17. Judge
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Myla, wait,” I call after her, jogging over because I know she definitely won’t wait.
I couldn’t help but hear the conversation between Jenson, Tinleigh, and Myla from where I was sitting at the bar. Before she even ran out, I knew Tinleigh’s news wouldn’t go over well. Myla likes to pretend that she’s an intentional island, that she doesn’t need anyone, but it’s all bravado, and surely hearing that the closest person to her is committing herself to another human being will bring up some big feelings.
“I know I say I don’t want to deal with you almost every single day, but I really mean it right now, Judge.” Her voice cracks as she grabs her dome and plops it on her head, not bothering to do the straps before straddling the bike. She starts the engine and throws it in gear, but the bike stalls. She tries again and again, her anger and frustration growing each time. I could tell her it’s because her side stand is down, something she’d realize if she took a minute to breathe, but I don’t say shit. It’s too dangerous for her to be on the road when she’s this agitated. Tipping her head back, she screams, “Fuuuuuuck!”
“Calm the hell down.” I realize my mistake the second the words are out. Never in the history of stupid ass things men say has telling a woman to calm down been helpful.
“Calm down?” She climbs off the bike, a murderous look in her eyes. Black mascara tints the liquid sadness falling down her cheeks, and her body is vibrating with so many different emotions I doubt she could name them all. “You can’t possibly understand what I’m going through right now and you want me to calm down?”
I pin her with a look that says, “Oh, really?” and she falters, but this isn’t about me, so I let her have the win. “You’re right. I can’t. But I’ve seen too many accidents happen because the rider wasn’t thinking clearly, and I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t stop you from making the same mistake.”
She glances from me to the clubhouse. “I can’t be here right now.”
I don’t let anyone into my cabin. It’s my sacred space with no expectations because the only problems I deal with are my own, but like every other area of my life, the thought of Myla being there doesn’t bother me. “You can hang out at my place for a while?” I didn’t mean for it to be a question, but it comes out that way.
“Yeah. Sure. Thanks.” She sets her helmet on the seat of her Harley and follows me through the side yard and into the trees where the cabins are.
Our feet crunch on the gravel path, birds sing from where they’re perched above us, and the muffled voices of my brothers and their women can be heard, but we’re silent. Myla, because she’s a mixed ball of emotions, and me, because I wonder what she’ll think about my home.
“I wasn’t expecting company?—”
“Shut up, Judge. You’ve seen my place with bloody clothes on the floor; I doubt it’s worse than that.”
I hum as I type a series of numbers into the lock before swinging the door open and motioning for her to enter. If I’m not seeing things, I think I catch a glimpse of nervousness as she passes, or maybe I’m projecting my feelings onto her. I don’t fucking know.
“Wait, let me flip on the lights so you don’t trip over something.” I reach for the switch, and in seconds, my living room is bathed in a soft glow. A lot of my brothers cleared trees around their cabins so it wasn’t so damn dark inside, but Riot and I chose not to, so our homes don’t get much sunlight.
Myla takes a minute to untie her boots and step out of them before beginning a leisurely stroll around the perimeter of the room. Her face remains blank as she takes it all in, which makes me twitchy, but I hold back all the excuses of why it looks like an eighty-year-old grandma decorated for me.
“It’s homey. I like it,” she finally says, fingering the crocheted afghan tossed over the back of my floral couch.
“Thanks.”
“Except for this.” She stands in front of my altar, crossing her arms as if to protect herself from it. I can’t blame her. Religious trauma tends to do that to a person. “What the fuck is all this? Jesus Christ, did you clear out the religious section of every thrift store from here to Southern California?”
Her words are harsh, but I know it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with her lived experience. “I’ve been collecting things for years now.” I stand next to her, remembering where each cross, picture, plaque, statue, and candle was purchased.
“I don’t know how you can still believe as much as you do after what happened to you.”
“The church didn’t happen to me, a person did. I won’t lie and say I have all the answers, but I feel”—I place my hand on my heart—“like there’s something bigger than us somewhere out there.”
