Wicked Need

by Sawyer Bennett

  Wicked Need

  (The Wicked Horse Series Book #3)

  By Sawyer Bennett

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright (c) 2016 by Sawyer Bennett Published by Big Dog Books

  ISBN: 978-1-940883-43-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Rand

  I walk through The Silo, turning off the lights behind me as I go. Normally, this would fall to Bridger or Cain, but neither is around tonight. Bridger is attending a party out at the compound for the Mayhem's Mission motorcycle club, which translates into fucking some free pussy unassociated with The Silo. While this is Bridger's baby, I get the feeling that his "duties" here wear on him sometimes.

  There are times it seems he actually hates "servicing" some people, but maybe I'm trying to read something into the situation that isn't there. Regardless, he's not here and neither is Cain.

  He just flew back from Tennessee today, and he's shacked up with Sloane. I'm sure he's still hammering out the necessary apologies that woman deserves from him.

  Cute couple though. I figured out of all of us dudes, he'd be one of the last to drop given his history with Rachel, but what the fuck do I know? I'm definitely unlucky in love, but I'm okay if it never comes my way again. I've got friends, a great job, and all the kinky fuckery I could ever imagine.

  I snicker to myself, thinking about that.

  Kinky fuckery.

  Some chick said that the other night while Logan and I were both doing her, and we thought it was hilarious. She said it was a term in one of her favorite books, but whatever.

  It totally describes what happens within the walls of this circular building.

  I make my way down the short hallway to the exit, flipping down the switch of the sconce lighting and pushing open the door. The air is crisp and smells refreshing. Cleans the soul kind of good because sometimes when I walk out of The Silo, I feel like I'm tainted by the things I do.

  But again, whatever. I might feel dirty at times, but some of the shit I dip my wick into also feels fucking amazing.

  I pull the door closed and ensure the lock is engaged. Security's become more important now than ever given that fuckwad Colton Stokes blabbed his mouth. Of course, on one hand, you could say it was a good thing because it brought Sloane Preston to our neck of the woods. Not only was she a fantastic fuck, and I hope Cain lets me in on that again, but it's also made my buddy super happy. So maybe Colton just deserved an ass whipping instead of the murder I'd like to dole out to him for threatening our existence.

  The parking lot is nearly deserted, The Wicked Horse having closed about an hour ago. The Silo is technically open twenty-four/seven for any members who want to get debauched, but the bartenders go off duty at the same time The Wicked Horse closes down at two AM. I'm the last to leave after getting a last-minute cock suck from Carol, one of the lovely purveyors of fine drinks. She toddled out not fifteen minutes ago with a tart goodbye. I should have returned the favor to her, but she owed me the blow job because she lost a bet last week on the Yankees' game. She's a transplanted New Yorker and I hate the Yankees, so I always bet against them, no matter the price of the potential loss.

  My eyes zero in on my Suburban parked up near The Wicked Horse in the space closest to the slate path that leads from the back door over to The Silo. I click the remote entry fob and the lights flash, indicating the doors are unlocked. I reach for the handle, pull it open, and just as I'm about to step in, my gaze falls on a white Mercedes coupe sitting two rows back and three spaces over. I start to turn away and then do a double-take as I realize it's Catherine's car.

  I know she left The Silo probably about half an hour ago after giving everyone a show tonight. Since her husband died last week, she's been at The Silo every night, indulging in every wicked sex act you can imagine. Not that she didn't indulge before, but for some reason, since the old fart's death, she seems a bit more free-spirited in her pursuits. Maybe even doggedly determined to outdo herself every time.

  Tonight, my tongue was hanging out of my mouth while she occupied a room all to herself and played with a variety of electrical and mechanical toys Bridger's been collecting. She got right up against the glass wall and made sure everyone could see what she was doing. I bet I watched her come at least six times before she finally fell into a heap on the floor, panting with sweat-soaked skin and drowsy eyes. After she collected herself, she got dressed and sauntered out the door, waving goodbye over her head. I was so fucking horny after that, it took no time at all for Carol to wrench an unbelievable orgasm out of me. And strangely... I was imagining Catherine sucking my cock at the time, which is a bit weird.

  It's not like there's any mystery there. Catherine's deep throated me on a few occasions before, and I've fucked her on even more occasions than that. Didn't think she was really anything different from all the other sexual encounters I've had, but for some reason, it was her dark hair I imagined clenched in my fist rather than Carol's strawberry-blonde curls.

  Perhaps Catherine left her car here and went home with someone else. That must be it.

  Just as I start to turn my eyes back to my vehicle, I see movement within the darkness of the interior of her car. I peer harder, willing the light from the nearest security post to reveal the inside, and if I'm not mistaken, the seat is leaned back and someone's lying down, perhaps having just turned from one side to the other.

  What the hell?

  I close my door and walk quickly across the lot to her car, my head tilted in curiosity. As I get closer, I can see better, and it is indeed Catherine lying in the driver's seat reclined all the way back. She's on her side with her hands curled up by her face, her back to me. Those long, dark locks are spread out over her back and shoulder.

