by Lake, Keri
Keep away from her, Alec’s voice chimed inside my mind, only that time it sounded more like a plea than a warning.
I couldn’t argue against it. Following my desires in the past, with other women, hadn’t ended well, and the last thing she needed was to suffer whatever messed up shit happened when the lights went out inside my head.
But fuck, that body of hers called out to me like a siren. I felt like a rotten bastard for what I wanted to do to it. How badly I needed to watch her writhe with the pleasure of being defiled by my cock, while her screams reverberated inside the small shower stall.
Leave. Now.
Dropping the dress back to the floor, I backed out of the bathroom, closing the door behind me, and texted her size to Lauren.
A half hour passed before Aubree emerged, swimming in my T-shirt and sweatpants, with long, wet locks of hair falling around her shoulders. Fuck. Me.
The familiar scent of my shampoo and soap permeated throughout the room, but mingled with her own natural smell and made for an intoxicating aroma that had my mouth watering and my predator alarms going off like a wolverine about to tear into an innocent rabbit.
She seemed uncomfortable in my clothes and fidgeted with the hem of my shirt. “I didn’t want to go through your things, but I didn’t see a brush … or anything.” Her voice had suddenly become more timid than before. Shy.
I pushed off the bed, slid past her, and grabbed the comb from the top drawer of the sink, holding it outright as I returned to her. “This work?”
“Yeah, thanks.” She nabbed the comb, and when her soft finger grazed mine, I dropped it. As we both crouched to pick it up, I gripped her shoulder to keep from knocking heads, and my finger brushed the smoothness of her throat. My muscles stiffened, and I rubbed my thumb back and forth against that same spot, staring at her.
“You don’t have to wear my clothes if you don’t want to.”
“I do.” She hardly lifted her gaze, staring somewhere in the neighborhood of my chest. “I like wearing them.”
“You look uncomfortable.”
“It’s not the clothes making me uncomfortable, Nick. When you … look at me the way you’re looking at me right now … you’re … making me nervous. I don’t know if you’re ready to strangle me, or—”
I quickly gripped her arms and lifted her to her feet, taking in the feel of her skin against my fingertips. Warm silk glided beneath my thumb as I stole the opportunity to touch her, really touch her, every ridge, every goose bump that puckered under my caress. “It’s been three years since I’ve touched someone. I don’t want to give you pain with these hands. I just want to feel.” I pushed a strand of wet hair away from her face and dragged my finger down her cheek. “You’re so beautiful,” I whispered.
With some hesitation, I leaned toward her, eyes studying hers for the first twinge of resistance.
I parted her lips with mine, more gentle than our first encounter, and simply explored her mouth. Warmth feathered my cheek as our exhales mingled in the tiny space that separated us, and I pressed my lips against hers in a kiss so deep, so penetrating, each moan left me one fine thread from losing control.
As I pulled back, a tear fell down her cheek, and the bastard inside of me surfaced once again when I released her and stepped back. “Why are you crying?”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to let you break me, Nick. Not with your kiss. Not with your touch. Too long, I’ve survived, to let you tear down my guard. I’ll survive you, too.” Her sad eyes stared up at me, before she turned and exited my room, Blue trotting behind her.
I couldn’t blame her. It’d been stupid of me to toy with something I had no intentions of pursuing. I had a job to finish, and Aubree was a means to that end. With a few smart moves, I’d own Michael Culling, would have him groveling on his hands and knees like a little bitch, begging me for mercy. That was the ultimate goal, and I didn’t need the distraction along the way. In between, my goal would be to keep myself occupied. Find something to occupy her.
Even if her touch had rattled something inside of me—confirmed with a downward glance.
Much as I’d have tried to deny it, I liked seeing her in my clothes.
Too much. I slipped inside the bathroom, closing the door behind me, and like some kind of perverted fucking hound dog, I inhaled her scent.
I had to get it out of my system. Had to get her out of my head, and banging a prostitute didn’t seem to be an option for me.
