by Rie Warren
She skimmed her teeth along the helmet of my cock, and gently bit down.
My head knocked back.
“My big tough man likes that?” She bit me again. “You like it a little rough?”
The pain was just enough to heighten my senses, the soft lips afterward mind-blowingly intense. “God, Jessica . . . what you do to me should be illegal.”
“Not just because you think I’m too young for you?”
“Nooo. Not with a tongue like that. ”
“That’s what I thought.”
She slurped me inside the wet haven of her mouth again, audibly glugging my cock. Her throat muscles tightened around me. I pulled free, holding my cock against her face, rubbing it all around until her skin shined.
“You want to come in my mouth?” She nipped my tender foreskin.
“Yeah,” came my guttural response.
“Will you be able to fuck me afterward?”
“At least twice.” No doubt.
Circling her tongue inside my stretched tight foreskin and dipping it into my slit, jerking me from the base and juggling my balls in her other hand, she laughed when she felt me thicken.
Her tongue and touches and lusty laugh proved too much.
“Fuck! JB!” I blasted off to the gulping sounds of her swallowing drowned out only by the roar of blood in my ears.
“You recover fast.” She jacked me off in soft hands, bringing me quickly to full staff as soon as my muscles stopped seizing.
“I think that’s because of you.” My body continued to shudder with aftershocks.
She licked me one last time then kneeled beside me.
Her teddy had convenient snaps between her legs. I ripped them open, her hot, wet, swollen flesh sliding against my fingers.
“I want to fuck.” She straddled me like she did the red-hot Ducati, purposeful in her aim.
One hand steadily teasing up and down my shaft, she grabbed the condom I handed her. She ripped the package with her teeth and smiled shamelessly down at me. Crawling a little backward, Jessica tormented me by gyrating her hips midair while she slowly rolled the condom down my dick.
“Do it. Fuck my cock, sweetheart.”
I held onto the headboard, every muscle tight in my skin, when she slid down my shaft. One hand braced behind her, she arched. Her belly concave, her neck elongated, she rested finally against my base.
Jessica surrounded me in the sweetest, hottest, wettest, tightest heaven. Her body quivered, and she reached up to tug down the cups of her teddy, baring dark swollen nipples.
“If you don’t move soon, I will,” I grunted.
“Will you now?” She circled slowly, keeping me deep-seated inside.
My palms traveled up her thighs and settled on her waist. I lifted my head, watching her tiny movements that stirred my stiff cock inside her.
She smiled, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she looked down at me. Her brown curls framed her face and tits, and her hips rolled and rose off me. She hurried to place me, shiny and wet, back inside, and I shouted when her fingers wrapped around the wide base of my shaft.
Leaning back with her hands braced on my legs, she fucked my cock at her leisure. Up and down slowly and then bouncing fast. She took me the way she wanted, exactly how she needed. I’d never experienced anything hotter.
My face tightened. Sweat broke out on my chest. I held her hips, slamming her onto me. Her pussy lips stretched tight, the pink nub of her clit crushed against my cock on each thrust, and she saturated my length.
She arched all the way back, shuddering from her tummy to her tits as she came. After her last convulsion, I withdrew. Hard as ever, my cock snapped against my stomach.
“Ready for more?” I asked.
“How much more?” she gasped.
“It’s only nine inches. Nothin’ to write home about.”
Jessica shivered again when I pulled her into a long kiss. Her mouth parted, her tongue swirled against mine. Our lips engaged, I pushed the sinful teddy off her shoulders to her hips where it lay bunched.
I broke our kiss, easing her down onto the bed. “Let’s get you naked.”
Grasping the fragile lace construction, I pulled it under her waist chain and off her legs. “I can’t believe you wear stuff like that to school, teach.”
She propped up on her elbows, her hair in her eyes, breasts full luscious globes, and her sleek cunt hidden between legs she pressed together. “Oh yeah? And I can’t believe Hunter Sexton.”
“Yeah.” I waggled my eyebrows. “My pornstar name.”