She lets out a heavy sigh, and her eyes slowly drift downward, lingering on the spot where my flogger is hidden. My stomach churns with anxiety as I watch her hand inch closer to it. The thought of exposing this vulnerable part of myself to her makes my heart pound erratically in my chest. Every instinct tells me to push her away because being told something and seeing it are two different things, but I refuse to let fear win. There’s no point.
“Is this it?” She palms the woven handle with one hand while the other fingers the braided thongs. Something that has caused me so much pain looks less menacing in her grip. My anxiety dies a sudden death, replaced by arousal, because Myla looks damn sexy as she wields it like she has some experience.
“Yeah.” My tone pitches high, and I clear my throat.
She circles her wrist, sending the thongs around and around. “Did you know there was a dominatrix at the Honey Pot?”
“No.” I can hardly breathe when she moves to the sofa and props a pillow up. Once again, her wrist rotates, and she inches closer to the pillow until just the last couple of inches of fall hits the pillow dead center. Fantasies I didn’t know I had flash through my mind, all of them involving Myla doing the things to me that were done when I was younger. The difference is that I want her to do them. Would she find that disgusting or think me less of a man?
“She showed me a few things, enough to satisfy men who were curious about domination.” She comes closer, a gleam in her eye as she drags the thongs over the bulge in my pants that’s hanging to the left. “That’s not what you’re into, though, is it? You don’t like humiliation and degradation. You use this for atonement.” She lowers the whip to her side as she cups my cock with her other hand. “So what’s turning you on then?”
Every muscle in my body tenses. I can’t say it. I’ve never fully admitted this to myself, let alone someone else. And especially not the woman I’m falling in love with because that’s what this is. It’s the reason I’ve kept her secrets from my brothers, something I vowed to never do the day I patched in. Though if I admit that to her, she’ll run. She’s not ready.
“Now that I know what it feels like to fuck you, I’m hard whenever you’re around.”
“That’s a lie.” Her hand drops and hormones have me wanting to backpedal, to come up with another reason that’ll keep her touching me, but she’s too astute to believe anything but the truth.
“I’m fucked up, Myla. Probably more than you, and that’s saying something, considering.” Realizing how that sounds, I try again. “I just mean?—”
“I know what you mean, and I don’t take offense because there’s not much worse than being a serial killer.”
I flinch, knowing that, by definition, she’s well on her way to becoming just that. It’s much more nuanced than that, though. Yes, she’s killing, but the men she’s taking her anger out on are evil to their core. Does God care? Are the laws of Heaven black and white? I wish I knew.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why? It’s true.” She shrugs. “How can your confession be any worse than that?”
“It’s not something I can just blurt out.” I tuck my hands in my pockets.
“Okay.” She points to the only closed door next to the bathroom. “Is that your bedroom?”
“Yeah, why?” My brow furrows. If there’s one thing about this woman, it’s that she keeps me on my toes. Right when I think I’ve figured her out, she changes the game.
“If you can’t tell me, show me.” With her eyes on me, she pulls her cropped shirt up and over her head, leaving her in a sheer green bra. Her dusky nipples are tightened to points that I want to sink my teeth into.
“I didn’t bring you here to fuck.” It’s a weak argument because I always want to fuck this woman, no matter where we are or what’s going on around us.
“I know, but I need to feel good for a while, and you’re the only one who makes me feel good anymore.” She reaches behind her back and unfastens her bra. My mouth goes dry as the straps fall off her shoulders and slip down her arms. The attention I paid her last night still shows along the swells of breasts in the form of small bruises, turning me on even more. I like knowing she’s walking around with my marks on her body. She reaches for my hand. “Come on.”
Like a puppy, I follow her through my bedroom door. If she had any interest in my bedroom decor, she’d see that straight ahead is a picture window that faces the woods. Adjacent to that wall and centered between two antique oak nightstands is my king-sized bed. The frame is wrought iron that arches and interlocks in a traditional Celtic pattern. It’s not an antique, but it’s old enough to squeak and moan under my weight. The mattress is new, though, some expensive memory foam that every man over forty should have.
