Devil's Due: Death Heads MC

by Claire St. Rose

  Damien nods, leans back. “Yeah, I guess I am. But I guess I’m more afraid of going another year without seeing you. Listen, I thought you were too young, too vulnerable, too similar to what I might have—” All at once, he stops, seizing up, clenching his fists, temples pulsing. He shakes his head briskly, drinks his water. I watch, bemused, wondering what the hell happened.

  “Damien,” I say. “What’s wrong?”

  He shakes his head again. “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing?” I say. “Something is clearly wrong.”

  “It’s just—I’ve never talked about this, to anybody, ever.”

  “And it has something to do with why you became cold, and why you let me leave?”

  “Callie, it has everything to do with that.”

  I lean across the table and place my hand on his arm, gripping the thorns. Heat blooms between my palm and his skin. I can see it in his face. He looks up, seeming more awake, calmer, but also steeling himself for something.

  “I shared my life in the Movement with you,” I said. “That was the most tender part of myself, Damien. And I shared it with you. And look, I am still here, better than I was before, even.”

  Damien places his free hand atop mind, pressing my hand into his arm.

  “I know,” he says. “But it’s different for a man, especially the President of a club. Callie, a man has to be strong every second of every day, ’cause if he’s not, soon he’ll be on his back with blood seeping from his skull. Give an inch, one single inch, and every fucker in a ten-mile radius will be on you.”

  “I am not a fucker,” I say, and we both laugh. “And I am not going to make your skull seep blood, Damien.”

  He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

  And then he tells me.

  He tells me about waking up, groggy, tied to a bed. He tells me about an old man and he tells me about the needles. He mentions the man’s wormlike hands, and the deep crevices of his face, almost like a child mentioning some detail which has grown massive in their mind. And then he tells me about how he worked himself free and killed the old man: his first kill.

  As he talks, I squeeze his arm with more passion. Then I stand up and walk around to his side of the table, sitting next to him, hands on his shoulders, massaging the muscle. He talks quickly, wanting to get it all out, and finally, when he’s done and the old perverted man is dead, he turns to face me.

  I think he might be crying, but he’s not, though his expression is more open than I’ve ever seen it before. “Do you see? You were a constant reminder of that.”

  “I see,” I say.

  “Don’t you think any less of me?” he asks.

  “Why would I think any less of you?”

  He pauses, and then shrugs. “Just guess I thought people’d think less of me.”

  “I’m not people, not to you.”

  “No,” he says. “You’re not, are you?”

  I have to tell him about Alice, about his child; he’s shared this with me, and now I have to do the right thing, too. But before I can, he reaches under the table and places his hand on my leg, up high on my thigh, near my pussy. When you’ve gone over a year without a man’s touch—without your man’s touch—feeling it once again drives you wild straightaway. My pussy gets hot, my thighs tingling, my body responding at once.

  “What are you doing?” I say, voice breathy.

  “It’s been too long, Callie,” he says. “For both of us, I reckon.” He leans forwards and whispers in my ear, his breath warm on my neck, tickling me: “I remember that first night, how you opened for me when I pushed my cock into your tight pussy. I remember fucking you hard until you came all over my cock. I remember listening to you scream and thinkin’ it was the sweetest sound I ever heard. And I remember the nights after that, when I’d flip you over and pound you into the bed, pound you so hard you started to shake with the pleasure of it. Do you remember, Callie?”

  He moves his hand up my thigh, right here in the bar.

  “Yes,” I whisper, struggling to contain my lust, one year’s worth of pent-up lust. “I remember.”

  But I need to tell him before anything happens. I need to!

  “Have you touched yourself, thinking about it, Callie?”

  I shiver as his breath moves down my neck and across my shoulders like warm breathy fingers.

  Have I touched myself? Every night when I was pregnant, and every night since I recovered from the birth, I have touched myself replaying scenes of my time with Damien in my head.

  “Yes.”

  He inches his hand up my thigh.

  “I think it’s time I took you somewhere, Callie. Don’t you think?”

  I bite my lip, telling myself to blurt it out now. But that would stop him. If I told him now, we wouldn’t carry on. And, oh god, but I need to carry on. Badly. I need this. My body is burning with anticipation for it. My mind is filled with a thousand scenes, all dirtier than the last.

  But I have to do the right thing. I have to!

  “Damien, I need to—”

  He kisses me on the lips, hard, pressing pleasure into my mouth, a million nerves sending a million long-waiting signals of pleasures throughout my body.

  All thoughts of doing the right thing dissipate when he slides his hand another inch up my leg, his fingers so tantalizingly close to my pussy now that if we were not in public, I would grab him by the wrist and make him close the gap.

  He breaks off the kiss and says, “Let’s go.”

  I don’t hesitate.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Callie

  “Let me drive,” he says.

  I toss him the car keys. He climbs in, and I slide in next to him. He drives us down the street, stopping at the first motel he sees. In what seems like a few seconds, we have gone from the bar to a motel room. The room is cheap, with a thin mattress and a dim lamp and curtains which allow the glow of the streetlamps through, but it smells and looks clean. And we’re not here to admire the room, anyway.

