Demon (The Northern Kings MC #1)

Chapter Ten

Demon

For the first time I really felt her lips, plump and soft, sliding over mine, anticipating the onslaught of something more punishing. Like when we’d first met. But there was something different between us, a change. Or at least for me. I would have helped any woman that needed it, but tonight, that fucker was lucky I didn’t kill him right there and then. And I certainly wouldn’t have got any Dirty Deeds points for that one.

Her tongue swiped across mine, hot and gentle, as our lips met each other, plucking and pulling. My fingers tangled in her hair, thick long strands, perfect for grabbing handfuls of. I pulled her into me, her tits pushing against my chest, the heat from her body against me. And then her hands were inside my jacket, nudging it over my shoulders, but the stiff leather wasn’t easy to push back and so I dropped my hand from her head, wriggling out of the padded bike jacket and dumping it on the floor behind me.

Our lips never parted, her mouth heavier on mine, forceful, needy. Scooping an arm around her waist, I picked her up, dropping her on top of the tiny bench, the only bit of kitchen in her room. Nudging her legs open, I stepped in between them; the action firing a response in my groin, all gentleness chased away. And now I crushed my lips against hers, hearing the little gasp tumble from her mouth. Her fingers snaked round my head, pulling me closer, scratching my scalp, the little pricks of pain, hot and delicious, resonating in my stomach and my cock.

I took a chance, sliding my hands down her sides, feeling for the bottom of the white top. I tugged gently, trying to find the end of the fabric, but no matter how I peeled at it, I couldn’t pull the fucking thing up. Pinching the material between my fingertips, I yanked, any subtle intention to strip her top off her lost in the fight. And still the fucking thing wouldn’t budge, anchored somewhere much lower, somewhere she may very well slap me if I ventured there at this point.

“What the fuck is this thing?”

She giggled against my lips, light and beautiful. It was the first time I’d ever heard her laugh, and the sound swelled in my ears.

“It’s a body suit,” she said eventually. “It fastens underneath.”

“What’s the point of that?”

“To keep my top from riding up. And you out.”

“Frigging thing. Maybe I’ll just rip it off you from the neck then,” I grinned, my hands moving back up her body, over the delicious swell of those tits.

“Shit. No, Demon. You’ve broken enough of my things tonight.”

Ciara pushed me back a half step, unbuttoning the tiny shorts and sliding her hand down the front slowly. Fuck. That fired me up, watching her lean back on the bench, her hand scooping over her pussy, and when I looked up again, her eyes were fixed on me, a smirk on her face. A smirk I was going to fuck right off.

“Take it off,” I growled, surprising myself at the sudden darkness of my voice.

There was a series of tiny pops, breaking the suddenly electrified silence, and she wrenched the top up, sliding it over her stomach, the hint of creamy flesh underneath. Fuck. I was losing control. I should slow myself, be gentle, but the rage was returning. A different type of rage bubbling under my skin, in my chest, fogging my brain, the only thinking part of me my cock.

I stepped in, pulling her hands away and gripping the white top before wrenching it off over her head. Even with the restraint of her bra, her tits bounced, full and round. Fighting not to jump on her like a leach I glanced over the rest of her. Her shoulders were angular, her arms thin, and her stomach lean. Given what I knew of her, I didn’t think she went to the gym. And one look around this shithole of a room, at the bed that doubled up as her settee, the battered wardrobe and a chest of drawers that looked like it could fall apart at the slightest vibration. I could see she didn’t have much. Did that extend to food too?

“What’s wrong?” she said faintly, uncertainty pulling at her face.

“Nothing. Just got distracted.”

I trailed my fingertips over her stomach, down over her bony hips, sliding into the waistband of the unbuttoned shorts. Her breath hitched as I dragged my knuckles across the sensitive flesh where the top of her knickers lay, her skin warm and smooth. I wanted to dip my hand under the fabric, stroke over her, feel how wet she was. A presumption, I knew. But I had no doubt she was warm and sticky down there, too. Her breathing told me everything I needed to know. Raspy and erratic, a struggle between control and lust. Because I felt the same way. And self-control was not a quality I possessed. Pulling my hand back up, she relaxed a little, her body sagging as she let out a big sigh. I couldn’t have her too relaxed. I wanted her coiled tighter than a spring, ready to snap under the next bit of tension. Yet that self-control I was lacking was going to cost me dearly, because without thinking much, I pushed my finger under the wire of her bra, lifting the contraption off and up to her neck.