I pulled her to the side of the bed and maneuvered her into position. I had her sitting up, her legs spread open, her heels on the mattress, her pussy—pink and ready—right on the edge of the bed.
Ragged breaths jarred her tits. A flush covered her skin, making her freckles even more visible. Standing on the floor in front of her, I braced my fists beside her hips. I sent my cock home with one long thrust. I pulled all the way out with a hoarse shout as my thick cockhead pulsed at her opening.
I long-dicked Jessica just like that. The loud wet noise of her cunt accepting my length pushed me closer to release. My pelvis crushed against her every time I hit bottom inside her. Each time, I withdrew completely, dragged my cock up and down her cleft, then aimed for her tight cunt again, unerring as a missile.
And with every thrust, Jessica moaned my name, bucking against me.
It didn’t take long for the full in and out pace to drive me out of my mind. She wailed and grabbed me against her. I cupped her ass in both hands, unloading into the rubber, my hips kicking, my head spinning, my testicles tight knots against the base of my cock as pain and pleasure and the most seductive agony rocketed me out of my body and into hers.
Some time later, I curled around her. My forearms circled her belly as she lay with her back against my chest. The bottoms of her breasts tickled my skin, raising goose bumps on my arms, and her plump ass cushioned my groin.
“Jessica?” I whispered, kissing her shoulder.
She shook in my hold, making her breasts wobble and her ass wiggle.
“Are you laughing?” I asked. Her hair tickled my nose as she trembled in my arms, but I wasn’t about to break up this little spoon, big spoon thing we had going on.
“Little bit. It’s weird hearing you call me Jessica.”
“Huh. Well, I still call you JB when I dirty-talk to you in my head.”
“Oh.” She lifted her head, sliding her smooth cheek against my rougher one. “Is that why you shouted JB when I was blowing your cock?”
“Something like that.” I rubbed my stubbly chin against her shoulder. “Speaking of names, what I said to you at the school, about me . . . it’s true. You can’t talk about me. You can’t ever know the real me.”
“I’d already say I know the real you, Hunter whatever-last-name-you-want.” She spoke quietly, running her fingertips up and down my arms. “You take care of your people no matter who they are. You’re all rough and rumble on the outside and ready for a rough tumble in bed with me, but you took care of me first tonight, and not just my needs in bed. I can tell you’re a good father to Jack. So I know who you are.”
She peeked back, placing a kiss on my lips. “And I understand.”
She turned toward me, big dark solemn eyes at odds with the faint glimmer of a grin on her lips. “But you did promise me two more.”
“Two more?”
Her hand wound down my chest to my stomach and onto my cock. “Two more times tonight.”
“I did, didn’t I?” I pulled her hand off me and rolled her onto her back. I held her wrists beside her head and started moving down her body. “And I always make good on my word.”
Slipping out at dawn the next morning, I inspected my bike. No little fingerprints smudged the polished motorcycle, and there was no sign of the neighborhood hoodlums at this early hour. I made my escape, thinking I might drop back in around lunchtime with some food, see if JB wanted to go on a r
un this fine Saturday in November. We hadn’t formalized anything except for good hard fucking and verbal sparring, but . . . maybe a relationship wasn’t completely out of the question.
I cruised into my driveway all footloose and fancy-free. Cutting off the engine, I breathed deep of the clear, crisp autumn air. Yessirree, it was a fine, fine day.
Inside I dropped my keys on the table and hung up my jacket by the door. Three seconds later, I sensed something was wrong. I went for my weapon, but I hadn’t worn my Glock to Jessica’s.
Fuck.
I silently glided to the hall closet and unlocked my pump action shotgun from the case. I kept that one at the ready. Rounding the corner to my living room, I loaded the first shell with two loud clicks of the gun.
The man sat in the middle of the couch, legs crossed in front of him, a silver Smith & Wesson 686 revolver on his lap, pointed in my direction.
“We got problems, Ghost.”
Seven
I’D IGNORED ALL THE warning signs, but Walker pulling a B&E at my house meant only one thing. Shit was getting all too real and far too close.
