Savior (5 page)

I finally understood all the nights when my girlfriends would tell me with a small amount of guilt about going home with a one-night stand because they just 'couldn't help themselves'. It didn't make sense to me then, control being an important part of my life. But it made sense then as I stripped out of my clothes that felt like they were chafing my over sensitive skin, my breasts heavy, nipples half-hardened, my panties damp. And I wasn't even in the room with him anymore.

I threw myself backward onto my bed in my underwear, running my hand down my belly and slipping it inside my panties. I wasn't that girl. I wasn't some kind of exhibitionist who got off on touching herself while a clueless man stood one floor below her ordered dinner for her. But that being said, if I didn't get some relief, ease some of the need, I was going to go back down in that kitchen and let him take me any way he wanted me. And that, well, that could not happen.

I closed my eyes tight as I ran my fingers over my clit, already feeling halfway to an orgasm. I couldn't come without a story, without a fantasy playing out before my eyes. So, despite knowing it would only complicate things, an image of Paine popped into my brain, opening my bedroom door, seeing me touching myself and knowing it was about him. Then he would pull off his shirt in that sexy way that only men did, reaching behind their back and pulling it forward then off, discarding it to the floor as he reached for his button and zip as my eyes took in his strong chest, the deep indentations of his abdominal muscles. Then my eyes would dip lower as his pants fell to the floor, eyes lavishing over every glorious inch of his hard dick. Then he would cross the room to me, his body vibrating with alpha male certainty, with primal promise of a pleasure I had never experienced before. He would kneel at the edge of the bed, knees on either side of my thighs, keeping me a willing captive.

His hands would move upward, nothing tentative, nothing uncertain, as his hands grabbed the cups of my bra and yanked them down, covering my throbbing breasts with his large palms and squeezing hard. Then they would be off my breasts, ripping off my panties. Then as he pushed off the bed, grabbing my hips and turning me, throwing me face down on the bed, he would haul my ass in the air, and shove in hard and deep.

I came on that thought, groaning out my release as my body shuddered hard.

I got up, threw on jeans so tight they in no way invited the idea of someone trying to peel them off, and Roman's old baggy red and white Stanford sweatshirt that I stole when he visited the first time he came back home for winter break, marking the longest we had ever gone without seeing each other since birth.

"Pull it together," I murmured to myself, finding a hair band and tying my hair into a messy knot at the top of my head. For good measure, I walked into the bathroom, slipped out my contacts and put on my huge hipster glasses, nodding at my reflection. It had a certain nerdy appeal, but it was in no way a sexy look. I considered it another guard against ill-advised sex with with the hot guy in my kitchen. Nothing about how I looked right that minute screamed 'take me now'. If anything, it said 'hey can you hold my library books while I look for my retainer'.

So then I flicked off my lights and went back downstairs, hoping for some answers.

And not sex.

Nope.

Not at all.

Totally didn't want that anymore.

Four

Paine

One year.

I hadn't even needed to so much as lay eyes on one of the Third Street guys in a full year. The last time I did, one of my best friend's girlfriend's lives was at risk. It was probably the only situation I would have dealt with them again. I had fought my way out of that life; I had done things that would wake me up in a cold sweat even now, years later.

So having to so much as speak to a member of Third Street didn't exactly make my week.

But having to do it to save another chick? Yeah, I guess that made it worth it.

Unfortunately for me, she wasn't just some chick who got caught on the wrong side of town at night and caught some unwanted attention. No, she was up to something. She was up to something and she had no idea how much danger she was in. Things had changed in Third Street over the years under different leaders. Five years alone had three separate faces. As such, the men were wild, unpredictable, sometimes calling their own shots instead of following orders.

That meant whatever the pretty blond Elsie was involved in could have any number of unforeseeable results. Oh, and she
was
pretty too. Fucking gorgeous actually. D wasn't wrong calling her Barbie. She definitely had that look- tall and lean, a body that was testament to either pilates or yoga and a strict diet: all shapely legs, a nice rack, and an ass that could make a man cry. While whatever color she was sporting wasn't natural, if her brows and lashes were anything to go by, she was a natural blond. Regardless, it was nice hair and she had a fuckuva lot of it, just begging for a man to take a good handful of it while he fucked her from behind and yank it hard. The blowjob lips comment, yeah, that wasn't that far off either. They were full and pink and just begging to be kissed. And, if what I had seen in those blue eyes of hers were anything to go by, she was due for a good makeout session that led to a good fucking session.

I had every intention of letting her walk out of my life with her hand wrapped up with her not-boyfriend's. I had no reason to get involved. But I had a mostly sleepless night tossing and turning and wondering what the hell she could possibly want with a gang that sold H and pimped out whores. So I called around, dropped the names Elsie and Roman, and I got an answer pretty fucking quick.

Apparently I was one of the very few people in the area who didn't know who Elsie Bay and Roman Matthewson were. First, because they had been hellions as teens, a couple of rich kids getting themselves into all kinds of trouble. Second, because they were well-off in the way that they went to charity functions and art openings. And, third, because they were the children of some of the biggest businessmen in the state. Elsie's dad was in energy, apparently a very loud-mouthed, abrasive man who was hell to work for and, I imagined, hell to grow up with. Which made her teen rebellion less obnoxious and more understandable. And Roman's father, Rhett, had a huge tech company, but they had their hands in many different areas: medicine, military, and security.

"How the fuck you never see her at Chaz's?" Shooter, one of my best friends and also a contract killer, one of the best in the country, asked the next morning as I stuck a needle into the back of his neck, working on some rose tattoo with huge ass thorns he got it in his mind to get done.

