“Umm …” His voice cracked as she released his cock and proceeded to lick it like a lollipop, a very, very wide lollipop. “You do know we live …” She wrapped her lips around his girth and swirled her tongue on his precum, savoring its flavor before taking him into her mouth completely. “… sound proofing … not.”
She popped him from her mouth and looked up at him. “Seriously, Jesse, are you trying to ruin what I think was going to be a most satisfying blowjob by giving me specs to our new apartment?” She tried to add a tinge of anger to her voice, but the teasing came through loud and clear.
“No?”
“Good, now let me get back to my snack. We have a long trip ahead of us.” Before he could argue, she took him in completely, adding all of his favorites to the mix. A lick here, a tiny nip there, a whole lotta swallow here and a bit of a ball massage there. He was shooting down her throat in no time. He used to question her every time before allowing himself to let go until she pretty much told him he better stop ruining her fun. Now he let her take him at her will, and she was pretty darn confident that he liked it even more than she did. And that was saying something.
She pulled his softening cock from her mouth, cleaning it with her tongue as she did. Tucking it gently back into his jeans, she began to button him. She could tell from his body still shaking, just the tiniest bit, that he had not fully recovered from that one, and she loved it. She stood face to face to him, admiring his afterglow.
“Alrighty then, time to go.” She leaned in and gave him a chaste kiss before walking around him toward the door.
“My turn,” he growled. She giggled. Somehow he thought growling made him sound tough. It didn’t, at least not in the bedroom.
“My turn is at the new place.” She opened the door and stepped out. “I believe I packed those new handcuffs in there somewhere.” She ran toward the door as his rich laughter filled the air.
“You.” He caught her before she reached the front door. She must have shocked him more than she had thought because he usually caught her before they hit the stairs. Who knew stair sex could be fun? Not at all the uncomfortably awkward mess she had imagined it to be. “Stop thinking about stair sex.”
“Oh, I will think about whatever it takes to have us in our new apartment and unpacked.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out a list on paper and handed it to him, mischief dancing in her eyes.
“What is this?” He looked down at it, and she felt the lust roll off of him.
“That is a list of all the things I bought and hid in the boxes that were delivered to our new apartment this morning. I figure …” She leaned in close and nibbled at his mark. “That once we unpack, and in doing so find them all, we will have to give them a try.”
“All … of … them ...” Jesse gulped. “Are at the apartment?”
“Uh huh …” Oh, the power she felt right now was heady.
“The handcuffs …”
She nodded.
“The sexy lingerie?”
She nodded.
“… assortment of fun flavored lube?”
“I may have exaggerated on the flavors, but yes.”
“The … butt plug?”
“Well.” She gave him her most mischievous grin. “That one is not at the apartment.”
He looked disappointed for a moment, but pulled it back together. “But all this other stuff is?”
“Yes, all the other stuff is.”
He started to walk toward the door with a new sense of urgency.
“Jesse?”
“Yes, love.” Lust was still pouring off of him in droves.
“Don’t you want to know where the butt plug is? It is a pretty one and has a stone the color of your eyes.”
“Where?” It barely came out, his erection visibly stretching his jeans uncomfortably.
“I forgot to pack it, so …” She rubbed her hand over his jean clad erection. “I decided to wear it instead.” She turned to run back up the steps. She loved getting him this worked up, and the growl behind her let Jolie know he loved it just as much.
They left two hours later than planned with smiles brighter than the sun.
Go Back
COPYRIGHT AND CREDITS
PRINCE IN LEATHER is a work of fiction.
Names, places, entities, and scenarios in this book are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Copyright 2015 by Holley Trent
For more information, please visit www.holleytrent.com.
Print book ISBN: 978-1512251135
First Edition.
E-book version first published in Masters of the Hunt anthology in June 2015.
