Davis (Fowler Enterprise #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

Davis

I’m a dog; everyone knows it. Always have been and probably always will be.

It’s who I am, and I happen to think I’m pretty fucking great.

I do who I want, what I want, when I want; and I don’t really give a shit what anyone else thinks about it.

Drugs, sex, women, money – life’s only temporary, so why not freely enjoy as much of it as you fucking can?

My Spanish is butchered at best as I stumble toward the bar and order another shot of tequila, bracing myself with my forearm on the questionably-sticky surface.

The bartender, probably used to dumb Americans by now, slides the chilled glass across the top of the bar with a smile and I throw the smooth liquid down my throat, savoring the subtle burn that follows.

“Gracias,” I slur to her, offering a lazy salute.

She’s not a bad looking woman from where I’m standing. Maybe I can bring her back to my hotel room and make her as questionably-sticky as the bar is. Alright, that one wasn’t my best work. I can admit that to myself.

When she returns from helping another customer, I ask for one more shot and a margarita to go, throwing her my best ‘come hither’ eyes as she pours the ingredients.

Plant the seed and watch it grow, I tell myself.

Don’t need to speak to each other to have hot sex. You wanna talk about a universal language, there it is. Everyone speaks orgasm.

After throwing back the tequila shot, I take my cocktail and move through the crowd, shimmying my shoulders and hips to the music blaring over the speakers.

I work my way through a hundred sweaty bodies, my own included, while I drink, keeping an eye out for anyone that might make for easy pickings.

I told Colt I was coming out here to research.

‘If we’re going to add a nightclub to our lineup, the party boy of the company needs to go do some fucking partying, old man,’ I told him.

He probably didn’t buy it, but he’s been so damn busy with his new kid, he couldn’t be bothered to fight me on it.

Really, I just wanted to take a vacation.

If he can fly to Italy for a weekend long fuck-fest, I can do the same in Mexico.

“You look lost,” A woman shouts into my ear, hand planted on my shoulder.

“Do I?” I ask as I turn to face her.

She’s fucking gorgeous. Long, dark hair flows down her shoulders, ironed pin straight and one side of it pulled behind her ear.

She only comes up to just below my shoulder; little thing.

She’s got a deep tan to smooth skin that’s barely covered by a small bikini top and a pair of denim shorts that leave very little to my creative imagination.

Placing a hand at her waist, I lean down to shout, “Why don’t you show me around, then, Sugar?”

A sparkle lights in her eyes – pale green, like seafoam – and she grabs my hand, pulling me along with her, right back through the crowd of people I just got away from. She starts to sway her hips quickly back and forth, not in a perfect rhythm, but it doesn’t have to be. It’s working for her.

Shit, it’s working for me.

I join in with her dance, moving closer to her, until my leg is sandwiched by hers and she’s grinding against my thigh like it’s getting her off.

We meet each others’ gaze with a wicked, matching smile while we move, no words passing between us. They’re not necessary - the words. Our bodies are saying more than enough.

Like I said, it’s a universal language.

As a flush forces its way over her tanned cheeks, I wrap my hand firmly around her throat and pull her toward me, crashing my lips against hers until our tongues meet, working together in a way not unlike our bodies.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I tell her.

Grinning, she asks, “Your place or mine?”

In less than fifteen minutes, we’re slamming through the door of my hotel suite.

Her legs are wrapped around my waist and her bikini top is nowhere to be found; we lost it somewhere between here and the elevator. The only thing keeping her tits covered right now is my chest pressed up against them while I carry her.

Our lips don’t break contact until I’m throwing her onto the bed and unlatching my belt with one hand, roughly yanking it out of the loops of my jeans.

Leaning back on her elbows, she watches as I fold the belt in half and grip it firmly in one hand, using the buckle as a handle. She pulls on her lower lip with her teeth, her eyes smoldering, and without instruction, she flips herself onto all fours, ass in the air, on display and waiting for me.

“Oh, I am gonna eat you alive, Sugar,” I smirk, and she peers over her shoulder at me with a smirk that sets my teeth on edge and makes my cock throb.

“So do it, then.”

