THE DEVIL’S BABY_The Smoking Vipers MC Page 7

  I rub her so fast her sweatpants get wet with how horny she is, her body writhing, her eyes half-lidded as she looks down at me. Then she stops. Everything stops. She freezes and holds her breath, her toes curling so they turn red. I keep rubbing. She gasps silently. When she releases in a long moan, I feel the pleasure rippling down my hand and my arm. I feel the pleasure as her whole body gyrates, her breasts bouncing, her lips contorting as irrepressible moans escape her.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I’m on my feet, unbuckling my belt and pulling my pants down. I need her. That’s what it feels like. An animal need. We’re way past desire here. I pull my pants and underwear down around my ankles, my cock springing up. Her eyes go wide when she sees it. Maybe it frightens her, ten inches and thick, but that’s not my concern. My only concern is her mouth, her perfect, sweet mouth, a mouth with plump lips which are driving me wild.

  “Come here.” There’s command in my voice, command she can’t ignore.

  She leans up, bringing her mouth to my cock. If there’s a sweeter image than this, I’m yet to see it. She looks up at me with her big blue eyes the second before she takes my prick in her mouth, looking frightened and willing all at once, her face all the more gorgeous for the lack of makeup. This is real. This is genuine. There’s nothing fake about this. I put my hands on her head, my fingers sliding through her hair, and guide her mouth to my cock.

  She opens her mouth as wide as she can, but still I fill her completely. She gags, her choking noises rising into the air. Her eyes turn red and her cheeks bulge as I push my cock right to the back of her throat. When I pull out, she lets out a breath and then starts sucking, bobbing her head up and down. It’s not even the feeling which makes this so damn good—though it does feel incredible—it’s the way she looks when she’s doing it, too. So pretty, so beautiful, so dirty. The combination of how beautiful she is and how dirty she is drives me mad. I want to unleash on her. I’m afraid I might come if she keeps going like this, and I’m not having that. I need to be inside of her.

  I pull out and take a step back, looking down on her. “Take off your clothes,” I say, my tone of voice leaving no room for argument.

  There’s whiskey and smoke in me, my bones ache from tiredness, and yet when she takes her clothes off I’ve never felt more alive. Her tits are big but perky at the same time, her legs toned with muscle and her ass, when she turns around to bend over for me, is round and bouncy. I smooth my hand over it, squeezing the flesh so it turns red, bringing my hand between her legs to the present in the middle. Her pussy is pink, tight, the sort of pussy which will hound me in my dreams for the rest of my life.

  “Tell me you want to be fucked,” I say.

  “I want to be fucked, Spike.” Her voice is high-pitched. I can tell she really wants it. We’re beyond the club scheming and all that, way beyond it. We’re just two people now, hungry for each other. She bends all the way over, presenting her pussy to me. “I want it. I want it bad. Please, Spike. Please.”

  If I was a strong man, I might have it in me to step away from her at this moment. I might think to myself: she’s my prisoner. This could all be a game. But I’m not strong enough to look at her right now, my cock hard and wet with her saliva, and do nothing about it. I’ll never be that strong. I step forward, one hand on her ass and one hand on my cock, my head so heavy I can barely think. That pussy, that ass, her body, her moans—my mind is on one track. I guide my cock to her hole, the tip opening her up. She’s damn tight, so tight that she bites down on the sheets to stop from screaming.

  I push in slowly, feeling the tightness around my shaft, and then near my balls. For a while, we fuck like that, slow, and then her pussy begins to loosen around my cock, giving into it, opening for it. Soon both of us are lost in a world of wet hot pleasure, my cock pounding deep inside of her. I look down, captivated by the way her ass bounces back and forth as I slam into her. She moans, biting down, gasping. The only sounds are our moaning and the fleshy slapping of our fucking, the unleashed pleasure of it. I thrust so hard that she collapses onto the bed, lying down. I keep fucking her, pounding her into the bed, smashing her into the mattress, the bedframe creaking and aching with the effort of supporting our frantic sex.

  I can’t stop looking at her ass, at the curve of her back, at her face as she twists her neck to half look at me. She’s as lost in the euphoria as I am, her eyes hardly seeing me and yet seeing me completely, her lips in an O shape, slurring the words, “Yes, yes, fuck me, yes, Spike, fuck, fuck, fuck.” I grab onto her ass cheeks, squeezing them together, thinking there’s no better sight than her round ass cheeks pressed like that, my cock sliding in between them, disappearing.

  “Goddamn, goddamn, fuck.” I can’t hold it much longer, but I sense that she’s close, too. He body is seizing up. Her moans are trailing off into hollow gasps. She’s close. We’re both close. It’s a race to see if we can lose our pleasure at the same time.

  “Come, come, come.” I drill into her harder with each word. “Come.” I pound her so hard my abs slap painfully into her ass cheeks. “Come.” I pound her harder, my fingers digging into the flesh of her ass. “Come!” I bite her shoulder, unable to stop myself.

