Devil's Property: The Faithless MC

by Claire St. Rose

  But then I am lifting my hand and placing it on his face, feeling the roughness of his five o’clock shadow, looking into those dark, dark eyes.

  Red laughs shortly. “Thought so,” he says.

  I am wearing a summer dress, my legs bare, and all at once Red has slid his hand up my thigh and is pressing his fingers down on my clit. I think: “someone might see. Stop it. Stop it now.” But I don’t say that; I only think it, and then just briefly. I grip on his face with one hand and his shoulder with the other, squeezing down. Red watches me as he plays with my pussy, pushing down on my clit through my panties.

  I feel as though I have been waiting past month for the feeling of Red’s callused fingers on my clit: waiting without even realizing that I’ve been waiting; waiting for the animal pleasure of it. I bite down, my vision going blurry as my eyelids flit open and closed. There’s something so dirty, so down and dirty, so fucking filthy about having his hand on me right here in this side street. I am reminded of the first time he touched me, in an alleyway close by here, and somehow I managed to stop him. I don’t think I’m going to be able to manage to stop him this time. My lust is too great: swelling inside of me, hot, almost too hot for me to comprehend.

  “Give me your car keys,” Red groans. “I want to fuck you.”

  “Have you got a condom?” I hear myself ask, my voice far away and distant.

  Red grunts out a laugh. “The damage is already done,” he says. “Give me your car keys so I can fuck you until you come all over my hard cock.”

  “Oh, god—”

  He leans in close to me, his beard tickling my cheek. “You like it when I talk like that to you, you horny bitch?” he says, breath caressing my skin, middle finger pressing firmly down on my clit. I feel my panties becoming wet, soaked, as my pussy responds to his words, to his touch.

  “I like it,” I admit, voice strained.

  “You like being told what a whore you are, a biker’s fuckin’ whore?” He rubs my clit faster, his breath warmer on my skin. “I’m going to shove you into the back of the car like a dirty bitch, Christina. I’m going to shove you in there and then slide my thick cock deep into your pussy; I’m going to pound you like a whore right here where someone might see us. I’m going to fucking make you come again and again.”

  “I can’t—”

  Oh fuck, his hand is so firm on my clit, so fast. So hot, too, as though small flames dance at the end of each of his fingers. He pushes aside my underwear and then slides his middle and ring finger deep inside of me. I cramp up, leaning forward, propping my hands on his shoulders. It’s too much; it’s too hot; it’s too dirty and naughty. We’re right here in a side street, right here where someone from the takeout place might come out for a cigarette break and catch us, right here where someone walking by the street might glance down and see us. Oh, fuck, this isn’t me. This isn’t me. I’m a professional social worker. I’m a professional working lady…no, no, I’m his whore, right now I’m his whore, and it feels so good to let go and be this tough biker’s little whore.

  “Car keys,” he grunts, as though we really are animals and he is growling a short command at me. As he says it, he takes his hand away from my pussy and steps back, leaving a distance between us. Now that his hand is not on me, I should be able to let go of the lust. I should be able to tell him to stop. Or, at the very least, I should be able to tell him that we can’t do it here; we need to go to my apartment, or a hotel room. Yes, that is what a responsible girl would do—and it is clear I have tricked myself into believing I am a responsible girl—but as I stare at him, chest heaving, blood-flecked hands at his sides, I know I cannot stop myself. I need it, and I need it now.

  I reach into the front pocket of my dress and take out my keys, not caring about the staring gaze of the mouth of the street, the possibility of being caught at any moment, the sounds of frying and shouting coming from the takeout place; all I care about in this instance is the tingling which moves over my clit, tempting me.