I cross the room, belt in hand, and I yank her shorts and bikini bottoms down in one harsh motion, putting her ass and that pretty little pussy of hers on display for me before I rear back and bring the belt down hard, slapping the leather against her bare skin.

She lets out a yelp as it makes contact, leaving a clean red mark in its wake.

“Again,” she demands, and I deliver. Blow after blow until she’s satisfied and her entire ass is reddened, leaving her panting against the bedding.

Dropping the belt, I reach into my pocket for the small baggie of powder I’d been saving to use at the club before I toss the jeans. Be a shame to waste the chance. “Don’t move,” I warn her, “or you’ll spill it.”

I peel the package open and carefully sprinkle a line of white powder over her curvy, reddened ass and bring my nose to it, pushing a nostril shut as I inhale, dragging the powder into my sinuses with a low burn.

I stand, pinching my nostrils together as I sniff again, letting the burn drift away with a satisfied exhale.

I pull my fingertip to my tongue to wet it, then drag it over her ass to pick up any loose powder that I missed, and I bring my finger to her mouth. “Open up,” I tell her.

“I don’t do coke,” she says with a shake of her head.

“Yeah, me neither when I’m about to fuck,” I laugh, “I’m not into edging. It’s Molly.”

I made sure to master three words before coming out here: cocaína, how to say the letter M, and ‘palabra segura,’ the only things I really need to have a good time on a vacation.

She considers for a second, ultimately deciding to trust the strange man from the club who just beat her ass raw, and she opens her mouth.

I stick my finger inside, rubbing the rest of the powder along her gums, and she lets out a moan at the contact that sends fire pouring into every nerve of my body.

This girl is fun.

I grab onto her thighs and yank her over the edge of the bed before dropping to my knees behind her. I dive in to lick and suck at her pussy, moving the ball of my tongue piercing over her clit, and I fuck her with my tongue until her body shakes, writhing under my touch.

“Holy shit,” she moans into the bedding.

Just as her body tenses, ready to explode, I stand, grabbing onto her hips and I lift her to meet me, pulling her onto my cock. She cries out while I fill her up and she pushes herself further onto me, taking more of me inside until my hips are flush against the cushion of her ass.

“You got a greedy little pussy,” I tease.

Sex on Molly is an otherworldly experience. If I could, it would be the only way I ever fucked anyone. As the high creeps in, it’s like diving into a warm pool of fucking euphoria, and every stroke sends pleasure fast-tracking to every single nerve ending.

She feels incredible, molded to my cock like she was handcrafted to take me, and I could damn near lose it.

I fuck her hard, holding onto her hips until she starts to whimper and squirm against me. Her hands frantically ball into the sheets as orgasm rockets through her, and she makes enough fucking noise to warrant a complaint from the neighboring rooms.

I love it.

I bend down to bite her shoulder, giving her a few more hard thrusts as my own climax hits, forcing me to finally pull my dick out of her. Gripping it in my hand, I paint her back white with my cum, letting out a loud groan while I curse under my breath.

When we’ve both come down from our shared high, she heads into the bathroom to clean herself up and I step back into my pants, sliding the belt loosely back into place, leaving the large ram’s head buckle dangling open.

“You know,” she says, her voice hoarse, as she steps out of the bathroom. I’m not sure if she lost it from shouting over the noise of the club or from making so much noise while she got fucked. “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Eric.”

Why the fuck would I say that? No one calls me by my first name anymore; there are people in my life I don’t think even know that Davis isn’t my first name. I haven’t been ‘Eric’ since I was a punk ass kid.

I guess some people would argue that I still am one.

After spending the first twelve years of my life bouncing from foster home to foster home, constantly being returned like an ill-fitting shirt because somehow, people were shocked that a kid growing up in the system had a few issues; when Bill and Martina Davis brought me into their home, I took on their last name as the entire core of my identity.

I wasn’t little Eric Doe from nowhere who belonged to no one anymore, I was a Davis.

Whatever. I guess Eric’s what we’re going with.

“Noelle,” she says, offering me her hand. I shake it with a laugh, raising my brows at her.

“Handshake. Interesting.”

She reaches for my discarded shirt and pulls it over her head, letting it swallow her, then turns on her heel. “Well Eric, it was nice meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” I tell her. “Maybe.”