He walked in and straight through until he was standing at the entrance of the main room.
She was sitting on the sofa, her ginger hair loose over her shoulders and down her back. Wearing a dress with skinny straps—blue, of course—she was sitting cross-legged, holding a glass of white wine in her lap. She was smiling at him. Or, more accurately, in his direction, because as he stood there, that smile of greeting, as if she were expecting a friend, faded and became empty.
Carter was sitting next to her on the sofa. That fat fuck was close—facing her, leaning in, one arm extended behind her across the back of the sofa, the other holding a glass of white wine, a twin to Tasha’s.
Len just stared, thoughts stuttering around in his head, none of them gaining purchase. His fingers curled tight against his palm, but he fought for calm. The fight took all he had, though, so he just stood there, staring.
Tasha set her wine down on the table in front of her and unfolded her legs. As she stood, she asked, “What are you doing here, Len?”
He kept staring.
Then Carter put his glass down and stood, too. He took a sidestep and placed himself slightly in front of Tasha, as if offering her protection. From Len.
“Tasha asked you a question, friend.”
A thought finally made its way through. It was a small one. Perfect in its simplicity. More of an impulse, really. Since it was the only thing that had emerged into clarity, he went with it.
He pulled his piece. And aimed it at Carter the Pompous Fat Fuck’s head.
“You’re leaving, friend. Right the fuck now.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus. Len, put the gun down.”
He kept his eyes trained on his target, so he didn’t see her expression clearly, but Tasha sounded more annoyed than afraid. Carter the Fat Fuck, on the other hand, looked like he was going to shit himself. It was quite a thing, staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. Especially the first time. You never forgot your first time. Your mortality, right down a tiny, dark tunnel. No light at the end of that one.
“I’ll put it down when he’s gone. I want him gone.”
“And if I don’t?” Still she sounded annoyed. Like he was merely inconveniencing her by pointing a Glock at her fat lover’s head. With every intention of blowing his horn-rimmed glasses right through his brain if he didn’t get the fuck out.
“I’m the one holding the gun, Doc. That makes me in charge. He leaves.”
She actually sighed.
“Go, Carter. Go. I’m sorry.”
“Tasha—I’m…I…,” Carter stammered. Len knew what he was struggling with—the fuck wanted to bolt with his dick tucked up high, but that little bit of protectiveness that had made him step in front of her was now trying to force him to say or do something gallant.
What he landed on was, “I’ll call help.”
“No. Don’t. You’ll only make it worse. I’ll be fine. Go on. I’ll call as soon as I can.”
Another pause, demonstrating a halfhearted chivalry, and then Carter was scurrying toward freedom, sidling past Len, who kept the Glock trained on his wide ass until the blue door was closed, and he and Tasha were alone. He decocked his weapon and put it away in its holster, under his arm. And finally turned to see Tasha. Her eyes were bright and cold. Faceted stones.
“Now you can get out, too.” Tasha picked up the wine glasses from the low table and took them to the counter. She drank one down and then the other, then put the empty glasses in the sink.
“I mean it, Len. Get out.”
He stood at the end of the counter, trying to let his mind settle. “Were you gonna fuck him?”
“Not your concern. Get out.”
“What do you see in him?”
“For starters, he doesn’t carry a fucking gun.”
She leaned back into the corner of the counter, her arms crossed under her tits. She looked good—her hair silky and loose, that blue dress so little, her legs bare under it, her arms bare over it. She had a faint spray of freckles across her chest and shoulders, and the way she was holding her arms deepened her cleavage and made those freckles pop. Fuck, his cock felt like a lead club in his jeans.
He advanced on her.
“Back off, Len. I mean it.” But she had room to move, and she didn’t take it. She stood where she was and watched him come.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
She didn’t respond.
“Were you gonna fuck him?”
“None of your business.”
“What does he do for you, Tasha? How does he make you want it? Does he make you scream? Does he make you beg? Do you ride him like a whale? No—I know what it is. You like being buried under that big belly. Held down. That’s what you like. Does he cuff you, too, Tash?”
He was standing inches from her now. She had not changed positions, but her fingers gripped her arms so hard that the skin was mottled around them. And her chest was heaving with her audible breath.
“Fuck you.” This time, she whispered.
Reaching out with one hand, he gripped her face, catching her chin in the webbing between his thumb and his hand. She sucked in a breath, and he squeezed. He wasn’t gentle. He had no intention of being gentle. Then he shoved his leg between hers, kicking her legs open, and put his other hand under her dress. He pushed her panties aside and wet his fingers in her pussy, dragging them hard over her clit, watching her eyes flare and her skin flush.
Her arms were still crossed over her chest, lifting her tits and pushing them close. She was panting now, as he worked her clit brutally, letting his blunt nails scrape over that knot of nerves. She bucked her hips but then caught herself and stilled.
“Answer my question. Were you gonna fuck him?”
She stared up at him; the only sound she made was the rasp of her breath. It mingled with his.
