Chapter Twenty-Five
S omething soft and warm woke him up, and he groaned. Slowly opening his eyes, he lifted his head and peered down his taut body at a sight he’d never get used to seeing.
“Good morning,” she purred, her smile wicked, her eyes languid with sleepy passion.
She wrapped her hand around his cock, squeezing gently. Her naked tits swayed as she worked her arm to pleasure him, her creamy skin flushed with desire.
“Good morning, baby,” he moaned as she stroked him. “Don’t tease me, baby, put your mouth on me. You know how I like it.”
She hummed, licking her lips as she peered down at his fat, angry cock with ravenous eyes.
“I do know how you like it,” she cooed, then wrapped her lips around his cock, taking him into her hot, wet mouth.
He nearly jack-knifed from the bed, arching his back, and throwing his head back into his pillow.
“Fuck!” he shouted when she sucked him all the way in, his cockhead hitting the back of her throat as she bobbed her head. Goddamn, she was too fucking good at this!
As she sucked, harder and faster, her tongue curled, lapping at the ridge beneath his cockhead every time she pulled up. Pressure and pleasure built in his balls as she sucked, and he couldn’t stop his hips from thrusting up to force his cock deeper into her throat. She gagged, pulling back, and she gasped for breath.
“Shit, baby, you okay?” he rasped, and she curled her lip with a sinful smirk.
“I’ll be so much better once that fat cock is in my pussy,” she rasped back, her eyes glimmering with need, her face flushed, her lips swollen.
He groaned, nearly losing his load at the look of hunger on her face, the sight of her naked body nearly vibrating with her need to ride him.
He crooked a finger at her. “Take what you want, baby. I’m all yours.”
She licked her lips again, then straddled him, putting the moist heat of her slit right over his throbbing cock.
She grabbed his cock, and notched it at her entrance, then, in a single downward movement, she impaled herself on his nine-inch pike.
They both groaned loud and long, her eyes closed, her head thrown back. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the goddess before him.
“Fuck, Liz, ride me, baby!” he commanded, his voice thick with desperation.
Moaning deep in her chest, she began moving, pushing herself down on him, then pulling up, faster and faster, until the sounds of wet flesh slapping, his grunts, and her groans filled the room. Her magnificent tits bounced violently as she rode him hard, and the sight of her flushed, pleasure-fevered body made his balls draw up.
From beneath her, he thrust up into her, meeting her downstrokes, forcing his cock deeper and harder into her. Never in his life had sex felt this good, like his body was on fire, and yet soaring. She opened her eyes, her blue orbs dark and desire drunk, and he felt that look all the way to his soul.
He grit his teeth and gripped her hips, holding her in place for his pounding.
She screamed, “Oh my—fuck! Fuck! Erik!” Her pussy pulsed, squeezing his dick in undulating waves, milking him, begging him to fill her body with his cum.
Trouble groaned, rolled onto his back, and reached into his cotton PJs to wrap his hand around his hard as fuck cock. Leaking precum into the material of his pants, his cock was confused as hell from the hot as fuck dream.
But it hadn’t been a dream; it was a memory. One of many he’d relived over the years. But that one…that was night he’d finally given in; he’d finally admitted to himself what his heart and soul had been clamoring about for months.
He’d fallen in love with Elizabeth Simpson. She was his one, his only one. She would be his ol’ lady, and he’d spend the rest of his life loving her, protecting her, and cherishing her like the goddess she was. That next morning…he’d done something he’d never thought he would do.
And then he fucked it all up.
Growling, he angrily squeezed his raging hard on, and threw back his covers, getting out of the bed. The clock read just before 6 AM, which meant his girls were still sleeping.
Instead of heading to the shower to deal with his stiff dick, he moved toward the walk-in closet. Flipping on the light, his gaze immediately collided with a box tucked into the corner on the top shelf. He didn’t know why he still had it; after ten years, and two moves, and the devastating emotions it conjured every time he saw it, it should have been tossed in the trash long ago. But he’d kept it. He’d always made sure that it was one thing he grabbed and packed himself—no one else could touch it, open it, peer into it and see his greatest shame…his deepest regret.
Sighing, Trouble swallowed thickly, the regret mingling with renewed hope, creating a ball of anticipation in his throat. Reaching up, he grabbed the box, secured it against his naked chest, and turned to walk to the bed.
Carefully placing the box on the bed, he stared down at it, his thoughts, memories, emotions bombarding him. His hand shaking, he lifted the lid and pushed it aside, baring the contents to his burning eyes.
Black leather, supple and buttery, deep royal purple stitching along the seams of the armholes and down the front. He knew what was on the back. Property of Trouble stitched over the Savage Raiders MC rocker and the logo of a wolf’s head, wings, and crossed battle axes.
But it was the front that made his breath catch, his Adam’s apple bob, and his heart ache so fiercely he clutched at his chest.
Right over the left breast was a patch that read: Skizzy .
Grunting, he closed his eyes against the rising bitterness, regret, guilt, and self-hatred—and it was all so much more acute now that he knew it had all been in vain.
Rage billowing, he snatched the property kutte from the box and gripped it in both hands. It was soft, the leather professionally tooled by a leather worker the club hired for their first ever club kuttes, back when they’d first formed the club.
The property kutte in his hands…was ten years old. Though he knew the custom shop had a massive back long because, well, people in Vegas loved leather, he’d ordered it three months after meeting Liz…and he’d picked it up from the leather shop the morning before everything went to shit. He’d had grand plans about presenting it to her; he was going to give it to her that night, the night he’d blown it all up. Instead of giving Liz her kutte and asking her to be his ol’ lady, he’d betrayed her.