“You can take this off too,” I instructed, watching a flicker of reaction in her eyes, like she didn’t want to be told what to do but couldn’t help obeying, anyway.

And then her tits spilled out, full and luscious. Fuck it if I wasn’t salivating like a starved dog. I probably should have worked my way up to what I did next. Stroked and caressed them, tweaked a nipple, teased around the edges of them. Of which I did none. No. I dived straight on them, my lips devouring her flesh, my tongue gliding over the hot smoothness of her skin, nibbling and sucking, pulling a nipple into my mouth and biting down on it till she hissed.

If Ciara wriggled under the assault, I didn’t feel it, just too consumed with the fucking delicious mounds of flesh in front of me. Her skin held the tiny sting of salt, of hard work and the gentle heat of fear. My fingers kneaded, playing with the nipple I didn’t have in my mouth, swirling and biting and sucking the other. Ciara tipped her head back, the low moan filling the room, forcing her tits into my face. Jesus fucking Christ, I could have stayed here, between her legs and feasted on these babies all night. And I probably fucking would have if the phone hadn’t started vibrating against my arse.

Hesitating, I glanced at my smart watch. Indie. He could fucking do one. Turning back to her, I wrapped an arm behind her, flicking open the clasp of the bra and pulling it from her. Now she sat on the bench with her denim shorts gaping open, exposing the white lace knickers underneath and her tits spilling out in front of her. Placing my hands on either side of her face, I pulled her into me, searching for the hot wetness of her mouth, pushing into her roughly with my tongue, the fire in my groin licking at my veins and fuelling the pounding in my balls. The phone vibrated again. Fucking Indie. But two calls close together were symptomatic of a problem.

“Two seconds, darl’,” I muttered, raking inside my jeans pocket and pushing the mobile to my ear, my free hand dropping back to her tits, covering one with my palm, feeling the hardened nipple against my hand. “What?”

“Some fuckers have done over the cutting house. The prospects are roughed up. Need you down there,” Indie’s voice came and went, a breeze catching on the phone.

“Not much of a fucking prospect, then.”

“Just get down here.”

“On my way.”

*****

The cutting house was in the middle of a row of neglected terraces, in a street full of private landlords, letting out substandard properties at extortionate rents to people who couldn’t get a property any other way. It wasn’t that different to Ciara’s. Similar aged properties all in a state of disrepair, lining the pockets of the ruthless who took advantage of those with no home.

I hadn’t missed the stale smell of damp in the house she lived, the peeling wallpaper and lack of any sort of heating. Her bedsit was tiny. Only a room and God knows how much she paid for that. And I hadn’t missed the millions of locks on her door. I would have had a whole load of them too, living in that dump with the constant turnover of neighbours.

“Demon! You coming?”

Indie broke through my thoughts, and I followed him into the half derelict house. Yep, this was exactly like the shithole Ciara lived in. There were no carpets on the floor, and the windows were covered with drooping curtains and tobacco-stained nets. It smelt as good as it looked, too. The kitchen was at the back of the house and the only room I assumed that had had any attention. There was a steel covered bench and tiled floor, a new oven and kitchen appliances.

“How much you paying for this dump?” I asked Magnet, who was looking around at the broken glass that littered the floor.

“Too much. Now I’ll need to put a new fucking door on.”

He touched the wooden door. The window, which had once occupied a third of it, was smashed, and the rest of it hung from one hinge at the bottom. Two prospects propped themselves against a kitchen bench. Tony Cannelloni looked barely recognisable, his face swollen, and his eye bulging, red and purple as blood strained under the skin. Sicknote had been worked over well. A flap of skin on his head dangled, blood caked on the side of his face and all over the denim jacket he wore.

“How much did they take?” Indie asked.

“Everything we had in the house,” Sicknote answered.

“Any idea who they were?” I chipped in, tiredness creeping over me, as the first morning light spilled in through the torn off back door.

“Nah. One of them had an ace of spades tattoo behind his ear. Other than that, I’ve never seen their ugly mugs before. They knew we were here, though.”

“Recognise that tattoo, Demon?” Indie asked.

I shook my head. I saw shit loads of tattoos every day and playing cards were as common as the roses and hearts and skulls that etched on to people’s skins.

“Then ask around your tattoo buddies. Someone will have tattooed this fucker. And I want to know who.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Why didn’t Magnet buy a decent door, for fuck’s sake?”

Today was going to be a long ass fucking day. Who needed sleep anyway?