“Yes. Please.” As embarrassed as I am to say, those are the only two coherent words I currently possess and can form before I speak.
And when the hand cupping my face slides back and cups my neck again, I’m not prepared when he uses his hold and tugs my face up to his. His mouth is so warm and so sweet. And his kisses are so tender. Almost delicate. “That good?” he mutters against my mouth, causing me to moan the harder he works his new found magic spot.
I sputter an unintelligible, “Mmm hmm” when his face heads in the general south direction, scaling down my body. His mouth never ceases its assault on my flesh. And you have to keep in mind here, I’ve had two sexual experiences in my inept romantic history. How many? Yes, you’ve been here: Two.
So it doesn’t take much. Honestly, I think I started feeling the orgasm when he first began his journey down my body. My neck. My chest. My abdomen. I’m a trembling mess when he drapes one of my thighs, crossing it over his head before settling it on his other shoulder. I can hardly breathe as I watch him settle between my spread thighs, back onto his haunches. Leaning over my bare body lying across the chaise lounge, Jacques smirks when he’s a breath away from my bareness, and when I suddenly realize how wet I am, shyness starts to creep in.
Just before his mouth covers me. And then, I don’t give a damn what I feel after that. Because whatever it is, it’s swallowed whole by the orgasm that tears its way through me a split second later.
I haven’t even crested, much less made it down, when suddenly he stands. We’re both vertical, and my straddling his face has somehow turned into my straddling him, and his at least ten inches, and Al. I’ve barely connected the fact that we’re no longer lying flat, much less that he’s pinning me to the side of the house with both thighs suddenly draped over each of his tattooed forearms. His dark navy blue eyes narrow when they hit mine. “Good girl,” he whispers, before crushing his mouth against my swollen lips. When he pulls back, his stormy eyes flash with something, but it’s gone too quickly for me to catch. “You’re still here,” he mutters. “I’m gonna need you here.” When his eyes glance down between us, I follow their direction, and shudder and moan all at the same time at the sight I see. His thick, heavy cock weighs down on me, almost visibly pulsing with roped veins and he’s completely drenched in my wetness. “That yours?” He growls, and I feel my heart—or what I thought was left of it—flutter back to life in my chest.
But when my eyes meet his again, and I witness the shutters go down behind them just before his eyes go blank, my heart—or what I thought was left of it—squeezes until aching in my chest. I nod hurriedly, answering him before raking my hands into his hair and pulling his mouth back to mine. And when we pull apart, we’re gasping for air again, but he still mutters the words, “I’mma need you here, Vagabond. No matter what, I need you here the whole time. Stay.”
His deep, soul searching, heart wrenching blue stormy eyes flash again when I see the shutters visibly rise behind them, just as he sinks fully into me to the hilt. And it takes a minute for me to physically adjust, especially in this position. But when he moves, stormy eyes still locked on mine, his huge hands cradle my face now he has my weight pinned against the house with him fully seated inside me where we’re connected. And then he smirks. I don’t know what to tell you—my need for him, for all of him—outweighs my need for any answers. I don’t need to know anything else. As far as I’m concerned, he needs me to stay. So I’ll stay.
Wherever and for however long he needs me to, I’ll stay.
With every one of his thrusts, the bones of my bare back crush harder against the paneled wood of the house behind me. And I can’t tell you if I want to cry because of which feeling: The feeling of being screwed against the side of Grams’ house like a whore, or the feeling of Jacques Cain, ten inches and then some, deep inside me, making a home for himself in my very soul. Where I know he doesn’t belong.
But when his hands move from cradling my face to cupping the sides and harshly gripping it, and he growls out his demand, I obey. “Come for me, Vagabond. I’m coming so damn hard. Come with me, baby. Come.”
My brown eyes flutter open to see his blue ones staring back at me and I obey Jacques Cain. And I come harder than I’ve ever come in my whole life. And I just came pretty freaking hard before his last demand.