We’d worked together on and off for three years, close as a couple could get over cases no one else would touch. He was the blustery, in your face, all-about-the-game guy, I was the stealth weapon no one ever expected. We’d shared squats, gotten drunk, gotten shot at together . . . all as part of the job. We had a healthy professional respect for each other, but real-time friends we were not. Tampa Bay had been our last mission, me on the frontlines, down deep and dirty, he the one man I’d had to rely on for the sake of my life.
I’d saved his ass a time or two just as he had mine. That didn’t mean I’d welcome him into my home, and he knew it. Hence the drawn gun.
Walker—the Silent Walker—had no compunction, no conscience, and nothing to lose. That made him the best possible merc for hire on- or off-the-record for Operation T-Zone, not that anyone would ever find Op T-Z in paper or on the internet. The umbrella organization we worked for consisted of nameless faces, faceless names, smoke and mirrors, and uncrackable codes.
He could’ve knifed me in the gut, bored a bullet through my head, or silently garroted me as soon I’d entered the house. The fact he hadn’t meant he wanted something from me. Or maybe, just maybe, he needed me to stay alive for his own ends.
My shotgun didn’t quiver as I took aim.
Very slowly, very gently, Walker released his trigger finger. He lounged like a wolf, ready to pounce at any given opportunity. The long lean form, his coiled muscles, the black braided hair down his back spoke to his Native American heritage. His cheeks slanted in a predatory smile.
“Hey, Kemosabe.”
“Shut the fuck up, Tonto.”
I unloaded the shells and laid my shotgun against the wall. As a show of respect, Walker pushed his safety to lock and set his gun aside.
“I already told you I'm not interested.” I leaned against the wall, close enough to throw the knife in my boot but not near enough to spook the spook. “I’m going clean.”
“See now, here's the problem, pilgrim. You're the target this time.”
Blood drained from my face. “What?”
“Valderas cut loose and vamoosed. We lost eyes on him. Can’t think of anyone he'd like to pay a visit to more.”
“Fucking hell,” I bit out.
Vicente Valderas had made a deal with the Feds, giving up an even bigger fish on the food chain to gain his freedom. A freedom that came with a 24/7 tail, which was another fundamental reason I was always concerned about Mel and Jack and now Jessica.
Walker hunched forward. “Oh and just to be clear. I did my homework. Pretty sure Vicente will too. So if I can find out about your baby momma and your cute little kid Jack and that pretty teacher you've been banging . . .”
Walker laid it all out perfectly clear. It wasn't just my life in danger should Vicente come looking, but everyone attached to me. He’d want equal retribution for his club and his brothers and Quintessa . . .
“I need to warn Mel and Jessica. I need to get them safe.”
“No. What you’re gonna do is dislodge your head from up your ass and stay away from your girl’s sweet young pussy.”
Rage boiled through my veins. I grabbed Walker by his T-shirt and hauled him up as my fist cranked back. The clash of my knuckles meeting his face—the loud crack, the spray of blood from his lip—barely cooled my anger.
My face shoved in his, I snarled, “Don’t you ever fucking talk about Jessica that way again. You’ll find yourself in a coma if you do.”
I dropped him like dirty laundry, and he sputtered into his hands, cupping his mouth.
“You finally got a weak spot, Kemosabe. Another reason to locate Vicente before he discovers it.”
I strolled into the kitchen and yanked the roll of paper towels off the wall.
Returning to the living room I chucked the whole fucking thing at him so he could wipe off his bloody mouth. He caught the paper towels midair.
“What’s in it for you?”
“Working out of the goodness of my heart.” Walker inspected the crimson blots on the wadded white sheets.
I snorted. “Your heart’s as black as spades. Try again.”
“Vicente’s a professional pain in my ass. If he wasn’t trying to hunt you down, he’d be after me. We got a better chance at cutting him off at the knees together. Wipe that shitstain off the face of the earth once and for all.”
“So, what now?”
“I’m kinda hungry. Lunch?”
My eyebrows lowered as I glared at him.