Flipping on the shower, I decided to keep the lights off, as she had, and I stepped inside the steam-filled stall.
Water pounded in angry vibrations along my spine. One touch, and everything suddenly felt different, more sensitive. I hated what she was doing to me, the bittersweet torture of driving me mad with lust, all while I knew I shouldn’t want Aubree Culling that way.
My enemy’s wife. The one woman in the world I should’ve avoided like a sane man running from delirium.
Touching her skin. Kissing her. Wet hair. Tight ass. Perfect tits. I was unraveling, coming undone.
It’d become a battle between my mind and my dick.
One taste, one touch, one fuck, my dick proclaimed.
Keep to the plan. Revenge. No distractions. The same words Alec would say to me. Except, Alec wasn’t around and he couldn’t be reached. Which meant I’d been left to my own devices.
I rested my forehead against the tiles and rammed my skull against the unyielding wall, taking in the jagged jolts of pain racing through my bones. Tightly wound knots of confusion tugged inside my head, all of them tied to Aubree. Without the makeup. Without the fancy dresses and jewelry. The Aubree in my mind had been stripped down to her most basic self, making her more exquisite than ever.
Steam filled my lungs, the heat of the water leaving a thin layer of sweat on my face, and I pressed my forehead harder against the cool tiles and took a firm grip of my stiff dick. Long, torturous pulls coincided with the visual in my head—of Aubree, bound and blindfolded to my bed. I let the scenario play out as I pumped in and out of my slick palm.
She wears my shirt that bunches up to her waist, as she writhes in a slow struggle. Her hips circle against the bed in a languid tempo, taunting me, testing my restraint, and have my muscles tensing with visuals of slamming into her.
“Please.” Her plea carries an air of desperation. “I want to.”
To be set free? Fucked? I’ve no idea what she’s begging me for.
“Nick, please.” Her moans become more intense, and her breasts jut forward, nipples peaking through the thin white cotton as she arches off the bed. “Help me.”
From the footboard, I stare down at her as she struggles—for freedom, or from need, I can’t decide, but both are rousing dangerous thoughts.
Her knees come together, and her ass grinds into the mattress. Soft moans escalate to mewling, and her head rolls impatiently against the pillow, her fingers pumping within the confines of her binds, as if she’s frantic to get herself off but can’t.
“Please!” The harsh bellow bounces off the wall, finally snapping that fine thread of control to which I’ve been clinging.
I climb onto the bed and pry her knees apart, and she thrusts her hips upward, offering her pussy to me like a feast. Gripping her ass, I dip my head between her thighs and drag my tongue along her glistening seam, smiling when she cries out.
“Please, Nick. Fuck me. Make me come. I’m in pain.”
Rising to my knees, I position myself at her entrance and slide inside her. She lowers herself to the bed and releases a pained sigh that is both relief and agony. I know this because I feel it, too, as I rock in and out of her tight pussy with the realization that I don’t want the torment to end. I want to stay inside of her, with her warm, silky body around my dick and her soft whisper droning inside my head, telling me how good it feels.
I hate myself for wanting her, craving her so badly, I’d kill to hear her scream my name.
I up the pace and her fingers cu
rl around the binds. She bites her lip, arching her back, and the ‘O’ she moans, coupled to her trembling, tells me she’s close.
Falling on top of her, I drive her home.
Her screams echoed in my ear, and light exploded behind my eyes as hot semen pulsed into the swirling water slipping down the drain.
Aubree. I rode out the last of my orgasm, forehead pressed into my arm against the tiles, hand balled to a fist, while the light prickles radiated to every muscle in my body, weakening them.
Rubbing a hand down my face, I pushed upright, shaking off the momentary dizziness. For fucks sake. I’d just blown my load while fantasizing about Aubree Culling.
25
Aubree
I flipped open the sketchpad to a stark white page that almost glowed in my dimly lit room. As always, I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, searching my thoughts for that strange, fairy-like female that’d plagued my mind the last couple of days, trapped in a cage far too small for her body, wings bent and bleeding. Lounging on the bed, I set to work, trying to get as many details out of my mind and onto the paper as I could.