  Red takes the keys, opens the back door of the car, and then grabs me by the shoulders and lays me down on the seat. I sit back, panting. My breath is suddenly going out of control. My head is light, lighter with lust than it ever was with rage, and hotter, too. Everything is aching in anticipation. I want him so badly my toes are preemptively curling, I realize. I expect Red to lean up and over me, but he doesn’t. He stays down near my legs. Then I feel his hands on my panties and I bite my lip; when he yanks my panties away, snapping them, the fabric cutting into my hips, I bite my lip so hard that I wince at the pain. I let out a squeal, and then Red begins to bite my inner thigh, hard bites, bites which will leave a mark. Up and up, he bites, and all the while I am telling myself to stop, it is too public, I can’t, I can’t…

  But then his mouth reaches my soaked, tingling pussy. Red brings his tongue to my hole, trailing it up one lip toward my clit, and then quickly moving it back down before he reaches my clit. He’s playing with me, the bastard! He does this over and over, licking up and down my lips but stopping before my clit. I hear myself moaning in frustration; and it is really like I hear myself, rather than moan, because surely I would never do something like this in the back of a car, in a side street, behind a takeout place.

  “Lick me,” I whisper. “Lick me, Red.”

  When Red laughs, his breath whispers over my pussy, up my belly. “What was that?”

  “Lick me,” I repeat, voice hoarse from the lust, voice hungry. “Lick me.”

  “I am licking you—”

  “You know what I mean!” I gasp. My body is screaming at me for him to complete what he started: my pussy is loudest of all; and my clit the loudest part of my pussy.

  Red chuckles again. “Beg for it…and I’ll think about it.”

  Beg for it…I’m not that sort of girl. I can’t beg for it. But then, if I don’t beg for it…will he stop? I almost let out a roar of frustration at this conundrum, a conundrum which only exists because of my lust. If it were not for my lust, I would not care. But my lust is powerful; Red has shown me just how powerful lust can be. I bite down on my lip, wince at the pain of the fresh cut, and then let out a long breath. My clit is not tingling any less. The sense of anti-climax will be ultimate if I stop now.

  “You’re a son of a bitch,” I mutter.

  “I see you’ve met my mother,” Red replies, before he goes back to work on my pussy.

  I open my mouth, moisten my lips with my tongue, and then start moaning. At first, the words come slow, almost as though I am dragging them out, but soon I find I enjoy begging him. I enjoy this aspect of our lust. Squeezing my legs around his head, I moan: “Lick my clit, Red. Please, please, please, oh, fuck, lick my clit. Please, I’m begging you. I’m begging you.” I let my voice get louder, despite knowing that perhaps someone in the takeout place might hear. But I don’t care, not now. “Please, please!” I cry, my clit sending urgent pulses of lust through my body. “Lick my clit, Red! Lick my—”

  Red lurches forward and squashes his tongue against my clit, pressing it so hard that everything else is blotted out: thought, concern, hesitation. All I know is the feeling of his tongue, rough and wet, pressed against my clit. He maintains the pressure for a few moments, then flicks his tongue fast and hard against my engorged clit. It has become a red, swollen spot of pleasure and my pussy a furnace which somehow keeps getting hotter.

  I reach down and place my hands on Red’s head, sliding my fingers through his hair and gripping down on his scalp, tearing my nails down his skin. He winces, but he does not stop licking, his tongue moving so fast I don’t feel any of his movements, not alone: just a jumble of pleasure, concentrated into one spot. I gasp, over and over, and he moans, his breath hot against my tortured clit.

  “Keep going—” I try to moan, but I cannot talk. I bite down, not caring when my bitten lip throbs with pain.