  She cranes her head back, crying out in pleasure, squirting all over my cock. I look down at the white come sliding down my shaft, and then sliding up between her ass cheeks. It’s too much for me. It’s too dirty. My balls ache with the desire to explode. I bite down on her shoulder again as I come inside of her, my head flooding with darkness, the muscles in my ass and my legs tensing up as I push one last time inside of her. I can’t think. I can hardly breathe. All that exists is the flesh of her shoulder and my dick inside of her. My cock pumps, come spilling inside of her.

  And then we’re rolling aside, onto the bed, lying there breathing heavily. After everything that’s happened this long, long day, the woods and the warehouse and the drinking, this is the only time I feel relaxed. I could lie here forever, I reckon.

  After a while, Yazmin crawls across the bed and into my arms. I never usually do this, lie down and hold a woman when we’re done. I usually get up and get a smoke or a whiskey. It’s too much. We’re too close. A man like me can’t get close, otherwise all his demons’ll come hissing out. But I don’t move. It feels too natural to have her in my arms.

  “Can we just stay here for a little bit?” She kisses me on the chin, our first kiss, our first tender moment. “Is that okay?”

  “Sure. Just a little bit.”

  We lie there until the sun comes up.

  Chapter Eleven

  Yazmin

  One and a half months have passed but I still think about the first night Spike and I shared together. I think about falling asleep in his arms and how close I felt to him. I think about the way we came together as though we’d been together before, knowing exactly what the other person wanted. One and a half months, and still Spike and the Smoking Vipers don’t trust me enough to give me free rein of the clubhouse. I’m kept in the basement and let out only in the evenings, where two guards stand watch—sometimes Knuckles, sometimes Red-Eyes, sometimes the VP, Justin, sometimes Danny —the bulge of their weapons outlined beneath their jackets. I don’t think they’d shoot me, but I also don’t think taking that risk is a good idea.

  “I’ve given you four tip-offs,” I told him one night, when we were both sitting up in bed. “Four tip-offs and all of them worked out, didn’t they?”

  He stared into the middle distance as if he was not hearing me. Sometimes, Spike gets such a sad look in his eyes. From the whispers around the club, I know he was in the army. But when he gets this look, a look which is at once tragic and hopeless, I sense something else is going on. It’s not the look of PTSD. It’s the look of profound heartache. He snapped his head to me, smiling and frowning at the same time, an expression wholly his own.

  “Yeah, they all worked out. Two shipments, a warehouse, and a laundry place hidden right in the center of Sunnyside. But you’ve gotta un
derstand, Yazmin. I’ve been fighting with Snake for years. I know what sort of scumbag he is. He’d sacrifice all of this for a plan.”

  “What plan?” I rolled over so that I was lying atop him, staring into his eyes. We’d just had frantic sex twice in a row but I could feel his cock getting hard against my crotch. “Explain that to me, Spike. You keep going on and on about this plan. What are you even talking about?” I rolled over again, jumping to the floor and pacing away from the bed in my underwear. It’s strange how quickly I’ve grown comfortable with Spike seeing me in my underwear. “I think you’re talking out of your ass. That’s what I think!”

  Spike sighed and tried to approach me. I paced further across the room, stopping only when I hit the wall. Maybe staying in the basement was making me crazy, I thought.

  “I don’t know what plan,” Spike said. “But even this could be a part of it. The way you’re acting now. Snake could’ve told you, ‘When you get in there, gain his trust, and if he resists throw a tantrum about—'”

  I turned on him, ice-cold. “I’m not throwing a tantrum,” I said.

  He winced. A look came into his bright green eyes which told me he’d never gotten this far with a woman. He never usually engaged in arguments like this. He found them petty. “I’m not going back and forth with you on this,” he said.

  I leaped across the room and prodded him in the chest. “You can’t keep me down here like some kind of pet and then refuse to take what I have to say seriously. I’m not your fucking pet.” I prodded him harder, getting in his face. I wanted to stir some of that sadness out of his eyes. I wanted him to see that I was really here.

  But then he just left, leaving me for two whole days.

  Doing sit-ups today in the small homemade gym Spike has set up for me, my mind returns to dozens more memories. We’ve spent entire days and nights in each other’s arms, just lying there. But he never talks. I talk until I suspect he’s growing tired of it. I tell him about the time in second grade when me and Mom went to the seaside to search for shells and I got swept out on the current, how Mom waded in and swam after me in her underwear, dragging me back to shore. I tell him about the time Mom brought one of her boyfriends home—she had a few—and I mistook him for my father, how I clung onto the man’s leg and cried when they broke up. I tell him about sitting up with Mom, a giant tub of ice cream, and The Real Housewives of New Jersey DVD boxset on auto play. But when I try and get him to share something about his childhood, or the army, or anything, he just gives me that faraway smile and shrugs it off. He isn’t the sharing kind.

  That’s why this evening is important, I remind myself as I stand up and go to the running machine in the corner. I set it on the fast setting and sprint at the wall, head down, pumping my arms and working up a sweat. Today I’m going to try and draw Spike out of his shell.

