He fucked me, hard.
Again and again. Hard, harder, harder.
He was snarling, growling nonstop, each thrust a grunt, a shout. As if he was chasing own orgasm, as if despite his words of barely there control over his imminent orgasm he was pursuing something relentless and evasive. As if it was buried inside me, and he had to fuck his way to it, and if he didn’t reach it, he would die.
Desperation. Never had I seen such raw, unmasked vulnerability and desperation in a man, or heard it in a man’s voice.
He let go of my hair, and both hands gripped into my ass cheeks, pulled them apart, yanked me backward by my hips, to leverage himself inside me harder, deeper.
I screamed again, louder, him filling me to the point of an aching overfullness, so I was ripped open by him from the inside out, and it was the most incredible feeling in the world.
I was his.
Utterly.
Yet, I knew, knew in my soul that he was equally mine. It was written on his face. Painted on his features, scribed in the weathered lifelines of his face.
“Charlie!” A savage growl of my name, knifing into my heart. He needed to come. Needed it, so bad.
“Come for me, Crow!” I cried. “Please, baby, let me feel you come inside me.”
He yanked me backward, fingers in my hips leaving bruises on my pale skin, and we watched us, eyes meeting in the mirror, the slap of our skin and the gasps of our breathing in unison, and the cries and grunts a music unlike any other, the soundtrack to this orchestral orgy of mutual abandonment each to the other.
“Fuck me, Crow,” I whispered, too far gone to speak any louder. “Fuck me harder, baby.”
And he did.
Oh god, he did.
And then, with a rabid, feral, guttural roar, he pounded into me, shuddering all over, pushing deep, and I felt it, then. Felt him release. Felt his cock slide deeper as he pushed into me, harder, deeper, felt his balls tap against my sex, felt his stomach against me, his thighs against mine. Instead of pulling out, he just tried to go deeper, and he throbbed inside me.
“Charlie—” his voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh fuck—oh god, Charlie.”
And then he finally pulled almost all the way out and slammed deep again, falling over me, chest to my spine, gasping, and now his thrusts were quick and relentless and he righted himself and gave over to hard fast thrusts, arching backward and yanking me, growling, still coming, his thrusts without rhythm, without timing, without technique, just raw wild primal fucking.
And that—that was when I came. Truly, wrenchingly came.
I couldn’t even scream.
He yanked free of me, and I knew what he was doing without having to be told. I whirled, leaped, and he caught me, slid back home, and I screamed around my teeth clenched into his shoulder, leaving what was sure to be nasty teeth-mark bruises, and he was fucking me so beautifully, just holding me, and I was clinging to him, wrapped around him, skin to skin, body to body, melted and melded to him.
Finally, we could stand no more. He sank to his knees, sitting on his heels so I was sitting on his thighs. I collapsed against him, but had to kiss him. Kissed his shoulder, his neck, where I’d bitten him—twice—felt ridges on his back where my fingernails had left marks, smoothed them with my hands, kissed his jaw, his cheekbone, his forehead, his temples, and then his mouth.
His mouth, endlessly.
Lost myself in kissing him, breathless with my orgasm, which was still shaking me, wracking me, a slow deep rolling tide of wave after wave orgasmic bliss wracking me and wracking me and wracking me, with him still buried inside me as I sat on him, kissing him, tongue sliding and tangling with his and tasting his mouth and scouring his lips and kissing him until we were breathless.
He finally broke apart, gazed at me in wonder. “Charlie…”
I feathered my hands in his hair. “No words, Crow…there are…there’s just no words for that.”
He shook his head, but it was an agreement. “No. No words.”
“I don’t know if I can walk, Crow.”
He laughed, resting his head against my breasts. “Me either.” There was an impatient fist against the door. “We gotta scram, baby.”
I palmed his cheek. “Call me baby again, Crow.”
“You’re mine, Charlie-girl. You’re my baby. All mine.”
I shivered, this time from the impact of his words, and the way he had just changed my life.
Direct hit.
“Yours,” I whispered against his throat, tasting his pulse. “All yours.”
