Page 31 of Femme Fatale
He laughed, a low rumble that started in his chest and rolled through me. “You always play rough?”
I grabbed the waistband of his jeans and yanked. “Is this a game?”
He didn’t answer, just fumbled at my shirt. Buttons popped, stitches tore. His hands were big enough to cover my ass and my spine at the same time, and the way he kneaded my skin was so deliberate, I shivered. The tattoos on his fingers scraped along my ribs, cool and sandpapery.
His jeans hit the floor. Mine followed. He bit my thigh, just above the bone, so hard I saw stars. I arched, ground my hips into his hand, and the way he cupped me—like he’d been planning this for weeks—I almost lost it.
I wanted to ruin him. I wanted to make him forget every other night.
He slid his head between my knees and licked a straight line up and over, slow at first, then building with a kind of violent, desperate suck. I bucked, grabbed his hair, and pulled until his scalp protested. He dug in with his tongue, fucked me with his mouth until I almost sobbed, until I came, and then popped up and smiled, all teeth and challenge.
“My turn,” I said, voice hoarse.
He rolled onto his back, hard cock up and waiting. I crawled over him and pinned him to the mattress. With one hand, I held his wrists; with my mouth, I took him in as deep as I could. He arched, hissed, and pulled at my grip but didn’t break it. I kept eye contact until he started to shake, then let go, slow, savoring every millimeter.
He flipped us, easy as turning a page. Now I was captive, arms over my head, his massive hands holding me in place while he lined up and pushed in, all at once. I dug my heels into his back, let him know I wasn’t going to take this passively. We pounded it out, sweat-slicked and mean, his face right above mine, sometimes burying in my neck, sometimes just looking at me like he needed to memorize what fucking me looked like.
I clawed his back so hard I broke a nail. He went harder, every thrust a rebuke, or a plea. When I climaxed again, I saw black for a second, then came back to the sensation of his tongue tracing circles behind my ear and his rough voice right in it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.
I bit his bicep, hard, and let myself believe him.
We kept at it until the sheets were a disaster and my whole body ached. After, we breathed together, the kind of heavy, animal breathing that only happens after a really good fight or a first fuck that changes your posture for days.
Eventually, I rolled over, stared at the ceiling fan. “Jack’s not gonna let you help us,” I said, the words tasting like gunmetal.
Zeke sighed, stretched, and reached for a cigarette from the bedside stand. “I know.”
“He’ll kill you,” I said, because nobody else would.
He looked me over, cigarette poised. “You might, too.”
“Not until after,” I said.
He grinned, and the whole room softened for a second. “I promise.”
We lay quiet, just the hum of the city and the old pipes groaning in the walls.
In the morning, I woke with his arms locked around my torso. I rolled out from under him, put on jeans, and checked my phone.
Twelve missed calls. All from Boss.
Zeke sat up, hair wild, scratches blooming red across his chest. “What’s wrong?”
“They started already,” I said. “Jack hit Mary’s. Two girls are missing.” I’d fucked up by waiting. I’d fucked up by wanting dick last night.
He was out of bed before I finished the sentence, pulling on a tee and his patched-up jacket. “We need to move.”
I snatched my cut, laced my boots, and we were out the door before the sun was up. I didn’t bother with makeup. I didn’t need to look alive. I needed to be it.
Out in the lot, our bikes sat side by side, engines hot from the night before.
He revved his, held my eye, and said, “Ready to fuck some shit up?”
The others filed out of the club and mounted their bikes. No plan. Just a ride into chaos. I fired up the Harley, felt its thunder rattle my knees, and grinned at him.
“I think I know where he took them,” Zeke said. “Overheard some shit before I left.”
