Page 2 of Falcon

The corner of his mouth twitches. Must be my imagination totally running wild ’cause I can’t see it with him still having fabric covering his mouth. Yet, I’m standing close enough to see his eyes from underneath the hood. The way they crinkle gives me the insight I amuse him.

Without thinking I reach out and gently pull the fabric away and let my fingers glide over the jagged skin on the side of his face to shove the hood down. My breath catches at the sight of him. Most women who would see him while crossing the street would run in the other direction. Me? I’d jump the man and ride myself into orgasm-oblivion.

I clear my throat and mutter, “Stop being sexy. I need to concentrate. My twin sister is the one with a medical background. I dropped out to do something else with different needles. Exactly what my mother did…you could say it runs in the family.”

Directing my attention to his hand, I get busy while my lips keep moving. No need to explain why I talk too much when I’m nervous, right? Shit. Guys don’t make me nervous. I’m used to overbearing men and can handle myself perfectly…unless it’s the one standing in front of me.

Flustered is the keyword here. He affects my body in a way no other guy has been able to, and it allows my mind to drift off…giving me a nice visual inside my head of us together. Naked. In bed. His cock, my pussy, wrestling for orgasms as we get sweaty and wild. Would he make any noise?

Fuck me and my brain; I need to focus. Gritting my teeth, I jab the tough skin of his palm to close the gaping wound.

CHAPTER TWO

– FALCON –

Pain is something I’ve learned to deal with. For me it’s easy to block it out and focus on something else. Since the day my father killed my mother–shooting her point blank between the eyes–I’ve learned to deal with it in my own way.

Pure survival instinct after trauma slipped into an emotional lockdown moment. The trauma in question was caused by my mother’s death after she dragged me to the clubhouse to confront my father about his ongoing infidelity.

My mother grabbed one of his guns and was holding my hand when she stumbled onto my father getting his dick sucked in the middle of the clubhouse. She pulled out the gun, he pulled one too, but he instantly squeezed the trigger.

I was twelve-years old. A momma’s boy who was too fucking soft for my father’s liking, and the reason why he ignored me. Might also have been due to my stutter and the need for speech therapy, making me seem like a weak fuck in his eyes. Unlike my older brother, Thorsten, who he treated like one of the brothers in his motorcycle club.

It’s also why I tried like hell to stop my mother from going into the clubhouse. My gut told me something bad was going to happen. I held her hand tight, hoping I could pull her out of there if he tried to hit her again…like he used to do.

I should have known death was waiting for her that day. He always picked the club over everything, and everyone else. Well, except for money…the fucker’s money hungry ways are what got him killed in the end.

Before his death I wasn’t allowed to join or so much as enter the clubhouse; same as my mother. Until the day she was sick of his asshole ways and wanted to confront him. I screamed my lungs out when it happened. Well, not my lungs, but I definitely screwed up my vocal cords. I also ran straight through a glass door in a blind panic.

Everything changed that fucked-up day, and by this I don’t mean my outer appearance. Which became as ragged and scarred as my voice. No hospital, it’s a club rule my father also forced on me, and also why an old doctor came over to put in a load of stitches to close all the visible wounds the glass made.

Numb to the world became my second nature. Being locked up in a room at the clubhouse with only electronics as a window to the outside allowed me to gather information and knowledge about anything, and basically everything.

The gym was in the basement too, so I trained and carved my body into a weapon along with the skills I taught myself when it came to knives. Rainer saw my worth when I got older and used me as his personal enforcer; it’s the only attention he gave along with the fresh air out of the damn clubhouse.

I learned everything except for women and emotions, things I don’t know shit about and haven’t experienced any of it until Kenz. The woman who only saw a fucking photograph of me and claimed me on the spot. “Mine.” Those four letters were the first message she sent to my phone, which I replied with, “That makes you my property.”

I wasn’t kidding either. She’s the first and only woman to respond like that. I didn’t give two shits how she looks or who she is; she sealed the deal, and her own fate by claiming me.

We bounced messages back and forth for days. My normally dark days are now filled with sparks of electricity in different ways. Through my body whenever my phone indicates I have a new message. Catching a glimpse of her when I swing by her place to basically stalk her as I keep myself hidden in the shadows. There hasn’t been a boring moment since she entered my life.

“All done,” she murmurs and ties a tiny knot to the bandage on my hand.

I let my gaze drop to her ass when she turns to clear away the shit from the first aid kit. Kenz is oblivious to what happened and how close the fucker came to killing her. I clench my teeth and curl my fingers into fists.

“Hey, stop that.” The curvy butterfly smacks my chest without a hint of fear.

Fucking refreshing. I’ve never felt a woman’s touch this casual. I take a step closer to crowd her against the sink. Her head tips back and instead of being intimidated, scared, or so much as shocked? She reaches out and touches my cheek. Again.

A moment ago, she lifted the hood, and then pulled down the bandana covering the lower part of my face. I felt her lingering touch. Her eyes are locked on mine, no trace of repulsion or so much of a hint to tell me she dislikes what she’s seeing.

Curious, I wrap my fingers around the back of her neck and simultaneously lean in to slam my mouth over hers. I don’t have any experience. None. Only documentation. Reading, watching movies, reality shows, porn.

I shove my tongue between her lips, demanding her to open so I can taste what’s mine. My injured hand covers her tit. Squeezing. Fuck, it feels damn good. My fingers find her nipple and I pinch the hard nub through the fabric and bra. I should rip the fabric off her body to strip her naked before me.

I make a noise in the back of my throat. My vocal cords might be damaged, but after everything that happened, adding my stutter, it all comes down to selective mutism. Well, it’s some of the things I’ve read about when it comes to my own issues. My voice and speech are fucked-up and will never be normal, so why talk at all?

My father wanted me to fuck a whore after the visual scars were healed. I was almost thirteen, and he thought forcing me was going to get me over my issues. The whore was freaked out when she stepped into the room with me. I used my scratchy voice, or what was left of it, and spoke a single word of hello in an effort to soothe her. It was more of a sound I used to clear my throat to form a word.

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