Crow
Shaken to my very core, I worked with trembling hands to help Charlie get dressed, and then made quick work of my own clothing. Both of us dressed, Charlie stood in front of the mirror, her fingers nimbly, swiftly braiding her hair. Once braided, she twisted it into a bun low on her neck, then turned and faced me.
I reached out, taking her hand. “Ready?”
She shook her head. Lifted her shoulders up and back, took a deep breath, let it out in a short, sharp huff. “Nope. Let’s go.”
I laughed. Unlocked the door, and tugged it open. There was a semicircle of ugly stares, crossed arms, and pissed-off body language.
“About done?” someone snarled.
I kept a neutral expression. “Yep. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
The speaker, an older guy with a graying beard and ponytail, continued to glare. “Had to piss in the ladies’ room.”
“Did you grow tits?” Charlie asked.
He turned purple. “No, I did not grow tits.”
I restrained a snort and kept my face blank. She was baiting an already nasty crowd, but shit, she was feeling good. I let her speak her mind. I could handle just about anything that came our way. Despite feeling a little weak in the knees from what we’d just done, I also felt like I was on a mountaintop, surging with possessive adrenaline.
“Dick still there?” Charlie asked.
He stepped toward her. “Sure is. Wanna see?”
I growled at him, and he paled, backed away. “Don’t think so,” I murmured, putting a snap of authority and threat into it. “We’re leaving.”
The speaker stepped aside. He had a new grin on his face, one that I didn’t like. “Be my guest. Please.”
My hackles rose at the amusement on his face. Something told me there was a surprise waiting for us outside. I felt my body tensing, muscles tightening, coiling.
My breath came short.
Head went airy, light, my sense of time shrinking—each moment stretching out.
“Charlie.” I spoke low, held her close, my arm around her waist, tucking her against my side. “Just gotta warn you, babe. Gonna be trouble outside.”
She hissed. “How do you know?”
I shook my head, shrugged. “Just know. I can feel it. That fella back there was awful amused when I said we were leaving. Pair that with the warning the bartender gave us and it doesn’t add up to anything good.”
“So what do we do? We can’t stay here.” She sounded nervous, scared.
“Babe.” I touched my lips to her ear. “Remember how we met?”
She nodded. “I’ll never forget it.”
“So, don’t worry. I got you. We’re cool.”
“What if there are a lot of them?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” We reached the door, and I paused to look her in the eyes. “Couple things, one, do—not—help. Stay outta the way. Don’t call the cops. Don’t panic. Two—don’t be scared. Especially not of me. No matter what you see me do, you do not have a thing to worry about. I’ll always treat you like the queen you are, okay? Three—I’m probably gonna take some hits. I’ll be fine. By now you know I ain’t lived the cushiest life, yeah? I can take a hell of a beating, so don’t worry about me.”
I held her gaze, and she nodded shakily.
“I’m still scared, Crow.”
I smiled. “Darlin’, you’re with me. I got you.”
She nodded, lifting h
er chin. “Okay. I trust you.”
I just hoped that would remain true when this shit show was over—I had a feeling. A bad feeling. One other time I had this feeling, and that ended up being the worst, darkest day of my life. One with lasting consequences.
I opened the door. Shook myself, loosening my muscles, letting my breathing go slow, even, deep. Senses on alert. Scanned the lot as I opened the door, saw trucks now parked around my bike. Men waiting. Glanced to either side before I left the building—all clear. They were waiting at my bike.
If they’d touched my bike, this was gonna get fucking ugly.
The bartender was behind us. “Don’t go out there, man.”
I relaxed my shoulders. “Gotta. Ain’t gonna hide in the damn bar.”
“Your funeral, man.”
“Nope, it’ll be theirs.” I glanced at him. At Charlie. “You strapped?” I asked the bartender.
He nodded, wary. “Yeah, but—”
I gestured at the ring of trucks and bikes around my Indian. “I can handle them, but not if I gotta worry about her.”