Time passed in a blur, as it often did when I got in the zone. I focused on the lines in her face, the shadows that clouded her eyes, the pain that aged her. Details I saw in myself every time I looked in the mirror.
Fingers curled around the bars, she sat crouched, head lifted, staring toward something outside of the cage—something that called to her, telling her not to give up. To keep fighting for her freedom.
“I see you’ve made use of the supplies.”
My hand jerked at the interruption of Nick’s voice, sending a line of lead up the female’s back that resembled a scar.
I paused to examine it, exhaled a breath, and lifted my gaze to where he stood framed by the door. I’d never seen him, or any man for that matter, in black leathers, but damn the way they hung loose on his legs and stretched across his groin had my throat turning dry. Chains hung from his loops and the holster at his hip carried a gun. The black tank only stoked my burning curiosity to know what the hell the man looked like without a shirt. The muscles in his arms and chest gave me a pretty damn good idea he sported a set of washboard abs beneath.
The gun caught my attention a second time. If he typically carried weapons, they’d hadn’t been visible prior to then. “You startled me.”
A smirk teased the corner of his lips. “You’re an artist.”
My shoulder twitched with a half-hearted shrug. “When I’m feeling inspired, I suppose.”
His gaze fell to my lap, where the sketchpad lay open across my legs. “So, what’s this?”
“Personal?”
He crossed his arms, his muscles bulging in the folds, and that pissed off scorpion scowled back at me.
“It’s an image that’s appeared a few times in my head. I’m just trying to capture it.”
The narrowing of his eyes told me he was studying the sketch, maybe picking up on the similarities between me and the female in the cage. My cheeks burned at the full, pert breasts I’d drawn on her, in likeness to my own.
“This is your cage, huh?” His rich voice had a way of tickling my senses, and a part of me yearned for him to say something totally off the wall, completely inappropriate, just to hear how it’d sound. “The wings are bent and bleeding. Not broken?”
“Not yet,” I whispered.
“What’s she staring at?”
I looked him straight in the eye, my gaze unflinching. “Hope.”
“So, this is how you deal with captivity? Drawing yourself as a victim?”
Clearing my throat, I gripped tight to the pencil, swallowing back the urge to stab him in the eyeballs with it. “It helps to purge these images. Gives me a moment of focus.” Flipping the page, I held up the sketchpad and the pencil. “You should try.”
“No thanks. I’m not an artist.”
“You don’t have to be. That’s the beauty of creating art. It’s cathartic. Think of your past, your present, your future. Draw what troubles you. It can be a face, a place, a story inside of one single image.” I set down the sketchpad and crossed my arms, eyes narrowed. “Wait a second, you’re a game designer. I find it hard to believe you can’t draw.”
“I never said I couldn’t draw. I design games. Not a bunch of useless ink blot pictures for some arrogant asshole with a string of acronyms to come along and study.”
Swallowing a chuckle, I tapped the pencil to the sketchpad. “Draw something from your game.”
His jaw shifted.
C’mon, give me something. “No one’s going to study it. You don’t even have to show me what you’ve drawn. Keep it for yourself. Burn it afterward, if that makes you feel better.”
The way his face ticced, the sliding of his jaw, the twitch of his eye, I couldn’t tell if he wanted to punch me, or if he might’ve been considering the suggestion. He sniffed and unraveled his arms. “You keep drawing your pretty pictures. Keep the hope alive. As for me? I’ve had enough fucking quacks trying to crack open my head, I don’t need you digging around in there.” He turned and strode from the room.
26
Nick
I spun a bullet, with the words fuck you etched into its broadside, against the wooden table as I sprawled in a chair across the room from a strung out, drunken black guy—Jalen Wallace—trying to pick up the waitress. The bar, one of those offbeat venues along Vernor Highway, had long been notorious as a hotspot for shootings and illegal dealings. Fuckin place stank like cheap beer and grease.
