“Mm-hmm. The hot tub.”
“Oh, right.” The corners of his lips hitched in a smile. “If that’s what you want to do. If you think it’ll help.”
Rory was imagining exactly what could help. Something long, thick, and solid she could wrap her hand or mouth around. “Yes, it’s very relaxing,” she promised.
Checking the house, there was no sign of anyone. No jackal bikers waiting to surprise them. Leading him out into the enclosed backyard, she showed him their oasis in the desert.
Lush plants and trees encircled a long inground swimming pool built to look like an island cove with a rocky grotto and waterfall. A party-sized hot tub was built at one end. Beyond that was a garden filled with flowers and bordered by manicured grass and winding flagstone paths. Benches had been positioned for the women to enjoy the nature that surrounded them or to just bask in the sun.
“Wow,” Quake breathed out beside her.
Rory smiled. “The benefits of having a Fae for a boss. Belle connects with plant life. Her presence encourages them to thrive.”
“You could have some fun pool parties,” he pointed out, following her when she moved toward the edge of the water.
“Men aren’t allowed back here. Hey, can gargoyles swim, or do they sink like stone?” she joked.
Quake’s chuckle shimmied down her spine in the most delicious way. “If you invited us over for a pool party, you’d find out.”
She cast a sultry look that never failed to make men drool. Turning, she strutted for the hot tub, shedding clothes as she went, dropping a trail for him to follow. Stepping down into the water, she turned to face him, giving him an eyeful before sinking onto the submerged seat. Her hair hung low enough to wick up water. Later, she’d wash the chemicals out of it. Right now, she had a gargoyle to seduce.
He stood like a rock, unyielding, unmoving despite her earlier invitation. “Ooh,” she gushed. “The water feels so . . . good . . .” She edged over in front of a jet. “If I sit just right, I can get myself off. Of course, it’s easier if I have help.”
Reaching, she started playing with her breasts, flashing her tits at him, making his fists curl and his jaw clench as he struggled with indecision. “Come here,” she ordered, hoping like hell he’d obey. Not every man wanted to be topped from the bottom. Then again, she might have just earned a spanking in his dark, hooded eyes.
Quake growled. The sound echoed deep in her core and did strange things to her insides. Rory swore she felt the earth move.
The next thing she knew, she was coming.
“Christ!” she gasped, locked in the throes of unexpected pleasure. “What the hell was that?”
Quake smirked. “My true voice shakes things up. Makes things happen. Usually, I’m snapping someone out of it when they’re overwhelmed, feeling trapped, or lost in thought. That kind of thing. The thing is, my voice can pull someone out of whatever they’re mired in, but given the right circumstances, it can also push them over the edge . . .”
“Holy shit,” she breathed. No wonder Candy loved him as a john if he could make her come just from talking. Quake’s voice was as good as a sex toy. Holy. Fuck.
Quake took off his cut and reverently laid it on the back of a nearby lounge chair. He peeled off his T-shirt, baring a sculpted chest and eight-pack abs. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he shot off a text and shut it down, making certain they wouldn’t be interrupted. Sitting long enough to pull off his biker boots and socks, he stood in his sexy bare feet to undo his belt, open his fly, and take off his jeans.
He was commando beneath them. Maybe because that monster meat of his refused to be caged. It rose, thick and long and ramrod straight, with an opal of precum pearled in the tip.
Sauntering to the whirlpool, he lowered himself over the side and slipped into the water, settling across from her, one hand looped on the edge of the tub, the other visible beneath the surface, fisting his erection.
Rory watched him for a minute, moving only when it was clear he wasn’t going to do it. She glided through the water to stand between his wide-spread feet. Dropping to her knees, she batted his hand out of her way and started jacking him, taking his measure, and learning just what the hell she’d been missing.
Ten vein-roped inches as hard as stone and nearly as thick as her small wrist.