He pushed his hand from her chin around until he was gripping the back of her neck. Then he spun and shoved her up against the island. When her hips hit, she finally released her arms in a reflex, and he bent her harshly forward. With his free hand, he grabbed one of her wrists, then released her neck and grabbed the other, pulling them behind her back until they were joined, and he could wrap one of his large hands around both of hers on the subtle curve at the base of her spine. She’d made one sound, a surprised whine, but no other.
He was still operating primarily on autopilot, following impulses more than making a plan, and he unbuckled his wide leather belt and pulled it free of his jeans. He heard her gasp at the strident sweep of leather leaving denim, but she didn’t protest more, and she didn’t fight him hard. Her only fight was in the tension of her body as he held her down.
“Were you gonna fuck that soft son of a bitch?”
“Fuck you.” Her words were strained by the pressure of his body wedging hers against the edge of the countertop. He wrapped his belt around her wrists and fed the end through the buckle, pulling it tight, until the leather dug into her fair skin. Then he wrapped the rest of the belt around his fist and pulled more.
She sighed.
Not a sound of distress at all.
“You little redheaded freak.” He pushed his hand between her legs. She was so wet he could wipe it from her thighs and bring it back to taste. Which he did. Then he put his hand back and shoved his fingers deep into her, finding the place that made her craziest of all, and he leaned over her back, his pull on the belt still strong. His face close to hers, he gritted, “Open your eyes, Doc.”
She did. Her pupils were huge.
“You want this? Like this?”
She stared. Then nodded. And he smiled.
“Then give me what I want. The truth, baby. Were you gonna fuck him?”
After one last, token resistance, she answered. “No.”
“You fucked him since us?”
“No.”
“You fucked anybody without me?”
“No.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Good answer. Good girl.” He pushed ba
ck up and opened his jeans. Getting a condom open and on in this position, with one hand, took an extra second or two, but then he spread her wide and sank deep, fucking her fiercely from the start, his fingers digging into her hip as he kept the belt taut in this other hand.
She felt so fucking good on him. She always did.
He needed it, he’d been going crazy with need for days, and he was going for it, not trying to make anything last. But she needed it, too, and he felt her body spasming around him almost from his first deep, bludgeoning thrust. By the time he felt the low cramp that signaled the nearness of his release, she was making a series of keening, grunting moans. Then she went board-stiff, her chest rising up off the concrete island, and her pussy clamped so tightly on him he thought he’d die.
“Fuck!” He yelled it once as the orgasm slammed through him, and then he stilled, as deep in her as he could be, his body twitching as if she were electrocuting him.
In control of his faculties again—more than he had been since he’d seen Carter pushing up on her—Len leaned down and lightly kissed Tasha’s back, between the delicate fairy wings tattooed over her shoulders and down. He nuzzled her skin and stepped back, releasing his hold on the belt as he slid out of her. She gasped and flexed as his body left hers, but otherwise, even after he was no longer holding her down, she didn’t move.
He pulled his belt through the buckle, freeing her hands. She brought them forward and then stood. The skirt of her little dress dropped lightly down over her ass.
They didn’t say anything. She didn’t turn around, just stood, facing the island, her back to him and her shoulders straight and stiff.
Standing there with his dick hanging out was not an option, so he dealt with the condom and closed his jeans. Then he coiled his belt and set it on the island, right next to where she’d lain on the concrete surface. She turned her head, and he knew she was looking at the spiral of scuffed, black leather.
“Tasha.”
She reacted to his voice, a cock of her head, like a twitch, but she didn’t turn. “Why are you here, Len? For pussy? Well, now you can go.”
No, he couldn’t.
He put his hand on her shoulder, and she stiffened more at that touch than she had at anything he’d done to her since he’d chased Carter away. “Tasha. Do you need me to be sorry?” The question sounded strange even to him, but it was what he wanted to know.
“I need…”
Her voice failed there; he heard the break. Before she could start again, he circled his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. With his mouth on her ear, he whispered, “What? What do you need?”
All at once, she relaxed. But it wasn’t as if she’d been convinced, as if he’d given her what she needed. Instead, it was if she’d been defeated. “I don’t know.”
He turned her in his arms and lifted her chin so that he could search her eyes. “I know what I need. Let me love you. Trust me. I won’t hurt you. I won’t.”
A long sigh. Then she lifted her head out of his hand and laid it on his chest.
In this moment, for now, he was simply glad she’d stopped fighting.
For now, he’d take surrender.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tasha woke to the feeling of a rough hand gently stroking her arm, a stubbled chin on her shoulder.
“Doc. Wake up.”
With a deep breath, she pulled wakefulness from the edges of sleep and rolled to her back. Len loomed over her, his expression serious. He was dressed, all but his kutte. The room was still mostly dark; it couldn’t be much later than dawn.
“Trouble?”
“Got a call. I gotta go, baby. Before I do, though—where are we, you and me?”
She closed her eyes, unready to start a big talk, so soon after waking and with him on his way out the door. They’d barely spoken at all the night before—just fucked each other again and again, roughly and into unconsciousness. She had no idea what any of it meant.
“Len…that’s too much for right now.”
“Yeah. I only want to know if I can come back. Are we done, or not?”
