Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
Royal
Isure as hell ain’t blind to Giorgia’s efforts at getting me riled up, I’m just fucking trying not to rise to them.
Little did I know when she pled her case for her need to go shopping that it was mostly for the benefit of driving me fucking crazy.
Tiny little shorts, tight-fitting tanks, figure-hugging dresses that barely cover her ass — that are only made for one thing; to draw attention. Even the local preacher will be questioning his sexual morals if he cops an eyeful.
Every time I go into my closet to get something, there they are, all the skimpy outfits taking over the goddamn space. If that isn’t bad enough, the lacy bras and panties that have made their way into my drawers, co-habiting with my boxers, are sexy and sinful.
Her leaving her scent around is what really drives me insane.
It seems to be everywhere. My sheets, my freshly laundered t-shirts.
If I didn’t know why she was leaving her trail, I would think that she was nothing but a dirty bitch, but hell, if I don’t love it.
Especially when she leaves her cum on my washcloth hanging in the shower.
As soon as the steam builds, I get to smell her sweetness while whacking one off in the shower.
It’s so potent to me, pure essence of her cunt.
With my eyes closed, I sum up the vision of her standing exactly where I am, under the flowing water.
But instead of my cloth between her legs, it’s my hand.
It’s my fingers pushing into her. My tongue lapping at the slick pussy.
With the cum-covered cloth against my face, breathing in, I can almost taste her nectar.
I come. I come so fucking hard, ribbons of cum coating the tiled wall.
My vision blurs, legs barely hold me up, evidence of my building lust filled infatuation with her.
There’s been moments over the past two weeks when we’ve spent time doing mundane things around the apartment and normally, that wouldn’t be an issue. But when she’s close, the struggle not to take her, show her exactly how I feel about her, is real.
When I go to wash the crockery we’ve used at dinner, she’s there, right beside me with a cloth ready to dry and put away.
If I start to fold the laundry, she pops up, and starts chatting away about random stuff, with her cheeky innuendos that have my dick waking up. What the fuck. I nearly came in my pants when she started talking about the crotchless panties and easy access.
She. Is. Everywhere.
The common room, the apartment. She’s even been spending time in the goddamn garage. Apparently, she’s into motors and pretty handy with a wrench due to her college degree.
I do get a reprieve when I call Church. Only brothers are allowed in those meeting, but it’s not like I can drag the guys away from their daily duties simply because my libido is on overdrive.
You’d think my office was a Gio-free zone, but no.
She comes a-knocking with one reason or another and impregnates my space with her smell and sweet ass.
Comes in scantily dressed, with an extra sway in her hips and a peek of a bra strap telling me exactly which lacy, skimpy lingerie set is hiding underneath.
She drives me crazy, and my restraint has been stretched like an elastic band, further and further, and it’s only a matter of time before it snaps.
I go on every single run to get out of the place, but it’s still not enough. It’s time to get her back to work and out of my hair, at least for a few hours a day.
I’m not saying it’s all bad, because sometimes when we’re all sitting around in the bar, including some of my brothers, and Grinder, it can be fun.
She’s more her natural self, not playing the temptress, and the conversation flows.
The way her eyes light up when she laughs, the dimples that pop up in her cheeks when she smiles, so fucking cute.
It’s times like that I want to grab hold of her face and kiss her sweetly. Damn, she’s so fucking pretty.
Yup! I need a plan of how we can get her back to work and still keep her safe, so I can keep some of my sanity.
The Saint’s Outlaws have a standing in this city. One that is not to be fucked with but also respected by many. Especially the companies that we both support and protect. Of course, our services aren’t free, but they are not always paid for in cash. Favors in return are a common commodity.
The club is low on numbers, and business is becoming more demanding and in need of extra bodies on runs, securing the compound and working the Saint’s Outlaws garage, our only business that’s actually on the straight and narrow.
So, getting Giorgia back to work with the right security on site twenty-four seven, it’s just a logistical nightmare, but it would normally be a costly one too.