Wanting to surprise him as much as he had her, she took a breath, released it, and dove down, opening her mouth to give him a blow job underwater. She could go for five minutes. Six when she was in shape—and she was. When he got nervous, thinking she was in danger of drowning, she twisted his balls and hummed. The next thing she knew, he grabbed her biceps and pulled her off of him, stopping just short of coming.
He was still rock hard.
And she was still hungry for a taste of gargoyle meat.
Leaning forward, she palmed one pec and bit his other nipple, licking the hurt away.
“Magenta,” he hissed a warning above her head, releasing her arm and fisting her hair.
The feel of it made her breathless with anticipation of what would happen next. Normally, it was the other way around. She had that effect on men.
“You’re welcome,” she quipped. She hadn’t made him finish and he hadn’t actually thanked her, but his look spoke volumes. The man was smitten with her. Too bad he couldn’t afford her.
But tonight was off the clock. Her time, not his dime. If she wanted to fuck his brains out, Madam Belle couldn’t stop her. Not if she wanted to keep her around, and she did. Magenta was her top draw. A money-making machine.
Tonight, though, she just wanted to be Rory. To be with someone of her choosing.
To be with Quake.
“Stay . . . ?” she asked him. “I’d feel safer if you did. I know you’ll protect me . . . won’t you?”
A callused hand cradled her face. His dark eyes were enigmatic.
“Please?” she whispered, prepared to beg him if that’s what it took.
He searched her gaze, looking for answers to questions unknown, trying to figure out what was happening between them. She couldn’t deny that she felt it too. Something indefinable. Remarkable. Foreign and yet strangely familiar.
An attachment a whore couldn’t afford to feel.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, she’d exorcise it. Rid herself of it. Erase the memory of his touch and forget that tonight ever happened. Madam Belle had just what she needed to do it. But that was tomorrow.
Tonight, she wanted Quake.
He didn’t answer immediately, keeping her guessing, making her want him all the more. This gargoyle had an unexpected playful side that she was only now discovering. She liked that he was playing hard to get, holding out, not giving in to the demands of his body when they both knew it’s what he wanted. What he needed.
“Alright,” he agreed.
Rory put her hands on his chest and squeezed his pecs. The man was totally ripped. “Come on, then.”
They toweled off by the pool, gathered their clothes, and walked naked to her room. It was almost as large as Belle’s with a sitting area, a walk-in closet, and an ensuite. Dropping her things on a chair, she invited him to do the same.
He followed her into the bathroom. With a tankless system, there was always hot water on demand and no worry about rushing to finish before the spray turned cold. “Go on,” she told him. “Get started. I’ll be in as soon as I get this makeup off.”
She scrubbed her face clean but left in the colored contacts she hid behind. Her eyes were blue, but Magenta’s were a deep purple. It was enough that she was letting him see the woman behind the mask.
Quake was nearly finished by the time she stepped into the shower. Rinsing his hair, he scraped it back and stepped to the side to let her have the rain showerhead. When Rory reached for her favorite bath gel, he snatched it, lightning-quick, and crooked an unapologetic grin. Squeezing some into his hands, he soaped her up, starting with her back, massaging her muscles as he went from her head down to her
heels. Her body vibrated, humming with pleasure while he worked.
She put a hand on his broad shoulder to steady herself when he washed her feet, paying attention to each toe, working the balls, thumbing her arches, and massaging her heels. Jesus Christ. If he wasn’t a massage therapist, he should be. The man’s hands were magical. Big and strong with fingers fluent in body language. He knew just where to press to make her sing.
He paid homage to her body, touching her with a reverence that made her tear up at one point, forcing her to pretend she had allergies. Sniffing her nose and rubbing her eyes, she warned herself not to take this for more than what it was. Two people. One night. No more. No less.
He lavished attention on her breasts, kneading them with those talented hands, making her ache with need. Sensing it—or possibly smelling it, if his nose was as sharp as his eyes, he slid a hand down to cup her groin, sliding his fingers between her legs and lifting her with them, reminding her just how strong he was.