  Someone is watching us, I tell myself. Someone is watching this hard-as-nails biker going down between my legs. Someone
is watching as he eats me out: yes, yes, not licks me like other tender men might do, but eats me the fuck out. Someone is staring at us. I know this is not true, and yet the thought of it is suddenly appealing. The thought that someone might see how much of a whore I am letting myself be: the thought that somebody might see how much I am letting myself go. Yes, I go on, closing my legs so tight around Red’s head now that I hear him gasping for breath, his gasps tickling my pussy, yes, someone is watching how I have let myself descend into the pleasure. Someone is witnessing this. Yes, yes, yes…

  Red grips my thighs with his hands, digging his fingers into my flesh, and then does something I thought impossible: he licks with more force, more speed. The furnace explodes, the flames in my pussy no longer controlled. They hiss into my belly, up into my cheeks, each stoke of his rough tongue down my clit sending another flash of flame into me. I close my eyes. I can’t see anything but red, red, Red: Red, the biker, Red, the pleasure-giver, Red, the fucking bad boy who doesn’t care; Red, the alpha, my alpha. After so long reading romances, I finally have an alpha of my own. Yes, yes, yes. And somebody is watching us: two eyes, staring directly at me. Two eyes, which reflect the down-and-dirty wrongness of what I’m doing, but a wrongness which feels so goddamn right.

  I squeeze my legs tighter, tighter, until I imagine Red cannot breathe, until I can feel nothing but the roughness of his tongue and the roughness of his beard, his hands imprinting red marks into my skin. And then he rushes toward the end, fans the flames with the tip of his tongue encircling my clit, and I feel myself—

  No, I do not feel myself. I feel nothing but my clit, afire, spitting licking hissing flames singing out through my body, all the whilst those two observing eyes reflecting how good it feels to be bad. I open my mouth to moan, but I cannot moan. The orgasm hits me and all I can do is gasp almost silently, hollowly. Everything is given over to the orgasm. My clit is consumed with fire, and then it implodes and pulses move through me, making my body gyrate. I feel myself squirting onto Red’s face, but he does not stop and I am too deep into the euphoria to feel embarrassed. I throw my head back, arch my back, and drive my hips down, driving my pussy down into his mouth. His teeth catch me, but I hardly feel it. Just his lips, and his tongue, stroking, licking, urging the orgasm on. Time stretches and I grate my hips quicker, riding his face as he eats me, riding the fanned flames of ecstasy. I keep telling myself we are in public, anybody could see, I am acting like a whore. But if being the biker’s whore feels this good, who the hell cares? I twist my hips, dragging his tongue across my clit, as the orgasm enters its final stages. Then, as it bursts out of me in one final explosion, I dig my fingernails into his scalp so hard, and I squirt, emptying myself completely, my pussy going so tight for a moment I feel as though my hole disappears—and then opening and releasing in the last pulse of pleasure.

  Afterward, I lay back, chest heaving, arms and legs limp. I hear Red stand up, wiping his mouth, and then go around to the driver’s seat.

  “What are you doing?” I mutter, when he climbs into the car and starts the engine.

  He laughs. “Close the door,” he says. “Don’t you think we ought to talk about this whole pregnancy thing?”

  “Don’t you want to …” But I can hardly finish the sentence; I am so tired.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Red replies, as I lean up and close the car doors, “I’ll get my payback from you sooner or later, but I reckon you’re a bit worn out now.”

  “Yeah,” I murmur. “That’s one way to put it.” I gesture to the GPS. “Select ‘apartment’. We can talk at my place.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Red

  This girl is full of surprises, I reflect as I drive her car toward her apartment building. I wanted to fuck her; I had every intention of fucking her. With any other woman, I would’ve just fucked her. But there was something about the way she was moaning when I was eating her out: something irresistible about it. The way she tilted her hips, the way she begged, the way she closed her legs around my head…Goddamn, man, but that was enough for me. For me: Red, serial lady-killer, if Bron’s descriptions are anything to go by. I shake my head, smile ruefully. There’s something else, too. I’m smiling. This girl has taken me from rage, to lust, to stunned contentment in less than an hour. Then I think about her revelation, the pregnancy, and the smile falters. I’ve never been much good with family talks, and I reckon that’s what’s awaiting me up in her apartment.

  During the car ride, Christina takes a pocket mirror from her handbag and freshens herself up, and then as we come to a stop she steps from the car with the aspect of a professional, reserved lady. I almost laugh at the sight, when less than half an hour ago she was on her back in a side street moaning to the skies. I climb from the car. Christina tilts her head at me. “Something funny?” she asks, as we walk to the apartment building.