  I tap gently on the window, knowing I'm going to startle her but not being able to help it. She jerks upright, looking at me with frightened eyes. When she recognizes me, I can see her give a sigh of relief. She raises the seat up and rolls the window down. It's then that I notice her car is running.

  "Hey," she says, her eyes darting around the parking lot.

  "What are you doing?" I ask, completely perplexed to find her sleeping in her car. I know she's not drunk because Catherine doesn't drink.

  At all.

  That's because she does some crazy shit in the club, and she doesn't want anyone to ever think it's not of her own free will. She owns her kinky fuckery... and owns it good. I don't think she does drugs, so it's very confusing to find her here like this.

  "Um... I just..
." Her voice trails off and her gaze falls down to her delicate fingers, which are intertwined tightly with one another.

  "Catherine... were you going to spend the night out here?"

  She lets out a huff of frustrated air. Looking back up to me with resignation in her eyes, she admits, "Yes."

  Nothing more.

  I cock an eyebrow at her. Catherine and her late husband reside in Vegas permanently, but he has a luxury cabin just outside of Jackson that they spent a lot of time at since he got her a membership at The Silo.

  "Is your car broken down or something?"

  She shakes her head and looks back down at her lap.

  "Then what the fuck?" I ask, exasperated and also damn worn out from the night's activities. I want to get home and get some shut-eye. Work comes early and I cannot miss it. I have to open the tattoo shop I work for at ten in the morning, and I need the few hours of sleep I can squeeze in.

  She's silent and I think she may refuse to answer me, but then her small voice reaches my ears and it stuns me. "I don't have anywhere else to stay."

  "What do mean? You have a seven-thousand-square-foot home not thirty minutes away."

  She shakes her head, that dark hair falling in a veil to hide her face. It's a gorgeous face, too. High cheekbones, with an exotic slant to her liquid brown eyes. It's a face that should be in movies or on magazines. A face beautiful enough that it landed her a wealthy husband on death's door and should have left her swimming in riches.

  "Catherine," I prompt, pulling on the handle to her door. It's still locked so I reach my hand inside, find the lock, flip it, and then pull the door open. I step in, squat down, and place my hand on her thigh. "What's going on?"

  She pulls in a shaky breath, lifts a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, which exposes her face again, and then turns to look at me with bleak eyes. "He didn't leave me with anything. Just this car, which he had titled in my name."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Samuel left everything to his two children. Of course, I knew he would leave them with something. But he always promised me he'd take care of me. I'd always have a place to live. An attorney showed up at the Jackson house two days ago telling me that I had to vacate. I was allowed to pack up my clothes, and that was it."

  My breath hisses out from between my teeth, and I wish that creepy fucker was still alive so I could pound his withered, crippled ass into the ground. That goddamn motherfucker.

  I stand straight after giving a quick pat on her thigh. "You can crash at my place tonight. I'll help you figure something out."

  "Seriously?" she asks, her eyes wide and her lips trembling. "I mean... we don't really know each other."

  "I've been balls deep inside you a time or two, Catherine. I think I know you a little bit," I say with a teasing smile.

  She blushes, and fuck... that's pretty. I've never seen Catherine blush, and she's done some things to make even the kinkiest of motherfuckers go red in the face.

  "Are you sure?" she hesitantly asks.

  "Positive. You can follow me to my place."

  "I'll be glad to pay you," she says earnestly. "You know... in sex or something. I've only got about fifty dollars in cash left to my name."

  My cock leaps at the thought, because yeah... although I'm tired, I would not say no to fucking her tonight. But instead, I decide to be a gentleman. "You don't owe me anything. Let's get you to my place so you can get a good night's sleep. We'll talk about it more tomorrow and try to figure out how to take care of you."

  She blushes again as I put my hand on the door to close it for her. Just before I do though, she whispers, "Thank you, Rand. You're a lifesaver."

  Hmmmm... I like the sound of that.

  Chapter 1

  Rand

  I try to be as quiet as possible as I creep past the couch where Catherine's sleeping. My tiny apartment can be walked from end to end in about five seconds. Roughly 475 square feet of efficient living. I've been renting this apartment from my buddy, Jake Gearhart. It's situated over the garage of his modest ranch house in the town of Jackson, Wyoming.

  It's nothing but a large square that has a semi private foyer/mudroom as soon as you enter. When you round the corner, you have the kitchen and living room to the left, and my bedroom to the right. The bathroom sits adjacent to the foyer.

  While I can certainly afford bigger and better, I don't see any need to spend my money on my living conditions as I'm rarely here. Over the last several years, I'd gotten used to sleeping in small quarters or hotels, so I'm comfortable as is.

  Jake's different. He has a family that includes the pretty wife who's a local, an adorable two-year-old daughter, and another kid on the way, although you can barely see Lorelei's baby bump at this stage.