He walked with her riding on his hand until he’d backed her against the wall. Pinning her against it with his body, he hooked a forearm behind her knee and lifted it, opening her to his possession. She felt the head of his cock probe, seeking, finding her opening, and pushing inside. The size of his erection made her gasp to feel it squeezing in, stretching her out before pulling back and driving in deeper.
“Yes,” he groaned when he finally managed to get most of it in.
Rory held her breath, feeling the tightly leashed control, wondering what it would take to make him cut loose on her. Given his size, did she dare try? One thing was certain, she wasn’t going to have to fake an orgasm with this gargoyle. He could pull it from her anytime he wanted.
“Fuck me, Quake,” she begged him. “Fuck me.”
“Hold on tight, duchess,” he growled in her ear. “Get ready for a hard, fast ride.”
Rory cried out when he slammed into her, his pelvis crashing into hers. Pain and pleasure merged as she clung to the male taking her so wildly. Thrusting in and nearly pulling out, he pumped into her in a rhythm that made her pulse quicken and her eyes roll back in her head.
All this time with all her customers with their big money and little pricks . . . and this was what she had been missing.
5
Magenta might be a maned wolf shifter but she was a wildcat tonight. Quake felt her fingernails dig trenches in the muscles of his shoulders, scoring his flesh with her claws. He grunted, gladly taking the pain when it made his cock swell and her pussy gush to feel it. She scratched him again, silently urging him on, rippling her vaginal muscles to squeeze his dick, her pussy walls milking his length.
Pressing his face against the side of Magenta’s neck, he bit her shoulder, scoring her with his teeth, marking her like an Alpha wolf would mark his mate. Feeling it, she screamed his name, coming with an intensity that stole her breath and made him smile.
He was still hard inside her, riding her body and wringing every ounce of pleasure from her.
“That’s it, scream it,” he grated. “Scream my name.”
Another wave of pleasure hit her hard with her second orgasm. She clawed his back, begging for another.
Quake grinned against her shoulder. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you, duchess?”
Clinging to him, she moved her hips, joining his rhythm and cresting through two more releases. Quake grew harder inside her, managing a partial shift that made him bigger all over, including down there. His cock jerked, warning him in time to pull out free and clear. Releasing her leg, he wrapped his hand around his shaft and finished outside her. Three pumps and he was spurting cum in the cascading water between them.
Resting against the wall, her chest rising and falling with quick sharp pants, Magenta watched it vanish down the drain.
Next time, he’d use a condom and hate it, now that he knew what she felt like skin to skin.
Aftercare was washing her hair, cleaning her off, and toweling her dry. The scalp massage he gave her had her purring. By the time he finished with her, she was so relaxed, he worried about her slipping on the bathroom floor. Rather than risk it, he carried her to bed and tucked her in, pressing a kiss against her forehead when he saw she was asleep.
He considered getting dressed but if the jackals came back, a full shift would ruin his clothes. He considered climbing in bed with her but knew he’d screw her all night if he did. She wouldn’t be dancing for a week, and Madam Belle would be pissed.
And so he stood, naked and silent, watching his favorite fantasy dream, hopefully of him.
Madam Belle and the other girls came in hours later after shutting down the stages and servicing their johns.
“Jesus, I completely fucked up out there,” one of them moaned.
“Barbie, no one noticed but us,” a stripper he recognized as Cinnamon replied. “You’re new at this. It’s normal to screw up the first few nights.”
“Did you see those Hell’s Fury bikers?” Candy sighed dreamily. “Mason was amazing.”
“Those jackals are nothing but trouble,” Cinnamon grumbled. “They should be banned, especially after what they did at The Scratch Post.”
“Belle won’t let that happen here,” Candy told her firmly. “Phantom won’t be allowed back in The Pole Barn. If anyone in the Death’s Head MC ticks off another bad box, she’ll permanently banish their entire club. God knows what they’ll do to retaliate. Jackals never let go of a grudge.”
Quake knew that was true. There was already bad blood between his club and theirs. The women were going to have to be careful. Hopefully, Madam Belle would beef up their security.