He lifted his chin. Reached behind his back and pulled out a Ruger snubnose revolver. “Won’t interfere, but nobody touches your old lady.”
I met his eyes. “I’ll make sure the AzTex are aware of it.”
He nodded—even up here, the name of my MC drew recognition and respect. We were a one-percenter MC, and if you don’t know what that means, best I don’t tell you. I may not have the patch on my cut because I ain’t proud of how I earned it, and don’t want to advertise it, but I do have the one-percent tattoo hidden in my right sleeve.
Charlie grabbed my arm. “I’m your old lady?”
I grinned at her. “If you wanna be.”
She glanced over my shoulder, her smile fading. “I don’t like this, Crow.”
“Me either.”
The bartender’s eyes whipped to mine. “Crow?”
I nodded. “That’s me.”
“You’re patched in with the AzTex? Any relation to Coyote Crow?”
“My dad.”
He scrubbed his hair with one hand. “Coyote saved my ass, years back. Used to live in Flagstaff. Had my back against a wall, some meatheads making trouble. Coyote waded in, just because he felt like ten on one wasn’t fair odds.”
I nodded. “Sounds like Dad.” Extended my hand to him. “Crow.”
He shook my hand with a firm but easy grip. “Leif Bjornsson.” He said it Leyf BYORN-son.
“Thanks, Leif,” I said.
“Sure thing. Anything for Coyote’s family.”
I reached out, brushed my thumb against Charlie’s cheek. “Be back soon.”
“You’d better be.”
I straightened my back, tilted my chin up, and left Crow the lover and nice guy back there with Charlie. I moved toward them, slow, limbs feeling liquid. I counted—eight? Maybe ten guys.
I waded through the ring of trucks, and stood in the middle, next to my bike, arms at my sides.
“Gonna take that cut off you and send you home in bag, wrapped in it,” a deep voice said. Yak.
“Can you read?” I snarled. “You know the name. You sure you wanna do this?”
He prowled out from between a truck and a big tricked-out Harley. “Your little bitch disrespected me.”
“My old lady showed you she wasn’t anyone to fuck with. You got what you deserved.” I pivoted in a slow circle. Eight, nine…ten. Eleven. Felt a flutter of nerves. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Yeah, we do.” Yak smirked. “She’s gonna watch us turn you into hamburger, and then I’m gonna have a whole hell of a lotta fun teaching that sweet little pussy a long, hard lesson.”
Good thing for me I know how to hold my temper. He wanted me to charge him. I was seeing red, but I knew how to wait.
“You’re gonna regret those words.” I forced myself to sound cool, unconcerned.
I was, though—concerned, I mean. Eleven was a lot.
And they looked mean.
I had a collapsible baton in my saddlebags, and normally I prided myself on being able to handle myself without needing a weapon, but with eleven on one, it seemed like a prudent time to even the odds a little.
I was leaning on the saddle and slipped my hand into the saddlebag, moving by feel. Found it, withdrew it. Six inches long collapsed, with a single flick of my wrist, it would extend to twenty-five inches of heat-treated steel, with a lead weight at the tip, for counterbalance…and bone snapping.
I held it in one hand, collapsed and faced Yak. “Gonna take me all at once, or one by one?”
He just grinned, ugly, evil. “Got yourself a little toy, do you? Fine. Let’s do this.”
He stepped toward me. Reared up to his full height, swelling his chest to look even bigger. He had a nasty grin on his fat ugly face, like he was about to have fun.
Joke’s on him. I don’t play games.
“Last warning, Yak-face. You and your buddies fuck off while you can still walk on your own two feet.” I restrained the urge to charge, and to bury my fist in his nose. “I ain’t gonna be nice about this.”
He just laughed, shook his head like I’d said something absurd. “You see the numbers here?”
“Yeah. And you better hope you have enough friends that some you won’t all need the hospital.”
He was done talking, apparently. The grin wiped away, he took a long lunging step toward me, a big meaty fist swinging. I ducked under the telegraphed punch, swung the butt end of my baton, still collapsed, into his ribcage on the right side. Then I pivoted and drove my knee into his left side, near his liver and kidney.