“Fuck,” he growled, tossing the kutte back in the box, and shoving the lid onto it. Carelessly, he threw the box into the closet, and turned his back on it.
His cell pinged with an incoming text, and he cursed. The only person who’d text him that early was at home with his wife and new baby. So, who the fuck….
Stomping to the bedside table where his cell was charging on the charge pad, he snatched the phone and glowered down at the name on the screen.
“Shit,” he grumbled, then sighed heavily.
It was a text from Rocco, a bouncer at Up to No Good. He was dating a former clubwhore, Tammi, and apparently Tammi had told him something he thought he should share.
Tammi was originally from Brighton Beach, New York, a known cesspool of Bratva activity. According to Tammi, some sketchy looking Russians had come into the bar, asking around about the club. When they’d gotten nothing from the staff, they’d grabbed a table in the back, and sat, their heads together, talking. Tammi only knew what was going on because she’d picked up a bit of Russian from living in the neighborhood. She’d been sitting at the bar waiting for Rocco to finish his shift, when the Russians came in, took a seat at a booth in the back, and checked out the bar. To most, it wasn’t obvious, but because of Tammi’s years of keeping off the Bratva’s radar, she knew what to look for. The way they held themselves, the way their eyes moved, the way their gazes would clock details normal patrons wouldn’t catch, like the cameras, the layout of the bar, and the number of employees.
Gritting his teeth, Trouble texted back a thanks, and hurried into his jeans, Henley, and boots. He’d help Liz with Erika, get them out the door, but then he had a full day of bullshit to deal with, including the new information about the Russians getting stupid, and basically pissing on Raider’s turf. And the Russians weren’t stupid, which meant they wanted the Raiders to know they were there, all up in their shit.
Forwarding the text to Grimm to have him look into it, Trouble focused on getting through his morning without cornering Liz and kissing the fuck out of her; that dream-memory was still there, filling his mind with erotic images that no manner of Russian bullshit could diminish.
He just had to hope that once Oblek was dealt with, he could make those memories come to life once more.
If he kissed her face or touched her ass one more time….
She tensed as Trouble’s hand, oh so not subtly, skimmed over her ass. At her growl, he chuckled.
Liz bit back a litany of curses because her little girl was sitting at the dining room table, happily munching on her Coco Pebbles, the chocolaty milk dribbling down her chin as she read the back of the box.
Standing at the counter, her back to the kitchen, Liz fought the urge to turn around swinging, and catch Trouble in the temple with her 15oz mug.
“You look so tense, baby,” Trouble rumbled in her ear, standing far too fucking close. His thick chest was pressed against her back, and his thick cock was pressed against her ass. All morning, since the moment she’d stepped into the kitchen, he’d been there; soft touches as he reached for something, a brushed of his hands as he walked by, suggestive smirks as he caught her attention, green eyes that blazed with humor and barely leashed desire. The man was on a mission to break her down and have her panting after him.
Her body was screaming, “Mission accomplished, now fuck me!”
Her heart was blubbering, “He’ll hurt us again, but…orgasms!”
Her mind was whispering, “What the body and heart say, but…you know…make him work for it!”
She tensed once more when he pressed a slow, gentle kiss to her temple.
“Tomorrow night, why don’t I have Fae and Hawk take Erika…you could take a long, relaxing bath—candles, bubbles, the works…and I’ll make dinner for you. You used to love my chicken carbonara. I’ll even add a bottle of wine, and a half dozen cannolis from Gino’s.”
At the mention of Gino’s cannolis, her mouth watered, but it was the thought of a long, relaxing bath that made her body sing. When was the last time she took a moment for herself? Her plaster cast had come off two days ago, and now she had a brace she was supposed to wear to work. Which meant taking a bath was totally up for grabs.
“I could even join you in the bath…help you reach those hard-to-reach places on your back, since you don’t have full range of motion on that wrist yet,” Trouble offered, and she could hear the decadent sin beneath the layer of manufactured innocence in his tone. “It’ll be no hardship, really. It would be my honor to help you…relax.”
His words, the whiskey of his voice…she sucked in a breath at the way her body trembled.
As close as he was, his body basically glued to hers, he felt it.
Chuckling, he pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, and rasped, “I think you like that idea, Skizzy, so let’s make it happen. Tomorrow night.”
Before Liz could gather her thoughts from the gutter and her panties from the floor where her whore body had thrown them, Trouble pushed away from her and strode into the dining room.
“Alright, little one, time to get goin’; don’t wanna be late. You got that history test today,” Trouble announced to a pouting Erika. Her little girl was an unreal whiz with numbers, but she hated history with a passion. Erika finished slurping the last of the milk from the bowl, carried the bowl to the sink, then hurried to her room to grab her school bag. “Come on, Liz, get that sexy ass movin’.” He winked at her, and she glared at him.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” she snapped at him, ignoring the way her nipples tingled at the way his eyes burned into her.
He grinned wickedly, his left dimple flashing. “Of course, you do, darlin’, I’m not hiding my intentions. We’re inevitable, baby.”
Biting her lip to keep from biting his head off, she grabbed her purse, and headed toward the door. In five minutes, Liz and Erika were out the door and on the road, and Saint and a new prospect, Elliot, were following behind on their bikes. Apparently, Saint had Erika guard duty that day, and Elliot would make sure Liz got to the clubhouse safely.
All the way to the school drop off, Liz couldn’t stop herself from wondering…was Trouble right? Were they inevitable?
And could she survive if he hurt her again?