was about? Somehow I felt that if I did I would be an accessory to something . . .)
“Okay. See you in twenty.”
Slate ended the call then turned to look at me. His expression was all business; the tenderness was gone as he smacked my bare behind.
“Time for you to roll on out, Sunny; I have to be somewhere in a few.”
I watched him saunter over to the side of the bed and gather his jeans up off of the floor, pulling them on over his narrow hips and muscular ass.
“Aren’t you even going to wash up?” I asked, feeling myself blush at the question.
“Why would I want to do that?” he asked looking over at me while he zipped up his fly. I was struggling to get my clothes back on.
“I want your scent on me just like I expect you to keep my scent on you, got it?”
I nodded, and then asked, “For how long?”
His mouth broke into a slow smile. “You really are a trip, Diamond Girl.”
Now I felt like he was poking fun at me; I turned away as I finished dressing. By the time I had my boots on, Slate was fully dressed. He was tying his bandana around his head like a ‘do rag.’
“Slate,” I started, “Why do you only wear that when you’re meeting your buddies or on a ride with the club members?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged, “I really don’t care for having something wrapped around my head like that I guess.”
“Well, I mean, isn’t it a requirement or something that it is worn all of the time? I mean I notice that Taz is always wearing his ‘do rag’ whether there are other club members around or not.”
“That’s Taz, babe. He’s living the dream.”
I thought his response was kind of strange - living the dream? Being part of a biker club was ‘living the dream’?
“Aren’t you living the dream, Slate?”
“Sometimes babe; you’re asking a lot of questions. How about we get you going, huh? I can’t wait with you for the next bus; I need to jet.”
“I can stay up here until the bus is due at the stop. I’ll lock up behind me.”
He gave me a sardonic smile. “I don’t think so, babe. I’m not having you snooping around my shit like chicks do and then asking me all kinds of questions. You ask too many as it is.”
I was hurt that Slate didn’t trust me to be alone in his apartment, though he was right, I most definitely would have snooped given the opportunity to do so without the risk of getting caught.
I feigned insult at his comment as I brushed past him and put my jacket on.
“Fine,” I said stiffly, “I’ll just stand down there on that corner and freeze my ass off waiting for the god damn bus.”
“You’ll live,” he chuckled, giving me a swat on the ass as we headed out the door.
He pulled me against him as we reached the sidewalk beneath the stairs. He gave me a fantastic ‘don’t be mad at me’ kiss, tilting my chin up so that I was gazing into his incredibly blue eyes.
“Don’t be mad at me, babe.”
“I’ll think about it,” I replied, rolling my eyes at him. He then got his bike from the garage and sped off, giving me a wave. I walked the half block to the bus stop and waited. The sun was out; it wasn’t all that cold today or maybe it was. I was still feeling the warmth of having Slate wrapped around me in his bed; feeling the warm flush of my skin against his; savoring his scent that was still part of me.
I was still in my totally satiated, dreamlike glow when I walked into the entry hall of my house and was greeted by a very cold and very angry Jack. It took him all of five seconds to see by my long haired wig and excess make-up that I had been up to no good.
“Well - I see that my ‘whore’ of a wife has decided to come home; no doubt with another man’s stench on her. Come here, Sammie.”
My defense mechanisms were kicking in heavy duty now. Jack had trapped me, which meant that he had been suspicious of something; but what and how? I quickly thought back replaying the last few months in my mind. I could think of nothing I had done that would have made him suspicious.
Perhaps it was something that I hadn’t done.
The only thing that I could think of was that I no longer bothered him for sex; in fact, most of the time I tried not to sleep in the same bed with him. Surely, he had to have attributed that to the whole ‘raping of the whore’ debacle, though.
He was moving toward me with a menacing look on his face.
“You’re wondering how I knew, right?”
“It’s not what you think, Jack,” I stammered, slowly backing away from him. “I’ve been pole dancing - that’s all.”
“You’ve been doing a hell of a lot more than that,” he spat, his lip curling up in dista
ste. “Why do you think I introduced you to Susanne?”
(Huh? What the hell does Susanne have to do with any of this?)
He was prepared to answer that question with his next statement.
“Susanne is much more than my administrative assistant. Susanne looks after my interests when I can’t. I know about everything you’ve been up to and including the fuckfest you’ve been having with that fucking biker named ‘Slash.’
(‘Slash’? What the hell? Where did Susanne come up with that?)
I didn’t have time to ponder that before Jack’s fist came forcefully in contact with my face, the swift blow knocking me into darkness.
CHAPTER 24
When I came to I was laid out across our bed in the master suite. The contents of my purse had been emptied out onto the bed. No doubt Jack had rifled through everything trying to find out what else I may have been up to over the past few months. Thank God, I had left my track phone in the drawer of my night stand.
My head was pounding; my mouth was dry as I sat up and placed my fingers on the knot I had right under my left eye socket. I dreaded looking into the mirror fearing the worst. I was going to do exactly what Slate had instructed me to do. It was time to text him a ‘Code Red.’
I struggled to sit up; I felt groggy. I opened the drawer of the nightstand, my hand feeling around for the phone.
“Is this what you’re looking for Sammie?”
I was startled by Jack’s menacing voice as he came into the room. He was holding my track phone in his hand. He had a snide look on his face as if he was always one step ahead of me. Maybe he had been.
“I take it this is how you and ‘Slash’ communicate?”
I nodded, swallowing nervously.
“Is it usually by text or by voicemail?”
“Text,” I whispered hoarsely.
“Okay then. Guess what? You’re going to send him a text right now. I’ll compose it if you don’t mind. Looks like you’re in love with the piece of trash. I like your pet name for him by the way, ‘asshole’, huh?”
“I think you’ve officially won that title now, Jack.”
“Ooh, gotten kind of lippy now since you’ve been fucking a biker, I guess.”
“You don’t know shit about ‘Slash’ and me,” I said, laughing at how truthful that statement was.