Prince In Leather by Holley Trent
Chapter One
Hearth Motel 1
It’d been thirteen days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-five minutes since the Hearth Motel had its last guest, and owner Simone Bristol was stressed. Probably not for the same reasons a typical motel proprietor would be, though. She was used to the long gaps between paying guests, and having a checking account stretched tighter than a guitar string was nothing new. There was always just enough money to keep the lights on at the half-century-old motor lodge, and a bit on the side to pay the satellite dish company—usually late—the water bill, and sundry other unavoidable expenses.
There were newer motels on the strip of the North Carolina Outer Banks between Salvo and Rodanthe. Better motels. Simone’s hopes and dreams were pinned on their competitive amenities. Well, those and the sky-high nightly rate she charged for a one-queen bed unit. High prices usually meant the tourists stayed away. When they called to verify her online rates, and balked after she confirmed them, she always had a good excuse.
“It’s Thanksgiving. Rooms are at a premium,” she’d said to the last potential customer who’d phoned, along with a cheerful, “Supply and demand, you know.” She’d then suggested he try the big chain hotel in Nags Head. He must have, because he didn’t call back.
She loved it when they didn’t call back. All she needed was two piddly weeks without a guest, and she’d be free of the family curse once and for all. Five more minutes, and she could flee.
Bound to the motel with invisible chains, Simone couldn’t go beyond five miles of it in any direction. It was her anvil. Her albatross. Her turn. But, in five more minutes, the goddess Hestia could kiss her happy ass goodbye because Simone was going to be out like the satellite signal during a storm.
She bobbed on the hard-shell suitcase she perched on, clapping her hands with glee as car after car passed without stopping. “That’s right, folks. Nothing to see here. Keep on truckin’.”
The neon lights mounted on the motel’s Vacancy sign buzzed and crackled, and she rolled her eyes before pushing her sunglasses up her nose. There wasn’t much sun to speak of. The winter sky had been overcast for weeks, and that certainly contributed to the motel’s lack of patronage. Folks didn’t want to play on the beach when there was no sun.
A car slowed and the woman in the passenger seat craned her head out the window, squinting. Whether her narrowed gaze was directed at Simone in her faux fur short jacket and electric blue party dress straddling a suitcase as if it were a bronco, or at the run-down motel behind her, Simone couldn’t tell. She didn’t move. Didn’t wave, didn’t shake her head, didn’t peer at that car over the top of her sunglasses. She wasn’t allowed to discourage potential guests. If she did, she’d be required to restart the clock. Or rather, the curse clock would restart itself and she’d continue to wake up every morning hoping the last six years had just been one long, trippy, Technicolor dream brought on by consuming too much MSG before bed or something.
The woman in the car shook her head, and the driver accelerated down the sand-strewn road.
“Cozumel, I’m going to be in you by midnight tonight, baby,” Simone said with a shimmy. She was going to spend every penny she had on cheap tequila and a room she wouldn’t be responsible for cleaning.
The neon cra
ckled again as if in chastisement, and this time she sighed and straightened her back.
“How am I supposed to behave after all this time, huh?” she shouted at the sign. “I’ve been stuck here for six years because of someone else’s mistake. How’s that fair?”
After several electric pops from the sign, the word vacancy’s V, the stem of the A, the N, and the second C went kaput, leaving a handful of letters that spelled out o-c-a-y.
“Ocay? Okay, you’re telling me? Okay, what? That I can go? Or are you acquiescing for once that you’re a petty bitch and this scheme has gone on way too long?” She put her hand to her ear and awaited the responding crackles. None came, but she wasn’t really expecting any. Typical Hestia. The goddess was nothing if not inscrutable.
“It has to be one o’clock now.” Simone’s phone’s touch screen read 12:57. She could almost taste her freedom, and it tasted a lot like a margarita. Soon, she could open the trunk of her woefully neglected Miata, toss in the suitcase that for six years had had only enough clothing for a three-day trip, and put the pedal to the metal, airport-bound. She had a lot of pieces to pick up of her former life. She imagined her apartment in Raleigh had been emptied and her possessions trashed by the folks in the leasing office. She’d most certainly been fired from her job at the marketing firm. Her finances were in shambles. Gods knew what all the pieces she needed to pick up were, but she’d deal with it all…after a very long vacation far away from North Carolina. Goodbye dinky motel, goodbye curse.
