Chapter Twenty-Two #2
My arm left her stomach, going over the top of her chest, pulling her back flush to my chest, my other hand moving between her thighs to work her clit as I finally started thrusting.
Short, slow thrusts, staying as deep as I possibly could inside her as she got tighter and tighter, making it almost impossible to move as she got to the edge, then crashed down, crying out my name over and over, her pussy clenching my cock, milking my orgasm out with her, her name hissing out of my lips into her neck.
She came down with a giggle, her whole body jumping against mine.
"What?"
"Nothing. It's just... I've never had sex in a car before," she admitted, and I could hear the mix of amusement and self-deprecation in her voice.
"Seriously? Where did you fuck when you were a teenager?"
"In bedrooms,” she said, shaking her head. "I was probably the only teenager who fantasized about car sex while everyone else wanted to know what fucking in a bed was like."
"What's the verdict on the car sex?" I asked, watching as she slid away, fetching her panties and pants, awkwardly maneuvering them back on in the limited space.
"It was worth the wait," she admitted, giving me a triumphant smile, her cheeks still pink. They'd stay like that for a while. They always did.
"Anywhere else you've wanted to fuck?" I asked, tossing the condom in a convenient plastic-lined garbage bin that was attached to the back of the console, already half full with granola bar wrappers—for her—and mini chip bags—for me.
"Hmm," she said, mulling it over. "Outside."
"Where outside?"
"Anywhere outside. The woods. A back deck. On the beach."
"Heads up on the beach," I said, smirk pulling up, "you get sand in places. Places you don't want sand."
"Ouch," she said, grimacing.
"Yeah," I agreed.
"Oh, I have one."
"Yeah?"
"Like... a bathroom at a party. A social event kind of thing. You know... you never know who might happen by," she added, eyes dancing.
"You dirty exhibitionist, you," I teased, slapping her ass hard as she climbed up between the two front seats, slipping into the passenger.
"You love it," she shot back, pulling down the mirror to fix her hair.
See, the thing was, I did.
It was early. I didn't believe you could love someone right away. Not in the way that mattered anyway. The deep way. You could love the shallow parts of someone quickly. But that wasn't what I wanted.
I wanted what all the Mallick men had with their women, what Kingston had with Savea.
So, no, I wasn't deeply in love with Reagan.
But there was something there. An inkling of something bigger to come.
It should have terrified me.
I should have been running scared.
I'd never been interested in romance shit and happily ever afters. Even though I had seen it many times over in the people around me. It didn't seem likely for me.
But then there she was.
Someone who thought my inability to hold my tongue amusing, who gave it back to me just as bad as I gave it to her, who somehow found me charming.
I don't think I realized how certain I had been that such a person didn't exist before. Or that I had based my entire belief system on love and relationships and 'the long run' on that mistaken idea.
But she was here now.
I knew there was a lot of work to be done, a lot of dismantling of old thought patterns.
But I knew it down to my fucking marrow that she was worth all that, that what we had growing, it was something with deep roots, something you could really lean on once it got some seasons in.
Yeah, it was too soon to be in love, but there was no denying as I climbed into the driver’s seat, as my hand reached out to close over her knee, as she gave me one of those big smiles of hers, that it was starting.
I should have been fucking terrified.
But I had never felt more certain, more sure of anything ever before.
——
"Absolutely fucking not."
I could tell this was not a very well-received comment among the many women in the room, the kind of women who did not take kindly to a man telling them they couldn’t—or shouldn’t—do something.
We were inside Hailstorm, a place I'd heard endless stories about, but had never been anywhere near before.
I'd seen it up on the hill, of course, since it was impossible to miss a giant gated, barbed-wire compound with solar panels and arms guards, the structure itself made entirely of shipping containers. It wasn't the kind of place you overlooked.
That said, because of the guards with their AK-47s, you knew it was not the place you went for a casual picnic.
But we'd set up an appointment, we'd gone through the security check-point, we were led inside by a somber-faced man with a buzzcut and a prosthetic arm.