  Damien turns to me, looking rugged and handsome and wild and animal-like with his beard and his dark eyes. A predator and I am his prey. That thought makes me damn hot. I am his prey, and I have been waiting a year for my predator to find me.

  He locks the door, finds the radiator and turns it on against the winter heat, and then stands close to me; he needn’t have touched the radiator, he is hot enough.

  He reaches out and places his middle finger against my pussy, through my jeans, but even through my jeans the finger is full of bursting energy, the energy of waiting, the energy of anticipation. I close my legs around the finger, all whilst staring into each other’s eyes. Something has changed since we were last intimate. This is my baby’s father, even if he doesn’t know it, and now he has shared the most vulnerable part of himself with me. We are closer than we ever could’ve been before.

  He rubs my jeans, and my jeans rub my panties, and the fabric of my panties rubs with burning friction against my clit. I close my legs tighter around his hand, staring into his bearded, hard face. Everything is tingling, begging to be touched. Right down to my feet, right up to my scalp; it is all-consuming lust like I have never felt.

  I throw myself at him, unable to wait, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. Damien lifts me up and carries me to the bed, sets me down, and starts undressing me hungrily, quickly. I help him along, pulling my hoodie over my head as he pulls down my pants. I am about to pull my T-shirt over my head when I remember the pregnancy, and the stretch marks. I used all the right creams, took all the right precautions, but of course a baby is a baby and stretch marks are unavoidable.

  He pulls down my panties and stares at my pussy, black pupils dilated, mouth twisted in pleasure. He looks at my T-shirt, raises an eyebrow.

  “I’m cold,” I say. “I’m going to keep it on.”

  For a second, I think he might argue, but then he just starts stripping, throwing his leather and his shirt and his pants and finally his underwear to
the floor. He places his big silver gun on the TV stand. He stands before me, naked, huge cock hard, almost as if it’s bursting with the same pent-up lust which is surging through me.

  “Do you want it, Callie?” he asks, a wicked teasing note in his voice.

  I don’t answer with words. Instead, I lean up and take his cock in my hand. It’s even bigger than I remember, and it feels right in my palm, feels like it belongs. I grab it firmly, and then bring my mouth to the tip. I’ve never been one for enjoying giving blowjobs, but this is different. This is Damien, and listening to him moan as I bob my head up and down, work my tongue around the shaft of his cock, is heaven. He moves his hand through my hair, scratching my scalp, as I suck him.

  I reach down with my free hand to touch my clit, probe it gently, and then rub it.

  But we’re both too horny to mess around with foreplay for too long. There’s a time for foreplay, and there are times like these, when the two of us are too mad with lust.

  He grabs me by the shoulders, tosses me into the bed, and leans over me. I open my legs, and then, without further messing around, he thrusts his hips and slides into me. These first moments—the seconds which stretch like minutes in my body, my mind—are the sweetest relief of pleasure I have ever felt. I have fantasized about this for a year, waking sometimes in deep night with the phantom sensation his cock between my thighs, deep inside of me, soaking wet and hungry for the real thing. Now he slides into me, and pleasure consumes my entire lower half. I force myself to keep my eyes open, focus on his face, which contorts in the same pleasure which grips me. He lets out a low growl when his entire cock is inside of me, the tip pushing firmly against my buzzing spot.

  “Fuck,” he says, staring hard at my face. “Fuck, Callie. Fuck.”

  I reach up and cradle his face, his beard tickling my palm. “I know. Take me, Damien. Take me. I want it so fucking badly.”

  The father of my child has his cock inside of me: his thick, long, rock-hard cock. The thought drives me wild, but not as wild as the teeming nerves which send teeming fingers of pleasure all over my body as he slides out of me, slowly, and then—and then pounds into me quickly, stretching me out. He grins when he sees my shocked, pleasure-filled face.

  He fucks me, then, fucks me and makes love to me at the same time. Propping his thorny arms either side of my head, he thrusts his hips, his muscles shifting like the cogs of a powerful machine, pounding his cock in and out of my pussy. I reach around and grab the thorny garden on his back, thinking it fitting that all this started with thorns, and now here we are, over a year later, and once again thorns are pushing us on. I dig my fingernails in and he makes a growling noise, fucking me harder.

  I bounce up and down on his cock, but then I want it dirtier, nastier, closer; my lust demands it.

  “Fucking flip me over,” I moan, speaking with more confidence than I ever would’ve dared to in my rodent life; the bedroom was a scary place for rodent Callie. For mother Callie, it is not. “Flip me over and treat me like your whore, Damien.”

  He doesn’t need to be asked twice. He pulls out of me, flips me with one hand like I am weightless, and then pushes me flat onto the bed and falls atop me, the entire weight of his muscular body concentrated into his cock as he slides it inside of me. He holds himself up with one hand. With his other, he massages my ass as he fucks me. I bite down on the sheets so hard my jaw aches, bite down as his cock jackhammers into my pussy, until my sweet spot seems to grow inside of me, hotter, larger, electric impulses surging into it.

