Devil on Your Back (14 page)

“All’s fair.” Vince points to my jeans.

They’re gone in five seconds flat, as are my panties.

I drop on his lap once more, and seal his mouth with mine. He pushes his tongue between my lips, and what started as a kiss that tested ground and showed my intrigue in this man ends as a frenzied make-out session, the two of us dueling tongues like a couple of teenagers on their first night out alone. Hands wander over flesh, and fingers graze nipples. Our bodies grind against each other, the raw desperation between us so severe, I’m amazed we haven’t hurt each other yet.

Vince takes me by surprise when his hand comes down hard on my backside, leaving a sharp burn in its wake. His eyes stay trained on mine, watching for my response.

“I’ve wanted to smack that curvy ass since I first saw it.”

I grind my pelvis against him, and startle myself at just how slippery I am.

“How does it feel? Being so wet, baby?”

I smile, and feel my cheeks heat. “Like I need something filling me up.”

He hisses between his teeth and effortlessly lifts me off his lap enough to let his rigid cock spring into position. Gently angling me as he lets me down, he nudges against my entrance, causing my muscles to twitch greedily.

“You want this to fill you?” he taunts. “Are you sure?”

“Never been more certain.”

“Clean?” he asks.

“Squeaky.”

I cry out in a mixture of shock and pleasure as he drops me the final inches so I’m seated square on his lap, impaled in the most delicious of ways.

We lock our eyes, a deep understanding passing between us that although this is it, it’s what we’ve been lusting for, we’ll never be one hundred per cent committed when a piece of us remains in the past indefinitely.

I move first, slowly rocking into him, coaxing him into pushing back. The depth, the girth, the places he’s touching . . .
pure bliss.

I rotate my hips, selfishly wanting to feel him touch me in every inch of my core. Vince pushes back harder, more forcefully, getting as deep as our bodies will physically allow. His hips pump upwards, the points of his pelvis slamming brutally into my inner thighs. It’ll bruise, and without doubt I’ll be sore for a few days, but still I want more.

I find his rhythm, matching him blow for blow. The pain perfectly contrasts the tingles spreading through my abdomen. It’s been so long; I forgot how amazing this feels.

“In or out?” he grunts as we move together.

“What do you mean?” I pant.

“Come. In or out of you?”

“Out. Come on me, Vince.” I can’t explain why I make the decision, other than a raw need to feel claimed, to feel owned,
to feel sexy enough for him to want to
.

I slip off his lap and lie down on the floor. My fingers make quick circles over my swollen clit.

He pauses, watching my handiwork with a blatant interest, all the while stroking his length. “Beautiful.” He reaches out and teases my opening with a single finger, smiling as I buck involuntarily.

My mouth drops open as he slips the digit inside of me, quickly adding another . . . and another. His thick fingers fill and stretch me. Despite the slight burn, I find myself pushing back, desperate for more, pleading silently that he tries another finger.

“That good?” he asks. “You like that? Feeling my hand stretch your beautiful cunt like that?”

“God, yes,” I whimper.

“More?”

“More,” I demand, low and husky.

He flexes his fingers a little, giving me that extra stretch. It burns, but oh fuck does it feel good as well. I startle when his thumb brushes my back entrance once and then again, sweeping over the tight hole with each thrust of his hand.

“We’re gonna have fun, aren’t we?” he asks.

I can’t even answer. My head pounds with the building pressure inside of me; my body’s coiled tighter than a rattlesnake. A delicious numbness spreads from my shoulders down my abdomen until it reaches an almighty crescendo in my core. I cry out as my orgasm takes me, the room about me fading into insignificance as I ride the high, committing every ounce of pleasure to memory.

“Fuck, Sonya. You comin’ on my hand like that, baby . . .” Vince trails off as he moans through his own release.

Hot spurts of liquid cover my abdomen, and I bring a hand to my side to stop it dripping onto the floor beside me. He strokes his massive hand over his equally sizeable cock, milking it for every drop it’s worth. As his climax subsides, he opens his eyes and slowly takes me in, lying on the floor beneath him, covered in his cum.

I stay still, watching as he curiously traces a finger through the sticky mess.

“Gotta say, when I thought about how much I was looking forward to seeing you on the ride home, I hadn’t imagined this.”

“Good or bad?”

“Good.“ He chuckles. “Very good.”

AFTER I
help Sonya off the floor, and get her cleaned up—with plenty of giggles from her side at the predicament—I tuck her into bed, and climb in beside her.

She doesn’t protest as I wrap my arm over her, and hook a leg over the top of hers. She nestles back into my chest, and blows me a kiss.

It makes me want to put that mouth of hers to work in other ways.

“I feel bad for the guys who had to clean up before the party, downstairs,” she murmurs.