Then all hell broke loose.
Two more came at me from my right, and I hopped sideways from left foot to right, slicing a side kick out straight, nailing one in the stomach. I kept the momentum going and used it to pivot around into a scything roundhouse kick to the second, landing it in his ribcage, under the arm he thought he was going to be punching with. Then I had no time to think—it was just me, and all of them.
I snapped my baton out, jabbed it into a gut, swung it around and felt a kneecap explode, heard a scream. Busted a skull open. Broke ribs. Used my feet and knees, and my off-hand for follow-up strikes—this was no game; they were going down, and hard.
I felt a fist hit my ribs, near my kidney, pain lancing through me, and the pain sent me into a tailspin. Most fights were one-sided—me taking them out, fast and hard, ending it as swiftly as possible. Seldom does my temper enter the fray—I can’t afford to let it.
When it does rise, like now, it’s…vicious.
Seeing red is when someone pisses you off, insults your old lady or you or your friends. When that happens it’s not my temper you see, it’s my honor being crossed. And while not smart, given what I’m capable of, it never turns lethal.
But this?
The thrust of a fist in my side, another to my liver, a third to my jaw…
The pain awakened some instinct inside me, bringing a dark and violent thing to life.
Now, I saw black.
The edges of my vision darkened, went hazy. My vision narrowed and I saw everything in absolute clarity, as it happened, all around me. My opponents were moving in slow motion. I saw a fist angling for my nose, turned my face aside to take it on my cheekbone. Another burst of pain.
A fist to my lips, splitting them against my teeth.
Blood fountained from my nose.
I heard and felt myself roar, and then I was done taking hits. The baton was a blur, and bones crunched and shattered, cartilage dissolved. My feet moved in lightning footwork, knocking out knees sideways, slamming into ribs. My off-hand went hammer-fist into livers. Knees scythed.
I took hits. Plenty of them. I was a mass of pain, blood pouring from my nose and lips. I had a bruised rib for sure, a split cheek, and other places that just hurt.
But now it was just me and Yak. He’d made it to his feet, and was assessing the pile of moaning, crying bodies around him.
I stood, bleeding, savage rage on my face. Watching him, baton in hand.
He was holding his ribs. “Come on, fucker,” he said as he reached into his pocket.
“You pull a knife, you’ll be leaving on a stretcher with your friends.”
He pulled it anyway. Big, long, fuck-off black, folding blade, at least four inches of blade, if not more. Drop point, assisted open. Serrated.
“Come on, man. You’re done. It’s over. You think you’re getting anywhere near me with that?”
“I’ll cut you to pieces, bitch,” he growled. “Your little stick won’t help you.”
Little stick my ass. Tran, the current president of the AzTex is Filipino, and an expert in Filipino stick fighting. Which he taught me.
I hated this part.
The part where this injured, hopelessly outmatched idiot decides to push his luck. I was in pain, angry, and not in control. If he came at me with the knife, I couldn’t guarantee he’d live to walk away.
He held it like he knew what he was doing, but little good that would do him.
Hold back, I told myself.
I repeated that injunction as I waited for Yak as he circled, knife waving, tip circling. Hand out, light on his feet for a big guy.
Hold back.
But when someone comes at you with a knife, there is no holding back. He swung, and I danced backward, the tip missing my belly by a whisker. Danced back again, and again. Then he did something stupid. Tried to fake me out with a feint.
I faked like I was going to counter his strike, and he turned the feint into a real strike, which brought him off-balance.
I used my free hand to snag his wrist, twisted, turning his elbow and wrist the wrong way, and I brought my baton down, hard. His elbow turned inside out.
He dropped the knife and went to one knee, growling through gritted teeth.
I backed away, hoping it was over.
He lurched up, the knife in his off-hand. He moved faster than I’d have believed him capable of, and I only just barely managed to twist aside, so the knife sliced along my ribcage, opening my skin deep, but not penetrating the way it could have.
Not So Goode Page 19