  As I try to creep past a sleeping Catherine, I wish I had bigger digs so I could have offered her a guest room so she could get some rest. I actually did offer her my room when we got to my apartment last night, but she refused.

  Staunchly.

  Said she didn't want to inconvenience me and she was already feeling like an imposition.

  I assured her she was not and tried to push my room on her.

  Her eyes immediately turned warm, and then sizzled with blooming sexual heat that made my dick start to get hard. "I'll only take your room if you let me pay you, and well... you know the only thing I got to offer at this point is my mouth or my pussy. Want it?"

  Fuck yeah, I wanted it. I've had both before and they're fucking fantastic.

  But not last night.

  Last night, Catherine was in a bad spot. I wasn't about to take advantage of that offer. I wanted her to see she could get something from someone without the expectation of needing to give something in return. It's called friendship and that's what friends do.

  And I think Catherine and I are friends.

  Maybe.

  Fuck, not really sure.

  So even though I really wanted to fuck her, I saw the stubborn pride bubbling low beneath the sensuality in her eyes, and I knew my dick was going to bed alone. Since she wouldn't take my room without feeling the need to basically prostitute herself in return, I conceded and fixed up the couch for her complete with pillow, sheets, and a thick quilt. I also offered her up a t-shirt and a pair of my sweatpants, of which she accepted only the t-shirt. It swallowed her whole and made her look even more vulnerable than I was already considering her to be.

  She doesn't stir as I walk behind the couch that sits perpendicular to the mudroom wall and essentially creates a living area that opens right up into an L-shaped kitchenette that houses my stove, refrigerator, and enough cabinet space to barely hold my dishes. A small, round table with two chairs completes the set up.

  As quietly as I can, I start making coffee, but the minute I open a squeaky cupboard door, I can hear Catherine starting to stir on the couch. After I fill the pot, measure the coffee, and start the brew cycle, I turn to find Catherine now sitting up with the quilt pulled demurely over her lap. She must have slept fitfully because her hair is a tangled mess and she has mascara smeared under her eyes, which reminds me of something.

  "Your bags and stuff in the trunk of your car?" I ask her.

  She blinks at me once, grimaces, and rubs a finger under one eye. She pulls it away, looks at the black smear, and wrinkles her nose. "Um... yeah."

  "Give me your keys. I'll go get them so you can get cleaned up and changed," I tell her.

  "Yeah," she says as she stands from the couch, her voice still rough with sleep. "I should get out of your way."

  "I didn't mean it like that," I tell her as she pulls her purse from the coffee table and reaches inside. "There's no rush for you to leave."

  Her face clouds over, almost as if she refuses to believe someone could be nice, before tilting down so she can look around inside her purse. I take the brief opportunity to appreciate that even with tangled hair, mascara smears, and a baggy t-shirt on, she's still one of the sexiest women I've ever seen. Hell, she may be the absolut
e sexiest, and I'm only judging this by the fact that, in this moment, I seem to be more attracted to her than ever before. I'm not sure if it's her vulnerability or my white-knight complex, but I've seen Catherine dressed in any number of sexy outfits with perfect hair and makeup, and I never wanted to fuck her as bad as I do right now.

  When she turns to me with car keys in hand, I hope she doesn't notice the hard-on I'm sporting. Not that I'd be embarrassed about it because Catherine's gotten me hard before and she knows it, but because I don't want her to think that's all I'm interested in from her. I especially don't want her thinking she has to pay me in that way.

  I take the keys from her and head for the door. "Mind pouring me a cup of coffee? I take it black."

  "Sure," she murmurs, but I don't look back at her. I need to get my dick under control.

  In the trunk of her car, I find a large suitcase, a carry-on, and a duffle-type bag, all done in the classic brown leather and gold lettering of Louis Vuitton. I'm totally not into fashion, but I'd bought my fair share of that designer for both my mom and Tarryn, so I know how expensive this shit is. I can't help but think that Catherine might find herself in a situation where she has to sell her fucking luggage to get some cash, and that's a shitty place to be.

  I cart the bags up the outside staircase to my garage apartment with my hard-on back under control. I find her sitting at the small kitchen table, a cup of coffee in her hand. My cup is poured and sitting by the coffee pot.

  "Listen," I tell her in my most casual voice so she doesn't feel like a charity case. "Why don't you stay here for a few days until you can get your bearings?"

  "I couldn't--" she starts to say, and I knew she'd rebuff the offer.

  "Come on, Catherine," I cut her off sternly. "We're friends. That's what friends do."

  "It's Cat," she says.

  This throws me off because I'd been expecting an argument. "Excuse me?"

  "Cat. The name I prefer to go by is Cat."

  I blink at her, stunned for a moment by the change in subject. "I didn't know that."

  She shrugs nonchalantly and lowers her gaze to her cup. "No one ever bothered to ask. Catherine is what Samuel insisted on calling me. It's how he always introduced me."

  Fuck.

  Just... fuck.