The footsteps and voices receded. He listened to the muffled conversations from the other rooms until they drifted into silence. Attention returning to the woman in the bed, he watched her sleeping soundly, marking the minutes by the steady beat of her heart and the measured whispers of her breath.
He remained where he was, a protective sentinel until the first rays of dawn crept in through the drawn curtains of the window. The sunlight chased away the darkness, growing in brightness to bathe the room in a golden glow.
Back at the clubhouse, his brothers would be stirring, filtering into the communal dining hall to wake up with coffee and break their fast. Being much older than their robes of flesh appeared, he and his brothers often used antiquated language. The first meal of the day was breaking their fast, not breakfast. Language evolved but sometimes older was better.
Right now, his body was craving caffeine. And food. His stomach growled loudly enough to wake his sleeping beauty.
Magenta opened her eyes and smiled dreamily. “You’re here.”
Quake shrugged a shoulder like it was no big deal. “You asked me to stay. I assumed that’s what you wanted.”
His stomach growled again.
Magenta giggled and threw back the covers, revealing the sight of her gloriously nude body rising from the bed like Venus from the sea. “Get dressed,” she ordered. “I’ll make us some breakfast. That’s the least I can do.”
Padding to her dresser, she pulled on a pair of yoga pants and slipped into a Dread Monkeys T-shirt. Shifters supporting other shifters. The Dread Monkeys were simian siblings and cousins from Bloomington, Illinois, who played in an indie rock band. A fan of their music, Quake approved.
“You have to be quiet,” she whispered. “We’re not supposed to bring men here. Belle will want to break balls if she catches us.”
Not wanting a pixie dick like Magenta had threatened Phantom with, he got dressed and followed her down, maintaining his silence in the kitchen while he watched her work.
Quake sat at the table, nursing the cup of fancy coffee she brewed for him. Caramel vanilla with a hint of chocolate seemed to be the favorite of the women here. Or maybe it was just hers. He’d rather have plain coffee but he humored her, figuring if she went to the trouble of making it, he could damn well drink it.
Turned out, it wasn’t that bad. Kind of like coffee and dessert rol
led into one.
Magenta went to work, chopping vegetables, shredding meat, throwing together the fanciest eggs he’d had in his life, complete with buttered toast and shredded hash browns that she fried with mild, sweet onions. It was more French or American than he was used to. The Hell’s Fury MC cooked Tex-Mex, the hotter, the better, but he didn’t want to insult her by asking for habanero or ghost pepper sauce.
“Whatcha think?” she asked between bites when she sat down to eat. Quake met her gaze. She looked calm enough, but her pulse spiked with nerves.
She was worried about what he thought of her cooking.
He smiled warmly, hoping to reassure her. “It’s good,” he told her, making certain to keep his voice down and their conversation private. With those maned wolf eyes and ears, she should understand him with no problem. “Really good.” He shoveled in another forkful and chewed enthusiastically.
She narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out if he was telling the truth or leading her on. Maybe she didn’t know it, but it went against gargoyle nature to lie. Prevaricate, yeah. Skirt around something? That too. But deliberately telling an untruth was physically painful to one of their kind.
“Good good?” she asked him. “Or are you humoring me and it’s bad good?”
“Bad good?” he repeated, grinning. “That’s a new one on me, duchess.”
She rolled her eyes. “You might just be telling me you like it so I don’t feel bad.”
“Honestly, I like it,” he told her, pressing a hand over his heart. “I do. It’s as good as that TV chef. What’s her name? Rachael Ray? Yeah. It’s at least as good as anything Rachael fixes.”
A smile spread over Magenta’s luscious lips. Returning their focuses to their plates, they ate in silence for a while.
“We usually don’t get up until noon,” she murmured, careful to keep their conversation between the two of them. “But I can give you a lift back to your place in my car.”
Quake’s mood dipped. “You don’t want me to hang around just in case?”
Twisted Steel: An MC Anthology: Second Edition Page 88