  Once I’ve showered, changed, and made myself some dinner—they finally brought some real food—I sit at the table reading a paperback set in the Jane Austen era. Sometimes I wish Spike could be like Nicholas Appleyard, the soft-spoken gentleman in the novel who’ll do anything to win his lady’s heart. I think of Spike, dressed in his leathers, on his knee with a red rose in his hand. I can’t help but laugh.

  I put the book down when Spike walks into the room. He’s dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, his eyes tired. I know he’s been up all night and half the day guarding a shipment.

  “How did it go?” I ask, getting him a beer. As I go to the fridge, I feel for a second like we’re a regular domestic couple, doing regular domestic things. I hand him the beer and he cracks it on the edge of the table, the cap landing on the floor.

  “Fine,” he says shortly, and I can tell he’s in one of the moods where he doesn’t want to talk. He sits silently, sipping the beer.

  I sit next to him with a glass of wine. I promised myself that tonight I would try and break through to him. Part of me wants to back out, but I can’t back out of it just because it seems difficult. “Spike, I want you to tell me something about yourself.”

  He laughs at first. Maybe he thinks I’m joking. But when he sees my face, he mutters something and shakes his head. I think it’s, “Women.” I bristle, angry, but let it slide. Watching him, I wait for him to speak. After a long pause he says, “I’m dog tired and I just wanna relax, all right? I don’t know where this is coming from.”

  I sip my wine, telling myself to be calm, telling myself I knew this was going to be difficult. “Listen,” I say, “I know it’s hard for you to talk about yourself, but I’ve told you loads about me, and you just sit over there—”

  He stands up and walks to the bed, clicking his neck from side to side. “I’m tired, Yazmin.”

  “You might as well be a stranger to me!” I blurt, jumping to my feet. My heart is pounding, my head pounding. “I just want you to share one thing.”

  “You want me to trust you,” he says.

  I grit my teeth, struggling to maintain any kind of composure. “This is not about the Vipers or the Scorpions, if that’s what you’re trying to imply. This is about us.”

  “Us,” Spike murmurs.

  “Yes. Us. What’s wrong, you don’t like the sound of that?”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s just . . .” He takes another sip of his beer. When he sees he staring at him, he says, “What?”

  “You can’t just say, it’s just . . . and then not say anything! Talking to you is like talking to a brick wall.”

  “What do you want from me, Yazmin?” He’s on his feet now, suddenly angry. “Do you want me to spill out every little thing that’s ever happened in my life? Do you want me to tell you that some nights when I close my eyes I wish I was dead? Do you want me to tell you about all the hate and pain in my fucking heart?” He’s standing over me, chest heaving, eyes wild. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

  He goes to the fridge to get another beer.

  “What hate and pain?” I ask. “Let’s start there.”

  “Yazmin . . .” There’s a note of warning in his voice.

  “What?” I snap. “I’m here as a prisoner. You’ve restricted where I can go. Are you going to restrict what I say now, too?”

  “It’s been a long day,” Spike says. “A damn long day. Can’t we do this another time?”

  “There’s never another time with you.” I massage my head. My temples are pulsing. This wasn’t meant to go this way. “I’ve shared. I just want the same from you. What about hate and pain?”

  “I can’t,” Spike says. “I can’t know if—”

  “I’m not working for my dad!” I scream, throwing my glass at the wall. Blood-red wine spills over the floor, glass shatters, shards sparkle before cascading like rain.

  Spike steps back, watching me warily. “You’re gonna need to calm down, Yazmin. You can’t blame me for being suspicious, ’cause you’re still doling me out intel like I’m standing in a food line, a piece here and a piece there. I bet you’ve got a couple’a things you still haven’t told me about. I’m right, ain’t I?”

  I shrug, though he is right. “I haven’t been withholding because I’m working for Dad. I’ve been withholding as insurance. Maybe this is an act. The sex, the closeness, maybe you’re just waiting until I’m not useful anymore.”

  “That’s not true.” He doesn’t approach me, but his eyes are fixed on me.

  “There’s going to be a raid on your nightclub, The Phoenix, and there’s a bundle of guns buried in the woods, just south of the Scorpions’ clubhouse. I memorized the coordinates. There, are you happy?”

  We stare at each other for a long time. Usually we’d go to bed now, lose ourselves in each other, pant and writhe and moan. But as we stand here, I know we won’t be going to bed tonight.

  “Thank you,” Spike says. “And that’s everything, right? Nothing’s changed, Yazmin. You’ve always got a place here.”

  “But you still won’t let me leave,” I mutter.

  “Do you want to leave?” I can’t tell
if he sounds hurt.

  “I’m not sure,” I answer honestly. Tonight was meant to be a turning point. Tonight was meant to bring us closer. He was supposed to see my point of view and open up for me. Not this.

  After he leaves, I try and return to the paperback, but Nicholas Appleyard and Nancy Smithson seem ludicrous now. Love, affection, closeness; it can never be that simple. There are always things that get in the way. Sitting up in bed at half past midnight, I wonder if it’s time for me to get out of here, get on my own two feet. I don’t want to stay here if there’s no future. What would that make me? This past month and a half, I’ve thought of myself as Spike’s girlfriend, or at least lover, but if I stay and Spike refuses to open up to me, I’m nothing but a concubine.