Money that, although we’re not struggling, we don’t really have to spare.
However, I have a way of getting around it, at least in the short term.
I mount my matte black Harley; the chrome gleaming in the afternoon sun. Grinder and Hammer are seconds behind me as we fire up our rides and head out.
As we make our way into the city, the distinctive rumble of our motorcycles gains us a lot of attention.
Some choose to ignore our existence, keeping their heads down and picking up the speed of their steps.
Others, the ones who, although still fear us in many ways, also respect the fact that despite being outlaws, we do install a certain amount of lawful control within the area.
One that the cops struggle to implement, or don’t want to get involved with.
That’s where the Saint’s come into their own. The cops turn a blind eye to our unconventional ways of taking out the trash that prowls in the shadows of our city.
We don’t deal drugs. Sure, we haul them, along with guns and cheap liquor, but we also make sure that there’s an element of control on our turf.
They don’t get into the wrong hands, and no one is putting them into the hands of kids or the vulnerable.
Double standards? Sure, but fuck it would be a much darker substance riddled and violent city if we didn’t do our own kinda policing, that’s for sure.
We make a quick pit-stop to see Dirk Wendle at Wendle’s Security.
He’s a good man, on the level most of the time, but when one of his guys, Manny had gotten into a bit of bother, going in a little too hard when removing some lowlife from one of clubs on the outskirts of town, it had been us he’d come to for help.
The perpetrator had first verbally and then sexually assaulted one of the female bar staff when she’d gone on a break, cornering her outside the staff room.
He’d overpowered her by punching her in the face until she was barely conscious, then had forced his hand up her skirt and into her underwear.
Manny, on his way to the John to take a piss, had caught him in the act.
God only knows how far the bastard would have gotten if he hadn’t.
Manny had flown into one hell of a rage and used his fists to get justice on behalf of what we found out later was who he had just started dating.
Manny was an ex-Marine. A man trained to kill or be killed.
Let’s just say that Dirk was in need of a disposal and cleanup team.
Both of which were on the Saint’s Outlaws list of negotiable services.
No money ever exchanged hands for what we did, but Dirk still had an open, unpaid tab and was about to pay up in the way of favors.
Thirty minutes later we’re walking back out of the Wendle’s security office, the two men following us, as it happens, Manny himself, and another of Dirk’s employee’s Frank. They climb into a black unmarked company SUV and follow us to our next destination.
The office block that holds Trace Globe International Commerce, TGIC for short, is one hell of an impressive building.
The chrome, mirror glass and twenty-plus floors scream multimillion-dollar company. If you Google them, you get the public face of a respectful, high-standing business, dealing with a portfolio of company alliances that would make Jeff Bezos weep.
Yet, if you dig a little deeper. If you have a talented hacker as we do with Forger, and access to the dark web, then you’ll find the real deal behind this company’s dealings.
I guess they’re not that different from us.
On the legitimate side, we have the garage; they have a multitude of kosher trade lanes. With the not-so-legit stuff, we have the drug and gun trafficking, which is small fry compared to TGIC.
They have links to a totally different kind of traffic.
Sexual exploitation, forced labor, forced marriages, even child soldiers.
The pretty picture shows them selling designer garments, hi-tech medical equipment, but what also goes on behind the dark veil of evil is the trading in organs, live humans for hunting, and for those sick bastards that get a kick out of torturing and dismembering people, while listening to their screams of pain and humiliation.
Not that I’m totally opposed to the act of torture, but only when it’s warranted and truly deserved. Not for some sick bastard to get his dick hard all in the name of entertainment.
If Giorgia had the slightest inkling of what was hiding behind this glossy tower and pristine business attire, she would freak out. For now, I’m keeping that tidbit under wraps, at least until both her brother and I can quietly persuade her to make better choices in her working life.
I instruct Grinder to wait outside, taking Hammer, Manny and Frank with me when I enter the building.