We were walked through the seemingly never-ending tunnels of rooms, no windows, no way to get our bearings.
Until, finally, we were ushered into a container room that was set up much like a typical conference room—long table lined with chairs, a large screen TV for conference calls, a whiteboard for discussing ideas, a pitcher of water in the center with cucumbers and lemons floating inside.
All we got was a head jerk toward the seats, directing us to sit down beside each other as he left, the door slamming behind him.
Then we waited. And waited. And waited.
Until finally the door opened once again, ushering in Hailstorm's fearless leader. A woman who went by the name Lo, she was tall and fit with blond hair and an assessing gaze, moving over the two of us until we both felt like we'd been through an X-ray machine, like she knew all our insides.
Following behind her were three other women and two men, all moving to settle around the table, sitting in silence as we filled them in on the story, on the plan.
"Alright," Lo said, taking a breath, leaning back in her chair, holding a pen between her two hands as she looked at us, lips pursed slightly. "It's doable," she told us, making some of the tension slip from Reagan's shoulders.
"But?" I prompted when I sensed one hanging in the air.
"But," she agreed, nodding, tossing the pen onto the notepad she had on the table, "there is no guarantee that this will work the first time.
Or the second. Or the third. I'm not saying that to discourage you, I just want you to be aware.
This could be a long game, unfortunately.
That's fine with us. We do that sort of thing all the time.
I know you are willing to pay for that should it be necessary, but I just want you to consider other options," she said, her gaze moving to Reagan, the two of them seeming to have a silent conversation, one I wasn't privy to.
"Hm," Reagan said, leaning back in her chair, eyes far away, thinking through what Lo had—and hadn’t—said.
"Want to fill me in?" I prompted.
Lo looked to Reagan first, waiting to get a nod before pinning me with her almost unsettlingly intense gaze.
"We have no evidence that randomness is part of his M.O.,” she started. "There is a good chance that we would see results more quickly if we introduce a possible victim that he already has a connection to."
And back to where we left off.
"Absolutely fucking not."
Lo's brow rose at that. "I don't believe we were asking your permission," she told me, the authority in her voice making me feel five inches tall, like a little kid trying to stick his head in grown-up business.
I suddenly saw the reason Lo was someone both respected and feared in our town and beyond.
"Do you want us to have him removed?" she asked Reagan.
"No," Reagan said. "Well, maybe. If he keeps looking at me like that," she said, but her lips were twitching.
"Babe, fucking no. You can't be considering this."
"It makes sense, though," she said, shaking her head. "Especially because," she started, needing to stop, take a deep breath, eyes closing for a second. "Especially because he calls me that word. Like he did Sammy."
"There is often a pattern to this sort of thing," Lo piped in.
"The asshole might only have things for young women from his circle.
Or, worse yet, women he watched grow up from little girls.
And since none of my people are from his circle, the best chance of catching him in the act would be to use Reagan as bait. "
"Bait gets fucking eaten," I reminded Lo, teeth gritted, hands curling so hard onto the armrests that I was a little surprised they didn't crumble in my palms.
"You're underestimating us," Lo shot back. "We would never send her in there unprepared, not surrounded by backup. Without cameras scattered around. Without a listening device on her. She would be monitored every single move she made. She couldn’t be safer."
"Sure she could. If she didn't fucking do it. And she's not."
“She,” Reagan cut in, voice a little firmer than she generally used, "gets to make her own decisions. Even if she thinks you are kind of sexy when you get all riled and protective like that."
"I can't let you go in there. Fuck no."
"Nixon, be reasonable," she suggested, placing her hand on my arm, squeezing my wrist. "In one or two nights, I might be able to put an end to all of this. Instead of having it go on for weeks or months."
"You seriously think you are going to be able to let your sister's rapist hit on you, corner you, take you to another location, and start assaulting you? You think you can handle that? Not just in the moment, but in the long run?"