As I’m floating down from that spot in heaven, that place I’ve only ever frequented a few brief times before, I sigh in happiness before snuggling closer to him as he adjusts me in his arms. And when he’s got me secure under my legs and behind my back, I slide my arms around his neck and pull myself closer to him. Then I inhale his unique scent as he carries me over the threshold and through the house.
And I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him he’s the only one. That he’s been the only one. I want to tell him he confuses the hell out of me. I want to question him. I want to beg him for answers about earlier, about all of earlier. I want to tell him what’s in my heart. Or what’s left of it. I want to tell him so much—and I’m not sure if it’s my recent unusually strenuous activities, or the lasting effects of whatever it was he drugged me with, but instead of muttering a single word, or getting out one pertinent question, somewhere between the living room and my bedroom, I fall asleep, right where he’s carrying me.
***
After waking the next morning, and he’s gone...I’m not surprised. Heartbroken? Yes. Devastated? Absolutely. Surprised? No. Not at all. It doesn’t take more than a novice to know what those few moments and the cryptic words he kept muttering meant.
I knew. I knew then, just like I know this morning. He hasn’t snuck off to the kitchen to find what he can and whip us up some breakfast to eat.
No, he’s gone. Just like he said; he left. And it was definitely before the sun rose, judging on how cold the rest of my double bed is.
I don’t even have an excuse for myself. And other than mentally bitch and whine about it, there’s nothing else I can do. I glance around my room, looking for any trace of him or his presence from last night, and when I don’t see any, my heart squeezes, contracting in my chest. You’d think for someone who's so unsurprised, it wouldn’t hurt so bad, but it does. And you’d think for someone used to being left behind, it wouldn’t hurt so bad either. But I guess that joke’s on me. Because it fucking hurts.
The tears well in my eyes before slipping over my lashes as I make my way from the bed. And once I have my thin robe tied around my waist by its sash, I head towards the kitchen in search of coffee.
Thankfully it takes my Keurig less than fifteen seconds to sputter out the last few drops of my dark, wake-me-up elixir, and a few after that I’m stepping out onto the deck to watch the sun rising over the ocean, and having my morning cigarette and coffee.
The tenderness in my aching muscles, holding me together and upright, are the only lasting evidence that anything happened last night. That Jacques Cain was even here. I can hardly bring my cigarette to my mouth and pull in a drag, my hand is shaking so hard. When Ty comes around the wrap-around porch with two bagels and two coffees in his hands, his voice is singing, but it’s no song I’ve ever heard. “Hey, dove. Gotcha some break.” He sets down what I assume is my breakfast, and when his eyes land on my face he stills.
“Fuck,” he mutters. Singing, we’re past. But I’m pretty sure he gets that when a few seconds later, he’s plucked my cigarette from my hand and put it out in the ashtray. After he has me wrapped up in his arms, we settle back on the chaise I was sitting on. When his lips meet my forehead, he glances out over the water and the sand before he continues, nailing every head. On every nail. “He didn’t pull out of town when they did, did he? He come back here?” Ty’s words are spoken softly but I still feel the tension vibrating off him. And I know he’s pissed as hell.
I nod, unable to actually form the words and speak my transgressions and sins from the night before.
“Why him, Evie? Why can’t you find someone who isn’t him? Anyone’ll d
o at this point, dove. You gotta get over this. Over him.”
When I don’t answer him, I feel his face nod against mine. “When’d you fall in love with him?”
“I don’t know, Ty.” I sputter out the words around my choked sob. “What’s wrong with me?” I cry into my best friend’s warm shoulder. And as his arms tighten around my waist, he shushes me.
But I can’t focus on his softly whispered reassurances. Hell, I can hardly focus on breathing around the pain cracking open my chest.
God, I’m so stupid.
“Why didn’t I say no? Why didn’t I say something? Or do, anything, other than just keep kissing him? Oh my God, Ty, there’s something wrong with me!” I cry, interrupting my best friend and his words as he tries to tell me there’s not.
But I know the truth. And you know the truth. We were there.
God, what’s wrong with me?