  “Nothing,” I reply. “Just—you.”

  She blushes, and opens the door. We walk up the stairs of the building and into her apartment. The first thing I notice is the coffee table, wooden and set low to the ground and covered with paperback books and notes. I scan the books and see that all of them are about hunky men: romances, then. On one of the covers a barbarian holds an axe in two hands, growling; I wonder if that’s how Christina sees me, her barbarian. The second thing I notice is how in-between messy this place is, with everything not in complete disarray, but a few things scattered here and there: a few articles of clothing strewn across the floor, a coffee mug on its side on the floor, an open book balanced precariously face down on the arm of a chair. Christina goes about the apartment, clearing things away, and then waves at the armchair. “Take a seat.”

  “Alright.”

  I sit down. It’s one of those stylish armchairs, which means it’s small and with little padding. I feel like a giant sitting at a kid’s playset as I wedge myself into it. Christina calls through from the kitchen: “Do you want a drink?”

  “Whiskey,” I reply.

  She giggles. “I don’t have whiskey. What about a smoothie?”

  “A smoothie? The fuck would I want a smoothie for?”

  “It’s healthy,” she says. “I can make us an apple and banana one. I had one when I was feeing sick. It helped.”

  “Well, I ain’t feeling sick. Just give me whatever you’ve got that isn’t a smoothie.”

  She laughs this time, then brings through two glasses of orange juice. She sits on the couch near the armchair. We both sip our orange juice in silence for a few moments, the only noise the muffled sound of somebody playing heavy metal music a few apartments over. I look at Christina almost in awe. Less than an hour ago, she was on her back, gasping, moaning, and now she looks like all respectable. The contrast between the moaning woman who begged me to call her my whore and this prim little social worker is so striking it makes my dick ache. I try to be subtle as I adjust myself.

  Alright, I need to stop this scatterbrained shit. I’m trying to take myself away from the issue; we both are. We don’t meet each other’s gaze. After the closeness of what we just did, the atmosphere is awkward.

  I clear my throat, and then say, “So, we need to talk about this.”

  Christina nods. “We need to talk about this,” she agrees. She clasps her hands together and fidgets with her fingers.

  I think about the anger I felt at her when she first confronted me outside the Englishman. I think about how I snapped at her, how blinded with rage I was. I can hardly believe it. She’s so deer-like, so fragile-looking, her hair mussy around her shoulders, her eyes huge and green; and yet there’s a strength to her to which goes against all of this. A confusing lady.

  She turns to me, smiling tiredly. “Well, let’s talk, then.”

  I think on it as she watches me. I haven’t really given it any thought since she told me; there hasn’t been any time. So now, as she watches me and a few minutes pass by, as the heavy metal music plays dim through the walls, as a few horns honk outside and a car bac
kfires somewhere in the city, I think on it for real. A child—a father. I think about my own father. He was a quiet, reserved man, but he was a good man, too. He worked in a factory, twelve hour shifts, and sometimes when he came home he would give me twenty dollars to go down the store and get him some beers, telling me I could keep the change. And then the heart attack, and the revelation that Mom had been cheating on him for years…there’s the thing, isn’t it? If I agree to this family shit, will the same happen to me?

  No, I tell myself. Fuck no, ’cause my father wasn’t an outlaw, an enforcer. My father didn’t have the grit to live on the perimeters of the law. And maybe, just maybe, if Christina had a kid, I could do better with them than my parents did with me. Just maybe …

  And then I think about how I offered Christina my phone number and she turned me down, just point-blank told me no, and I wonder if I offer myself up now, will she do the same? I can’t be sure. I’m starting to realize that in this closeness and relationship shit, you can never be sure. It’s like waking blindly through a maze looking for the exit—at least for a man like me. How can I know if this turning is the right one, or if that turning is the right one? How can I ever know?