Hidden in the back of the bar, out of plain sight, I’d been staring at him for the last hour.
Jalen slapped the woman’s ass, and she stumbled forward two steps, catching herself on the side of the table before breaking out in giggles. As his hand slid beneath the table, cleavage blocked my view, lots of it.
“Hey, darlin’.” The way the busty redhead bent over my table and snapped her gum left me wanting to reach into her mouth and smash it into her painted-on face. “My, you look good enough to eat.”
I didn’t say anything. I’d found people got uncomfortable quicker by my staying quiet while holding a deadpan stare. Like a natural predatory response. Just as I suspected, she slithered back from the table, eyes cowering in submission.
Once she’d walked away, my attention swung back to Jalen.
Thing about street gangs was they had nothing to bind them together. No loyalties. No single mission that tied them to each other. They were fragile, easily broken. As the Seven Mile Crew had gained some traction, built up some power, they’d begun to crumble, break off into their own pursuits.
Jalen ‘Babyface’ Wallace was a fine example of that. Of all the Crew, he’d been the most difficult to track down. A few bad deals had landed him on a lot of shit lists, and many of his customers were the kind of gangs that did bind together for a reason. Religious. Political. They took any act of mistrust as a reason to kill, and Jalen had been forced to hit the underground as a result. His ties to the Seven Mile Crew were severed when he didn’t deliver on a large order of semi-automatics to a few infamous crime bosses. The leader of the Crew, Brandon Malone, couldn’t risk the chance he’d become the target of a larger fish in the ocean, so he’d distanced himself from Jalen, eliminating that cozy layer of protection Jalen once enjoyed.
At a tug on her wrist, the waitress bent forward, and Jalen put his lips to her ear. Sickening giggles followed. With his arm draped over her shoulders, he shot up from his chair and guided her out of the bar.
And the hunt begins.
Why I smiled every fucking time I was about to rain hell on their little picnics, I’d never understand. I left some cash on the table before following the two outside.
Jalen led her to a rusted, early model Tahoe, parked in the far corner of the lot, where both climbed in the backseat. Once they’d closed the door behind them, dark tinted windows made it nearly impossible to see, aside from the occasional abrupt movement.
I took a moment to sl
ip the black ski mask down over my face.
Within earshot of the vehicle, I heard a smack followed by the woman’s outcry, and Jalen’s shouts of, “Stupid bitch! Nasty ass whore!”
Tugging my hoodie over my head, I checked my weapons. The guy’s bare ass might’ve been hanging out in the air, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t fucking her with a gun in his hands.
Without so much as a courtesy knock, I threw the door open, my lip curling at the sloshing sounds that ceased the second both of them caught sight of me.
The female screamed, as expected.
“What … the … fuck?” Jalen reached for his gun, but stopped the moment I lifted my blade in the air.
An exceptional blade, serrated on one side with a mean looking gut hook. Couldn’t help but imagine the damage it’d do if it happened to get lodged beneath the skin—a thought that must’ve passed through Jalen’s mind, because he settled back against the seat.
“Get out,” I said to the woman quaking beneath him, my gaze shooting straight back to Jalen.
Without skipping a beat, she scrambled out from under him with her gathered clothes into her arms and, eyes on the blade, took off.
To Jalen, I said, “Get in the driver’s seat.”
In an asinine move, he tugged his gun loose from its holster, but I sliced the knife across the back of his calf, yanking the hook to dislodge a nice chunk of flesh from the wound.
“Motherfucker!” He grabbed for his mutilated leg, and I raised the blade again. “No! No! Okay, okay, okay!” Dragging himself between the two seats, he fell into the driver’s chair.
I opened the passenger door and took a seat beside him, as Jalen’s trembling, blood-coated hand turned the key and the vehicle fired up to a roar. “Old Boblo Dock.” I propped the blade at his balls, smiling as Jalen pulled out of the parking spot.