“Might even get laid.” A genuine smile pulled at her cheeks for the first time in days. She missed sex…as well as having someone convenient to have sex with. Salvo wasn’t exactly a population center on the barrier island, and most of the full-time resident males were either already boo’d up or didn’t pass Simone’s basic prequalification test. Item number one: has not yet qualified for AARP card. Item number two: …
Well. There was no item number two. No one ever passed number one.
She perked up at the sound of sickly-sounding rumbling approaching from the north. Louder and louder it became. Couldn’t just be one truck sounding like that. The longer she stared, the less sure she was it was a truck at all.
“What the hell?” She stood, stuffing her cold hands into her jacket pockets. Staring at the bend in the road, she counted the headlights. Not in pairs, like on a car or truck. Singles, and a lot of them. In all her years bound to the motel, she couldn’t recall there being a crew touring the coast in winter. Sure—sometimes there’d be guys with their old ladies going out for coastal rides on unseasonably warm days, but not an entire processional like she was seeing.
As did all the other vehicles, they slowed upon approach and turned their heads toward the motel. Their dark visors gave no hints of their opinions, and that was probably for the best. Fortunately for Simone, she had no particular pride for the motel. Maybe if she’d been there by her own choice, she would have felt differently. Maybe she’d even try to fix it up and make it nice and welcoming instead of resenting it.
The biker in the lead made some arm gesture to the crew behind him, and one by one, they filed into Hearth Motel’s pockmarked asphalt parking lot.
“No,” she whispered. “Please just want directions to the Holiday Inn.”
The lead biker parked his motorcycle very near the office door, and she noticed that a second man, attached to the rider by a strap at the waist, leaned heavily onto his back. Two of the other men—or at least, she assumed they were men giving their obscene heights and broad shoulders—hurried over to them, quickly untied the apparently unconscious man from his driver, and propped him up between the two of them.
The man who’d been leading the little gang walked up to her and crooked his thumb toward the office door. “Anyone in there?” His voice was a deep, resonant rumble inside his helmet. She made a mental note to add a number two to her prequalification list down in Cozumel: Sound like that guy.
She cleared her throat and stole a glance at her phone. 12:58. “No one’s in there.”
He turned from her to the three men behind him. Someone had pulled the helmet off the leather-clad man in the middle, and his head hung forward. A fall of dark, wavy hair obscured his features.
Is he drunk? She leaned a bit sideways for a better view of his face, but his greasy hair was too dense.
“Do you know when they’re coming back?” the big guy with the bass voice asked.
She righted herself and thought, “Hopefully never,” but obviously, she couldn’t say that aloud. She had to be pleasant and hospitable, but there was no rule against being direct. “I’m the proprietor of this dump. You know, it looks like what you really need is a hospital.”
There. Oblique, and Hestia wouldn’t treat Simone to one of her karmic bitch-smacks.
“No hospitals.” He shucked off his helmet and paced in front of her, scraping long fingers through sweat-sodden brown hair.
She pushed up an eyebrow. He was definitely not of the typical biker ilk. Sure, the crew wore enough leather between them to cover three rows of seats in a Ford Expedition, but this guy was too pretty. Not Ken doll pretty by any means with all that grease and scruff, but definitely biker calendar model pretty. She could imagine him sitting astride his bike in nothing but his boots and a smile.
She guffawed at the thought, and covered her mouth. Shit, she was hard up.
He bent down to meet her gaze, his…gold?...eyes narrowed.
Had to be contact lenses. They were getting fancier and fancier, just based on what she’d seen on YouTube. That was her life. Motel laundry and YouTube.
“Did you hear me, dear?”