I don’t know what this says about me, but the blanket covering the mattress is a patchwork quilt, something I picked up at a thrift store. Whoever made it must’ve used their scrap fabric because no two patches match and every color of the rainbow is represented, but it was fun for me to pretend I had a grandma who made it for me. On the opposite wall of the bed is a long antique dresser. The drawers stick and the finish is scuffed all to hell, but again, I like pretending that I had family who passed heirlooms down to me.
It’s stupid, really.
Myla stops next to my bed and pushes my cut off my shoulders. Before it can hit the ground, I grab it and reverently set it on the nightstand. She rolls her eyes while I yank my clerical collar out and toss that next to my cut before she sets out to unbutton my shirt, giving me time to test the weight of her breasts and swipe my thumbs over her perfect nipples.
“Fuck, your skin is so soft,” I mutter, wondering what she does to make it so silky.
“Would it kill you to wear a T-shirt once in a while?” She fumbles over the final two buttons before running her hands up my chest and over my shoulders, removing my shirt and not even having a clue what a big deal that is for me.
I haven’t had my shirt off in front of anyone since I was a kid. Yeah, she saw my back this morning, but that was an accident. This is on purpose, and fuck if it doesn’t feel monumental. Yet I don’t even have any anxiety over it. I’m actually happy I can bear myself to her the way she does to me. It’s making too much of the situation, I know that. I’m sure that to her, this is just fucking, and I wish like hell I could turn my emotions off because this will only end in disaster.
I close the distance between us, tipping her chin up and kissing the shit out of her before backing her up until she has no choice but to fall onto the bed. Tasting blood, I panic when I see my rough kisses have reopened the wound on her lip.
“Shit, your lip.” I grab a tissue off the nightstand and hand it over to her.
She tosses it, swiping her tongue over the blood. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Damn it, Judge. I need you.”
“Okay.” I tug off her shorts and panties, tossing them over my shoulder while she sits up and attacks my belt and pants.
Holding the front pieces of my hair back so I can see her clearly, I watch as she throws my belt open and pops the button of my jeans before getting off the bed and lowering to her knees before me. She roughly shoves my pants and underwear down, freeing my hard cock that’s already glistening with arousal.
“I love the way you taste,” she says, swiping her tongue over the tip before wrapping her lips around me and sucking.
“Fuck, Myla. Your mouth. . . Jesus,” I mumble incoherently. “Touch yourself. Get that pussy nice and wet for me.”
One hand releases its hold on the base of my dick and moves between her legs. With her mouth full of my cock, she moans, sending reverberations through my length and all the way down to my balls. Fuck, I won’t last like this. She feels too good.
Releasing me with a pop, she grinds down on her fingers, the sound of how wet she is filling the room. “Do you trust me?”
“With what?” I flash her a teasing grin that she returns, fully knowing she’s not the most trustworthy person right now. “Yeah, sweetheart. I trust ya.”
Deep down, I know what she’s about to do. That’s the thing about Myla; she’s a professional, and because of her experience, she picks up on cues you don’t know you’re giving. Except I know mine. The second I told her it was something I couldn’t just blurt out, she knew.
She grips the base of my cock and holds it up, licking up the underside before flicking her sharp tongue against the frenulum. I moan, weaving my fingers into the hair at the back of her head for no other reason than I need to touch her. Parting her lips, she takes me back into her mouth, this time so deep that she gags, producing saliva that drips down the sides of her mouth.
I don’t want her to be uncomfortable, so I should make her stop, but it feels like the gates of Heaven have opened and angels are singing all around me. Nothing except being balls deep in her pussy has ever felt this good.
“Goddamn, your mouth is so fucking incredible,” I say as she backs off me and gasps for air before glancing up at me with an evil smile that tells me she’s only warming up. There’s saliva and pre-cum dripping down her chin and her makeup is smeared from her watery eyes, but fuck if she’s more beautiful like this than she’s ever been before. I get the urge to tell her how I feel but force it back down. It’ll only ruin the moment.