“Evie, stop. You have to stop beating yourself up. I mean, what’d you expect to happen? You’re twenty-six years old. And the only person you’ve ever been with comes back into your life at damn near your sexual peak? I’m surprised you didn’t fuck him before he kidnapped you. Hell, that’s what I’d have done. As a nice thank you. He is beautiful, sweetie. Hell, even I’ll admit that,” he whispers as his pointer finger tips my face to his.
I have to blink past the tears to see him. And when my brown eyes meet his, I shyly smile before swallowing the lump lodged in my throat. “Sorry.” I pull my hand to my chest, rubbing at the sore spot where my heart beats. “It hurts.”
“It’s supposed to, baby.” His voice sounds older suddenly, wiser almost. “I know how you like yourself numb. I know I’m only here out of default, and because you haven’t found a way to push me away yet. But, dove...life—life’s about feeling. And feeling means feeling all of it. The good with the bad. The highs and the lows. It’s gotta hurt before it can feel good. Especially with all the scars you got.”
“I know,” I mutter, before standing and making my way into the kitchen from the deck. And I do, I know he’s right. I just don’t think I’m ready.
Especially now. Especially after Jacques Cain. And the new pain he’s caused.
I’ll pick myself back up in a few months. You’ll see. Then I’ll be ready to start living.
Again? I don’t know—we’ll see. I’m not certain I ever have, other than the few moments of home I felt with Grams. Or Ty. I can’t promise I have ever lived.
“Hey, what’s this?” I hear Ty ask as I settle in my stool at the bar overlooking the kitchen from the breakfast nook. I can’t even see what he’s talking about ‘cause he’s blocking it. He turns back around and when he’s facing me he holds up his hands. With a folded piece of paper in one and my crucifix—his crucifix—in the other. “You didn’t see this? When you made your coffee?”
No, I didn’t see it. But hell, I wasn’t seeing past the front of my face, I was just going through the motions of waking up. “No, what is it?” I motion at him. “Give it to me, Ty.”
When the cool silver hits my palm, I yank the letter from his hand with my other. “Shit, I’m giving it, ain’t I? Don’t snatch, you’ll tear it,” he scolds me.
But I’m beyond scolding. I’m beyond even hearing whatever it is he’s rambling about as my eyes scan my name in Jacques’ handwriting scrawled across my grocery list.
He was here. I’m not insane. My body does hurt. And he was fucking here.
“You went by there.” It’s a statement, not a question. And it’s the first thing I hear as I stretch out my tired muscles from the fifteen-hour drive.
After fully stepping into my office in the loft overlooking the steeple, I nod at where Dreads sits sulking in the dark before answering his question, only somewhat vaguely. “I went by a lotta fucking places, brother. From here to Daytona, though, that’s gotta happen. What the fuck can I do for ya, Dreads? I’m tired. I need to put this shit away and take a shower then I’m hitting the hay. And I don’t want to be fucked with until the meeting with ‘King’ and DDDs tomorrow morning. Say what you need to say and then get the fuck out, brother.”
I toss my cut over the back of the office chair before my holster. Then after unbuttoning the flannel shirt I wear over the white muscle shirt under, I start with the buttons on both wrists. And when both are also unbuttoned, I toss that shit over the back of the chair too, leaving myself in a white wife-beater, with worn out jeans sagging low from around my hips before fraying over my black worn out riding boots.
When we’re both toe to toe, I square off with the motherfucker who has all the questions. Narrowing my eyes on his, I’m as still as a predator while I wait for the only brother I trust to speak.
His chuckle is the first thing that raises my alarms, warning me that there’s something else here going on. This isn’t just him being pissed about Eve. I mean, while he is pissed, this is something else also. And I know it in the matter of my core when he speaks and it’s in a tone I’ve never heard from Dreads—not once in all these years. This shit isn’t going to be good.
“Toxic. She’s fucking toxic, yeah?” He sighs before rubbing his hands through his hair and down his face. Then after linking his fingers behind his head, he glances towards the ceiling. “Roxy’s pissed you're late. That you were so far behind the head of the group. When I came in, I came in with Clutch and Slim in the middle of the group riding in—she was already fit to be tied. And that was…” He pulls his phone from his back pocket. “…At two this afternoon.” He glances up at me while tucking his iPhone back into his pocket and narrows his eyes back on mine. “You go back by there?”