“They’re prospects, baby,” I reassure her. “It’s their job to do as they’re told.”

“Still,” she grumbles, “nobody should have to clean another person’s blood away.”

“Neither should you. I think you saw enough of it, don’t you?”

She goes quiet for a moment, and I worry that she’s slipping away, but a shaky breath wracks her body and she settles into me.

How did I get so lucky? How did I get here, with a woman who not only accepts the fact I can never fully let go of the love I have for Julia, but with a woman who understands because she’s been through the exact same thing? A woman with so much compassion running through her veins that she literally worries about the prospects who had to clear away Bruiser’s blood before her own well-being?

Her golden hair tickles my nose and I stroke it out of my face, much to her satisfaction. She damn near purrs like a cat, as I tuck the strands behind her ear and run the backs of my fingers over the side of her cheek.

The trip back from Alice’s gave me plenty of time to think—mostly about what was said at the dinner table about nothing having changed.

I want to change. I want to be a better man, not just as a father for him, but also as a partner for a good woman. A woman like Sonya.

The panic still dwells within me. I’m still terrified that something will happen, and yet again, I’m going to be hurt. I’m not entirely sure I could go through all that again. Losing the woman I loved was torture—losing my son afterward, severe punishment. Those two events scarred me, and I’m not afraid to admit to myself that I’m weaker emotionally for it.

But it dawned on me miles from here, that never taking the risk was only adding to my misery. For years, I’ve been certain that staying closed off, keeping to myself, and guarding my heart with the tenacity of a Rottweiler was the best way to avoid harm. But how stupid could I be? Isolating myself not only prevented any possible heartache—it ensured I stayed miserable, because I made myself miss out on the
good
things that come from the love of a good woman.

Pros and cons. Good points and bad. Sometimes we have to stomach the worst in order to be rewarded with the best. A
what if
life is not the kind I want to live anymore.

Sonya’s breathing deepens, and her arm lain on top of mine goes lax. Sated in her sleep, she smiles, her expression relaxed, and those stress lines around her eyes lessen. I marvel at her natural beauty, at the warmth that shines through even when she’s out to the world.

I should be asleep as well, but my mind is hard at work on other things—things like what to do about Alice. Carlos will be on his door—it’s only a matter of time really. Question is, how will Alice react? And will he even stand a fighting chance against the firepower Carlos will bring with him?

I left on amicable terms, slightly better off than we were to begin with—the only real difference is we’re now talking. He’s still as much of a stubborn know-it-all as he was back then, and apparently I’m still too much of a selfish bossy-britches for him and his prima-donna demeanor.

His girl, Jane, seems to like him, though, and I have to admit he did seem a lot more level when she was in the room. Perhaps she’ll manage to sort him out, force him to drop the attitude and grow up? I’ll be back in the area soon enough to help with Sawyer, no doubt, but a visit with Alice won’t be on the cards, unless circumstances call for it.

Nineteen years has proven to be too long, and after all the separation he’s just not my son anymore. I don’t know him, I don’t know how to get through, and it makes me wonder—did I ever?

Sonya stirs in her sleep, and I ease my leg off her so she can roll. She finishes positioned on her stomach, her glorious breasts pressed beneath her, and her hair tangled over her face. I brush the strands away, and like the selfish asshole I apparently am, let my hand wander down the side of her body to feel the swell of her flesh and the gentle dip of her waist.

I haven’t truly appreciated a woman like this since Julia, and the sentiment is nice. It’s fulfilling to have such a deep connection with another, even if it scares me that she could be taken from me as abruptly as Julia was. But all the same, I’m moving on. I’m making progress, and damn it all if I’m not going to try and make a committed relationship out of this—dead spouses or not.

I nestle down, placing my arm over her back and resting my head so I’m facing her. For a moment, I simply lie there, watching her as she breathes in her sleep before finally shutting my eyes. This is the most peaceful I’ve felt in a long time, and for the first time in decades, I go to sleep with a smile on my face.

• • • • •

“VINCE? VINCE
, are you awake?”

I really want to answer you, honey . . .

But my body is frozen in its usual terror. Only this time, the cloaked figure is right behind Sonya, and I swear to fuck if she moves an inch it’ll have her.

I’m screaming at her to move . . . but no sound comes out.

I’m straining to reach her . . . but my arms don’t budge.

The figure fades away and my senses straighten out. Up is up, and down is down. I’m centered again as Sonya gently shakes me by the shoulder.

Opening my jaw wide I hear the pop of the joint, and I stretch my limbs out, the sheet pulling free of my torso as I do.

“I guess I should have warned you about that.” I smile.

She looks positively confused. It’s cute.

“What
was
that?” she asks.