“Lie down. I’m not done.” She stands and waits as I climb on the bed, my head propped up on pillows so I can easily watch the show.
Positioning herself between my legs, she grips my cock and holds it up as she lowers down to sloppily suck my balls. That’s when I feel a finger smearing her spit down to my taint. She rubs at that spot while moving her mouth back to my cock. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am, and even though this is what I want, I’m nervous as fuck.
“Myla,” I say, lifting to my elbows, not knowing if I want her to keep going or stop.
She pops off me. “Let it happen.”
I fall back down, noticing that my erection has waned a little. I’m about to die of embarrassment, both because she knows what I’ve always wanted from a partner and because my cock is flaccid. She doesn’t let my softening dick deter her, though. She just pauses what she was doing and encloses my length between her breasts. Spitting a line down where she’s engulfing my shaft, she uses that as lube to jack me off.
Yep, that’ll do it. In seconds, I’m fully erect at the erotic sight.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” I say, propping an arm behind my head.
“So are you. You’ll be even sexier when you let me do whatever I want to you. You’ve been in control each time we’ve hooked up. Now I think it’s my turn.” She releases my cock and straddles my hips, reaching for my hand and placing it between her legs. Her cunt is sopping wet, and I push my fingers through her swollen pussy lips to pinch her clit. She rolls her hips and continues. “You’re thinking within social norms, but that’s not us, Judge. We’re so far outside any boxes they try to put us in. So when I tell you that it’ll turn me on to fuck you with my fingers while I suck your cock, you should believe me. The proof is dripping down your hand.”
I’m quiet as I play with her pussy, warring with myself. I appreciate her for making this more about her desires than easing my fears, but I’ve spent a lot of years hiding my body, hiding my past, hiding my sexual. . . curiosities. So far, Myla hasn’t flinched about any of it, so why am I getting hung up on this one last thing? Probably because if I give her this one last thing, she’ll own me, body and soul. Can I trust her not to crush my heart into a million pieces? The obvious answer is no, but something in me says not to count her out.
She gasps and arches her back as I thrust a finger inside her, my thumb expertly strumming her clit. Her body tightens around me, coiling tighter and tighter as she climbs towards her first orgasm of the day. I savor the feel of her trembling need, using it to buy myself a few more precious moments to think. As I add a second finger, angling them perfectly to stimulate her G-spot, she falls apart in my hands. She cups her breasts, lost in pleasure as her head tips back in ecstasy. In this moment, I know beyond a doubt that there is no one else I trust with this, even if she walks away from me.
I work her down from her high until she lowers her hips, smearing her juices all over my lower abdomen and still-hard cock. Our gazes lock, and I give her a subtle nod, unsure if my voice will work. She responds with a lazy smile, still on a high from her orgasm.
Now that the decision is made, much of the unease is pushed aside to make room for anticipation. I reach over to my nightstand and pull out a bottle of lube as Myla shoves a pillow under my hips. She settles between my legs, looking such a mess, but she got that way trying to please me, and nothing could be sexier.
She licks her palms before taking my raging erection in her hands. At this point, I’ve been hard for a long ass time, and I’m so ready to come. When she dips down to suck my cock, she lifts her ass in the air, and I sit up to palm a round cheek, trying to get my head back in the game.
I rest back against the pillows, and Myla looks up my body until she reaches my eyes. She looks so good with a mouthful of my cock, and I wonder when I turned into this man. I used to keep things simple, a quick fuck every now and then whenever the moment hit. But ever since Myla, I’m no better than half my brothers at the clubhouse, getting off on the most sinful acts. I guess I’m more Sons than I thought.
Myla keeps the pace of her mouth and frees her hands to palm my ass cheeks, rubbing them in circles, no doubt warming me up for what’s to come. She watches for a reaction, but she won’t get one. Not a bad one, anyway. I want this, and now that I’ve made that mental leap, there’s no going back.