“Ever the hardass, I see.” He wiped his mouth a final time before tossing the bloodied towels aside. “Let’s go meet your contact.”
“Don’t have any.”
“Bullshit. You been here six months. You would’ve set up a local informant within the first twenty-four hours. So take me to your motherfucking source already.”
I grunted in acknowledgement and hit the stairs to get my Glock while Walker holstered his piece.
“By the way, I’ll be staying here for a few days,” he called after me.
It was probably better to have two hands on deck if Vicente really was planning a vendetta, but having Walker as a houseguest? He wasn’t exactly roomie material. He was a quick draw, had a hot temper, was the exact opposite of me, except for the fact I’d just popped him in the mouth for taking a potshot at my woman.
My woman.
Fuck. I was already in too deep with Jessica.
Maybe having Walker as backup was a solid plan.
When we stepped outside, I swept my gaze up and down the driveway. “Where’s your bike?”
“The Indian Scout?” He smirked, always amused with his sick sense of humor by the make and model of his motorcycle. “Too traceable. In storage. I lifted a car in Florida, a new one in Georgia, and ditched it in Mt. Pleasant. Hoofed it out here. Nice place, by the way. Exactly middle-of-nowheres-ville. Suits you.”
I could imagine Walker trekking through the woods to reach my house, soundless, probably sprinting on bare feet across the frosty November ground, ducking in and out of trees.
“Where’s your shit then?” I asked.
“Stashed it in your woodshed.”
“Explosives?”
“Maybe just a little flash-bang so we can relive the good old times.” His grin curled his mouth, the lip swollen from my punch.
“Sorry I hit you,” I said, unlocking my Tahoe.
He slid inside with the grace of a stealthy two-hundred-pound panther. “No you’re not.”
I shrugged, taking the driver’s seat.
Twenty minutes later, I parked on a busy back street in downtown Charleston. The shop I led Walker into stood at the crossroads of hoity-toity and down-and-out. The bell on the door jingled, the air inside close and dim.
Walker’s blue-black braid swung against his back as he walked in front of me. His sharp cheekbone showed in profile as he turned his head. “
A tailor? For fuck’s sake, man. You getting senile in your old age?”
Just then Frankie Burelli strolled out of the fitting area with a wham bam, thank you, man swagger.
The black plume of his hair rose in a crest off his forehead. His features ruggedly, exaggeratedly Italian and his build big inside the perfectly fitted suit, his was a commanding presence, not the least because I knew his background inside and out.
He leaned his ever-present silver-knobbed cane against the glass cufflink case and clapped my hand. “Lieutenant Sexton. Always a pleasure, never a chore. M’I right? What brings you to my bacchanalian lair this day?” His bold gaze roamed up and down my body. “Hopefully a fitting? With all the works?”
Everyone’s favorite tailor and ex—alleged—Mafia hitman, Frankie usually had his hands in a few illegal pies and down the pants of more than a few men, too. He gave the Meat Packing District a whole new meaning. The kingpin of the Singer Sewing Machine and my favorite criminal informant.
“I need a suit.”
He rubbed his hands together before swinging his cane in front of him. “Well then, let’s take this to the backroom.”
“He’s your CI?” Walker hissed at me as we followed through the swishing curtain.
“Haven’t you ever heard of Frankie Burelli?”
A faint look of horror sketched across Walker’s face before being replaced by a smooth facade. Frankie Burelli used to be known as Frankie the Butcher. Same implements, vastly different outcome when used on flesh instead of fabric. It was said he could make a grown man scream for momma. As a UC, I’d been privy to one or two instances. I’d much rather wake up next to a horse head than see Frankie sitting beside my bed in the dead of night, sharpened tools at hand.
After he’d come out as gay, The Family had disowned him. He moved south, returned to his first trade, but still kept in touch with the underground.
Frankie was my most valuable resource.
He motioned Walker and me to stand on a raised plinth and kneeled in front of us.
Always the opportunist, he laid a palm directly on Walker’s crotch as if measuring his inseam. “Is that a peace pipe I’m handling or are you just happy to see me?”