I nod. “And why’s she so pissed? What’s got her feathers all ruffled?” I ask, trying to avoid his original question.
“You know why. She likes keeping tabs on you. How’s she supposed to mother you if she doesn’t know where you’re at, brother? You know how it’s been...since Ben and all that shit. She doesn’t like to share, you just aren’t aware of it. What? You think she’s stupid?” His chuckle turns from dark to downright sinister. “She knows, dude. Anyone who sleeps with you or around you knows what’s in your head when shit’s getting real. She knows. You talk in your damn sleep too much. Hell, she’s gotta know. And I’m not surprised she’s pissed that you’re coming home late from where your little ‘vagabond’ fucking lives. And look—all of that’s beside the point.” His hands are going back to his hair, and his fingers loosely sift through the dreadlocks at the nape of his neck before he twists the shit and anchors his hands over the mass at the back of his head. Leaning back and looking at me, he finishes, “Dozer, Slim and Lynette’s boy, called—they talked to Clutch. He and the rest of the guys are downstairs.” Dreads nods towards the church area of the steeple. “Finish doing what you need to do, but the brothers need to talk. Something’s happened, and I need you fresh and your mind straight when you hear it, okay, brother?”
The tone in his voice remained the same during his spiel. But the tone in his look, the tone in his eyes—it did change. It went from aggravation to seriousness to pleading. And because I trust Dreads, more than any other motherfucker than myself at this point in my life, I nod.
“Tell ‘em to give six me hours. Make sure the meeting with DDDs and 'King' is kept under wraps, at least until we find out how far Pops and Unc’s hands were in this shit. I knew it had something to do with women, but still. Even this shit’s too far-fetched,” I say, referring to the intel’s information we received when we were in Daytona. “And yes, as wildly as I like to live, and as many women as I’ve been through, even for me, I can’t rightly wrap my fucking head around it right now, Dreads. Especially the part about Eve. I didn’t even know she fit into this, and now she’s seeming to fit in everywhere. I’ll talk to Clutch. After this Roxy shit has settled down. First I gotta iron that shit out.”
I think back to Eve. The note I scribbled on the first piece of paper I could find before I left. And then I fucking sigh, feeling the weight of my current circumstance
s weigh heavier than they ever have. Well, before I stopped by a little beach house on my way home from Daytona.
I glance out over the boneyard towards the main compound. “I went by there. I had some shit I needed to give her, that’s all. Something of hers I had. I didn’t think about it until after I’d checked out of the hotel. I just swung by, dropped it off. That’s all,” I smoothly somewhat lie to my brother.
“Just do us motherfuckers in the club a favor, and keep your head outta Eve’s ass. Shove it up Roxy’s. Hers is nice.”
When I shake my head, he mimics me, then sighs before continuing. “Fine. Shove it up Chelsey’s; she’s new in town. Cute as a button. I’d like to unbutton, too. There are too many other asses around here, man. Don’t do what your fucking pops did. Notice the toxic ones, and heed that notice—’cause it probably means they’ll have the power to hurt you, then you….” His pointer finger taps my chest. “…stay the fuck away from them. Find ya one that doesn’t make your cock weep and your heart sing; that shit’s for the birds. Take my word for it, brother. Take my word.” He does a sorta salute. “I’ll let the other brothers know. We’ll meet you back here at midnight, get all the brothers caught up on what the intel said.” Dreads stops when he gets to the exit of my office, but he doesn’t turn around. “You gonna let them know? About Eve being O’Malley’s kid? I mean the ones that already don’t?” He doesn’t even turn around in search of my answer, but I still respond.
“I don’t rightly know yet, brother.”
His blonde dreadlock-covered head nods. “Get ya some rest, Jacques.” Then he heads around the corner and a beat of time later, I hear his feet on the stairs on their way down.
If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel Page 15