That made her angry, and her senses sharpened. “What? Why are you here at all, if we’re done?”
“Easy, Doc. All I’m sayin’ is I’m giving you the call. I don’t want to be done. I love you. I’m running out of ways to make you see that.”
Tasha didn’t want to be done, either. She just didn’t know how to make what she wanted and what she needed fit in the space left by what she feared. “Come back.”
He smiled and brushed her hair from her forehead. “Good. Might be a couple days. Got some business. But I’ll be back, and we’ll talk. Right? Maybe make some new rules?”
“Yeah, okay.” She was too tired and confused after the night they’d just spent, and the days before it, to think much more.
He kissed her, and then he left, and Tasha rolled over and tried to sleep. She had nowhere special to be.
~oOo~
“Bloody Mary for me, please.”
“I’ll have the same.” Carter held out his hand, and Tasha handed him her drink menu so that he could pass it to the server. With a promise to be back right away with their drinks and to take their brunch order, the server left them alone.
And they resumed staring at each other. Tasha wasn’t sure what it was she felt. Was she angry at Carter? Or at Len? Herself? Did she feel guilty? She was still feeling fizzy and confused about what had happened with Len, and the last thing she was in the mood for was one of Carter’s patented lectures. But she owed it to him. And so, when he’d called and asked if she was okay and if he could see her, she’d agreed and dragged her depressed ass out of bed.
“You’re wrong, Carter. That’s all I can say.”
“Am I? You do recall that I was chased from your loft at gunpoint, yes? Unless there was more in that pinot grigio than grapes, I’m well convinced I didn’t hallucinate that. Yes?”
“Don’t be pompous. You’re fine. I had it under control.”
“Did you? I’m not sure it’s possible to have a situation like that under control. That man—Tasha, my love, I’m worried about you. We all are. The way things have been lately…it’s not like you, dear.”
That was the rub, really. It was like her. The way she’d been, the way she’d grown up. She hadn’t even blinked when Len pulled his gun. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe he’d pull the trigger; he was perfectly capable of doing so. But it simply hadn’t scared her.
And what had happened after, just between her and Len? As rough as it had been, that had been like her, too. And sitting here watching concern and censure fight for time on Carter’s face, Tasha had a sudden insight—that was what was gumming up her head. Who she’d been and who she’d tried so hard to be, crashing into each other and leaving bloody wreckage behind.
For all her concerted efforts to be Dr. Natasha Westby, she was still, at her core, the wild thing her father had raised—or left to raise herself, more like.
Frank hadn’t been neglectful. Not at all. He’d doted on her, and she loved her father with a ferocity that stayed with her even all these years after his death. He had never let her down. But he had been clueless about raising a child, certainly a girl, and his idea of taking care of her had been to keep her near—which meant the clubhouse more often than not. She’d been raised by the Horde itself—when they’d noticed she was around to need raising. When they didn’t notice, and she was left to her own devices there, she’d gotten a whole different kind of raising up.
She’d grown up wanting to be Horde, expecting to take the Flaming Mane at her earliest opportunity. She’d been a teen before she’d realized that being female made that impossible. For a few years, she stubbornly continued on, pretending that wasn’t the case. By the time she’d resigned herself to the reality, she was in high school, and she’d noticed Isaac in a new way, and she’d begun to see herself in a different way, too.
When that all crashed so spectacularly around her ankles, she
’d fled, made distance. Got a late start, but went off to college, then medical school. Made a name for herself. Traipsed off to Asia and Africa to do humanitarian work. She hadn’t been able to make herself go too far for too long, though; even when she was fleeing, if she got too far from Signal Bend, there was that fizzy feeling inside her, like her reception wasn’t clear. But she’d made distance.
Not enough to break free. It would never be enough—or it would always be too much. She was Horde. She was club.
It wasn’t Len who was wrong in her life. It was her life that was wrong.
Well, now she was starting over. Now she had to figure it out again.
She looked across the linen-draped table at Carter. A milk-glass bud vase holding a yellow tulip sat in the middle of the table, and tiny little milk glass salt and pepper shakers sat just to the side. The server brought their Bloody Marys, elaborately garnished with celery, lemon wedges, and olives. As he stood there with his pad out, waiting to take their order, Tasha laughed. This little bistro at which they’d eaten countless times suddenly struck her as ridiculously fussy.
She picked up her Bloody Mary, yanked the garnish out and dropped it to the linen tablecloth, where it splashed tomato-red streaks over the crisply-ironed surface. Then she drank the whole drink down in one go, swallowing rhythmically until there was nothing left but a red scum around the glass.
With a sardonic flourish, she wiped the corners of her mouth. “I’m gonna go, Carter. I have things to do.” She dropped three fives on top of the discarded garnish, and she left, turning her back on Carter’s gaping face.
~oOo~
After her aborted brunch with Carter, Tasha spent the rest of the day doing research for her new practice. All the papers were signed, and the permits were in process. Now, though, she had to make sure she had a clear, definitive understanding of the equipment and resources she’d need and how much everything would cost.
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