Nice accent. Indistinguishable. Irish? Scottish? Welsh? Hell, didn’t matter. She swallowed and cut her gaze to the slumping man behind him. He seemed to be muttering in his intoxicated state.
“Hmm?” she asked.
“I said no hospitals, no cops. He’ll be fine; he just needs to sleep it off.”
She glanced at her phone again. 12:59. Was time standing still?
She licked her dry lips. Swallowed. Stared at the slicks of cherry red toenail polish through the gaps in her peep-toe pumps before looking up at the slumping man again.
Narrow hips. Big hands.
Her gaze tracked down to his motorcycle boots.
Big feet.
She resisted the urge to reach out and nudge that fall of hair from his face by clasping her hands behind her back. She didn’t know why she wanted to touch, just that she needed to, which made no sense. She’d never been casual with her touch.
“All you all right, dear?”
“Um.” What was the question? “Three hundred per room per night are the currently advertised rates.” She pushed her lips into the same rehearsed smile she’d been wearing for customers for six years, and knew that this time, she wasn’t convincing anyone as to its sincerity—not with the way the corners of her mouth twitched. Her mind was a battleground where hopefulness and curiosity fought to the death. She wanted freedom, but at the same time, was compelled to render aid to the lush in leather. Somehow, she knew it wasn’t because of the curse.
She looked down at her phone once more. Still 12:59. She glanced at the neon sign for an answer, and it seemed to crackle teasingly at her. She didn’t think giving it the finger would make her feel any better, so she kept her hands clasped. If she could drag out the interaction until after one o’clock, she could squash her curiosity about these men, put them up for the night, and take off as soon as they left. Otherwise, the clock would start yet again and she’d have two more weeks of hoping.
Please, she pled to the leader with her eyes. All I want is freedom.
The slumping man murmured something in a tongue that wasn’t English or anything remotely close, as far as she could tell. For all she knew, he could have been cursing her long-absent mother.
“All right, give me every room you got,” the leader said. “May be here for a week or more. Hope you’re not waiting on any other reser
vations.”
Fuck. She dropped her chin to her chest and turned on the stacked heel of her pump to flick away a tear before anyone could see. Stuck for another three weeks, at the very least.
The electric clock behind the office desk—synchronized to her phone’s clock—ticked over to one o’clock as she stepped into the dark room. She held open the door for the lead biker. “Eight rooms for a week. Yes, sir,” she said in that phony chipper voice she’d practiced for so long. She pushed the registration card pile toward the man and stabbed a button to wake the office computer up from its long sleep.
“Cash all right?” he asked.
That was a lot of cash, and she didn’t even want to ponder how he’d come by it. Guessing would only agitate her. It wasn’t like she could refuse him if she didn’t like his answer. She pushed a pen across the counter, too.
He took it and quickly filled out the first card, thrusting it toward her. “That’s the first one. Can I get that key? Guy needs to lie down. I’ll come back and fill out cards for the rest of them.”
She eased the slip of paper back toward her with the tips of her fingers and studied the spidery script. It was so elegant that it looked almost like calligraphy. So…old-timey. She raised an eyebrow at the man.
He raised one right back. Smug jerk.
She read the card.
Registrant: Heath Horan
Occupants in room: 1
Address: None
Smoking or Non: Non
“No address?”
“We live on the road.”
“Sure, you do.” Again, she couldn’t refuse him, so she didn’t press.
She grabbed a key for a one-bed unit from the rack behind her and tossed it at the guy.
He caught it handily. His molten gold irises were stunning as his eyes tracked the arc of the key. No contact lens edges, just pure color that seemed to glow a bit brighter following each blink. Something was off about him, and it wasn’t just his eyes. His whole vibe was weird, and that wasn’t a feeling she got often. Was he like Hestia? Some forgotten godling whose purpose was to make the lives of mundanes a living hell? The goddess of hearth and home had a mean streak few people seemed to know about. Seemed appropriate the motel bore the name of her domain.
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