  “Fuck—”

  I bite down harder and rock back and forth as his cock smashes me. Drills me. He is fucking me so hard now that the bed sags, creaks, sounds as though it might snap in half. But then all noise is gone, the creaking, his moans, my stifled cries, all of it drifting into another land, faraway, and all I hear, all I see, all I feel is his cock pound into me. Smash, smash, into my hot spot, making it hotter, my entire world honed down to that one sensation. His cock is too big for my pussy, but my pussy doesn’t give a fuck; it takes all of him, pulls him in, and, and—

  The pleasure mounts, getting so hot now I feel like there is a blowtorch inside of me, a searing blue tongue of heat against my sweet spot, and when I think the tongue has gotten as hot as it can, Damien fucks me with even more animal ferocity and the tongue explodes heat against my sweet spot. I can feel it now, the orgasm, so close, the moment I have been waiting over a year for. The father of my child is pounding me into the bed, drilling me, fucking me so hard I can barely think, barely breathe. The father of my child—and oh fuck, here it comes, hot, wet, soaking, hot, hot, hot—and fuck, yes, yes, fuck—

  Everything stops. I feel as though I am floating, the only part of me still tethered to reality my sweet spot, engorged, being pommeled by Damien’s cock. I float, higher, higher, and it’s like I’m looking down: seeing this huge, muscled-bound man thrusting into this thin, sleek woman, completely at his mercy, thrilled to be completely at his mercy. And then I fall back into my body and the orgasm hits me with the force of a speeding truck.

  I gasp, bury my face in the sheets, gasp again and get a mouthful of fabric. My pussy goes tighter than it ever has before, with Damien or anybody else, so tight that Damien, with all his strength, has to grip the sheets with both hands and pull himself forcefully inside of me. I hear his breath catch, but mostly I feel the tightening of my pussy, the orgasm gathering the pleasure, and then the immediate loosening as the pleasure is thrown outwards. I tilt my hips, angling his cock inside of me, and ride the orgasm as I pant and gasp and moan and cry. I bounce, and the orgasm gets hotter, deeper, until every single inch of my skin is being seared by that blowtorch heat, until every part of me is a burning, scorched mass of euphoria. I tilt my hips again, and feel myself come over his cock, hear Damien’s moans of pleasure as he watches my come slide down his rock-hard cock. Yes, yes, yes, fucking hell, this is what I have been waiting for, waiting too long for, this is what I need. This is it. This is fucking it.

  I ride the orgasm for what feels like hours, and then everything is a blur and I feel Damien emptying himself inside of me, leaning down and biting my shoulder, and then the two of us lie spent on the pleasure-soaked sheets, panting, and finally holding each other close and naked and drifting off to a contended sleep.

  Probably the most contended sleep either of us has experienced since we last met.

  Chapter Twenty

  Damien

  When I wake up and the first hazy moments of sleep still have me, I wonder if all that was a dream, wonder if maybe I got too wasted at the clubhouse and really I’ve just been lying passed out for the past dozen hours. But then I lean up and look around the room, at my Eagle on the TV stand, at the clothes on the floor, and then down at me and Callie. At some point during the night, we climbed under the sheets. I wake with her naked leg draped over me, her hand on my chest; her hand is small and warm, like a little hot-water bottle.

  I lean back, propping my arm behind my head. I told her, I reflect. I told Callie about the man and the syringe and the killin’ and about what almost happened to me. I have never told anybody, never dreamed telling anybody would be possible, and yet I told her. I just came out and told her. And she understood. She understood right away.

  Damn, last night, that sex . . . my mind returns to the way she lay on her front, legs together, messy hair spread over the sheets, the way my cock slid in between those perfect round ass cheeks. Just thinking about it is making me hard.

  I just lie with Callie in my arms for a while, staring at the motel room’s cracked ceiling, thinking about how much of an asshole I was for waiting this long to find her, thinking how much an asshole I was for letting her go in the first place. For the past year, I’ve thought about her every damn day, anxiety and agitation my constant companions. Now I’m with her, the anxiety is gone. It seems strange that I ever felt like that. Callie makes it all make sense.

  After a while, she wakes with a sleepy smile on her face, l
ooking up at me. Pale winter sunlight shafts through the curtains, resting on her forehead.

  “Morning, Blackbeard,” she says. She glances at the bedside clock, which tells us it’s one o’clock. “Afternoon, I should say.”

  I laugh; she giggles. I swear, that giggle is the sweetest sound there is.

  “Morning, Miss Horny.”

  She blushes, and then kisses my chest.

  “I’m not Miss Horny,” she says, but her brown eyes get wide as she stares at me, and I know just by looking at her what she’s thinking. But then she says, “I need to get back. I have . . .” She pauses, and I get the sense there’s more she wants to say, and then she finishes, “I have stuff to do.”

  “Okay,” I say, confused. “Sure.”