“Get your phone,” I instruct her. “Google sleep paralysis.”

I get up and go take a morning piss while she does as I ask. Returning to the room, I watch her reading intently as I resume my position beside her.

“Vince . . . that’s . . .”

“Annoying?” I chuckle.

“Terrifying, I would have said.” She places the phone down, and turns to me. “You have nightmarish visions when you wake up?”

I nod.

“And you go into, I guess . . . a panic?”

I nod again.

“Oh my God, that’s horrible. Have you seen a doctor?”

“Uh-huh. Got told it’s perfectly normal, and that it would go away when my PTSD subsided, or when my grieving passed.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A fuckin’ long time ago.” I smile.

“How can you be so okay with it?” She slips down beside me and runs her soft fingers over my arm.

“After experiencing it literally hundreds of times now, it becomes just another part of my day.”

“And I thought I had issues.” She giggles.

The sound is so adorable I can’t help but kiss her. She rolls beneath me, and before I have time to think on what a spell she has me under . . . we’ve lost an hour of the morning.

• • • • •

“ARE YOU
sticking around today?” Sonya asks as she tugs her denim shorts on.

My eyes travel to the tight tank she has laid out beside her, and my mind boggles. If that’s what she’s planning on wearing today, I’m truly fucked.

“For a bit,” I reply. “Hadn’t really thought on what I’d do, but I have something to attend to.”

She nods, and even with her head bowed I can read the disappointment on her face.

“You can come too, if you like?”

Her chin lifts, and that warm fuckin’ smile heats me in places it has no business touching. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”

“If you were imposing,” I assure her, “I wouldn’t have asked.”

She nods, and tugs the tank top over her well-fitted bra.
Torture . . . today will be torture.

“Where are we going?”

I push my wallet around on the top of her dresser, evading an answer while I work out exactly how to put it. Her slender hands slip around my waist, and I ease at the feel of her head pressed against my back.

“I’ve got some stuff in storage downtown,” I explain. “Not much, but important items—memories mostly. Thought I might go dig a couple of things out in case Alice asks for them.”

“That’s a nice idea.” She gives me a little squeeze. “Do you have some of his old things?”

“Yeah, and some of Julia’s. Thought maybe perhaps it was time to pass them on.”

Her arms disappear, and she moves to stand beside me. “I don’t have to go if it’s something you want to do yourself.”

I shake my head. I’ve been there enough times on my own, and the day always ends the same—with me sitting amongst piles of photos and artwork, miserable at what I lost. “No. I think having you there would be good, actually.”

“Well, I need to do a couple of things before we go if that’s okay? King told me no work, but I at least need to make sure everybody will be able to find what they need while I’m having time off.”

“Sounds fair.”

She gives me a chaste kiss and heads out of the room, leaving me there alone. I muck about for a bit: straightening the bed, opening the curtains properly, and generally wasting time. Perched on the top of her dresser are two photos, images I tried to ignore until now. I stand before them, and look over the happy couple contained within. 

Sonya has her arm thrown around Mike, and at first glance you wouldn’t suspect there’s anything behind those happy smiles except for a loved-up couple from the ’burbs. But seeing his face, I know otherwise.

When she’d first told me her husband’s name I’d had my suspicions, but I kept them aside. People have talked about him, about what he did, but I’d never linked the guy with her until now. I know how much I hate people assuming they know shit about me, so unless I have proof I try not to make assumptions about others. Yet, Mike’s face isn’t one you easily forget. He has a large scar that runs above his right eye, apparently from an earlier bike accident if the stories about him are accurate. You’d kind of think the guy would have learnt his lesson really, but some people are inclined to do things their way or not at all.

Her husband that she loved unconditionally was none other than one of the club’s best messengers. The sort of messenger you want to avoid and hope he leaves you with nothing more than a calling card. Nobody waits around to find out what men like him have to say, because usually, it isn’t said with words. I never knew him, but according to King, he’d arrived back here on more than one occasion covered in more than just his own blood.

But of course she never saw any of that.

Club women not only get kept out of loop when it comes to how things are run, but in most cases, if a guy respects his old lady, he hides the stark truth from her as well, cleaning away blood, stitching wounds, taking care of things before she even has a clue. Plenty of clothing has been burnt in the fire-pit out the back for more than just the need to destroy evidence.

Carefully adjusting the frames, I straighten the pictures out, and put his portrait middle of the dresser. Regardless of what he did on work hours, he was a loyal and, from what she says, loving husband. And just like Julia, he was taken from her against her will, and I’m not too much of an asshole to respect that. If she wants to have his picture in a prominent place out of respect, then let her.

Taking a final glance around the room, I head out, shutting the door behind me.

Perhaps it was time I picked up something for myself from storage, and paid Julia the same respect?