"Dunno." And I didn't. She was the kind of woman who stood out. There was an air about her that screamed class, but with a bit of rebellion any man in his right mind would be drawn to. "You never had her?" I asked, knowing that Shooter's reputation was one of the worst around before he finally settled down with his woman a year before.

"Nah. Felt bad as fuck for that Roman guy. Didn't want to make his life any more miserable than it was."

I snorted. "She seemed completely clueless about him wanting her."

"Sees what she wants to see," Shoot shrugged. "Why are you so interested in her all of a sudden?"

"D and Trick were chasing her last night, man. I grabbed her and pulled her in, covered for her."

"D and Trick?" Shoot asked, sitting up straight. He was rightfully worried to hear those names again. "The hell could she have gotten herself into involving them?"

"I don't know."

But I had every intention of finding out.

So I got into her neighborhood and I waited outside her house for her to get home from work. It was almost seven when she finally pulled up in that sweet light blue Porsche of hers.

I hadn't exactly expected full cooperation from her, full disclosure, but I didn't expect to be butting my head against a wall either. Whatever she was hiding, it was something she really didn't want people to know about.

I listened to her go up the stairs and looked over the menu for Famiglia for a minute. I ordered tortellini and a chicken parm then went up the stairs when she still hadn't come down, needing the number to the front gate so I could tell the guard, Al, to let the delivery guy in.

As soon as I got into the hall outside her closed door, I heard her.

I heard her and it was like a shot of white hot desire to my dick.

Because what I heard was the sound of her throaty whimpers. And there was only one thing that made a woman make sounds like that. She was behind that door touching herself, giving herself some relief from the desire I had seen in her eyes down in the kitchen.

My balls felt like they were in a vice grip as her whimpers became groans that culminated in one drawn out moan as she came.

She wasn't quiet.

Even believing I was one floor below her, almost in the exact spot she was, she hadn't bit her lip or buried her face. Or, if she had, then all it did was suggest that she was even louder when she wasn't concerned about being overheard.

Fuck if I didn't want to know what she sounded like uninhibited, riding my cock as hard as she pleased, watching what I could only imagine were perfect pink-tipped tits bouncing as she did so.

I shook my head, ignoring the chafing in my jeans as I turned to go back down the stairs as quietly as I could.

I might have been a man that had the very strong urge to tell her I heard her and that I would be all too happy to give her the kind of orgasm that would make her scream until her lungs hurt. But that was a private moment. I had no right to hear it in the first place, let alone comment on it. So I took my ass back down to the kitchen and rummaged around to make coffee. If the ten minutes before she went up to change were anything to go by, I was going to need a gallon of it.

"I forgot to tell you the number for the gate..." her voice said, sounding a little less flustered than it had been before she went upstairs.

I turned, expecting the typical chick 'lounge around' outfit of yoga pants and a tank, but saw instead an image that was going to be playing at the forefront of my brain when I jacked off later. Because gone was the cool, calm, collected rich girl persona she usually had. In its place was the sexiest fucking nerd I'd ever seen in my life. "Oh babygirl, if you were going for unappealing, you missed by a long shot," I smiled, taking in the messy hair, the glasses, the baggy sweatshirt and the skinny jeans.

Her feet faltered a second before she forced them forward. "I wasn't trying for anything. My contacts were bothering me."

"And the hair?"

"It was getting messy. I wanted it out of my face."

"And that sweatshirt?"

"It's Rome's," she said, shrugging as she reached for the phone to, presumably, call the gate.

"Stealing his comfy hoodie and he ain't your boyfriend?" I smiled, thinking about the endless hoodies women had lifted from me over the years.

She ignored me as she talked to Al at the gate, telling him to let in the guy from Famiglia, then hanging up. "Did you make coffee?" she asked, brows drawing together.

"Yeah."

"Jeez. Just make yourself at home why don't you?" she asked, smiling a little.

"Someone's got to. Your coffee grinder still had a factory seal on it."

She gave me a small smile. "It's easier to get coffee in the lobby at the office."

"Your stove front still has that protective plastic on it," I pointed out and she laughed.

"I don't cook or bake and even if I did cook or bake, it seems pointless to just cook for myself."

"Your not-boyfriend isn't over here all the time?"

"Jesus. What is your obsession with Roman?" she asked, waving a hand out like I was being unreasonable.

"He stayed here last night, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"In your bed?"

"In the guest room!" she yelped out, frustrated. "Alright enough about Rome. You're here to give me answers."

"Actually, baby, I'm here to
get
answers," I countered, watching as she moved past me and went toward the coffee pot, fumbling for a second as she looked at her cabinets, like she couldn't remember where the coffee mugs were. Back to me, I got to see her fan-fucking-tastic ass in those second-skin jeans she had on.

"Well I have no answers for you. So you can just get that out of your head. What do you know about the Third Street gang?" she asked, going into her fridge for milk.

"Babygirl..." I groaned slightly, not wanting to go there, but knowing there was no way she was going to give in. She turned, brow lifted behind her giant glasses and fuck if it wasn't the cutest God damn thing. "Fine," I sighed. "What do you want to know about them?"

"Well, you've told me they sell slam..."

"Smack," I corrected, grinning.

"Smack, whatever. And that they are pimps."

"Yeah, babe."

"So what are they doing at that huge warehouse on Kennedy?"

The warehouse on Kennedy? I didn't know shit about a warehouse on Kennedy, let alone one connected to the Third Street gang. "Is that where you were last night?"

She waved out a hand on a huff. "Yes. Okay, fine. Yes, that's where I was last night."

"Why?"

"That's my business," she said in a firm tone, her chin lifted, her brow arched in a haughty way that had my lips twitching. "What could the Third Street gang be doing in a factory that big? Making heroin?"

"No, baby," I said, trying not to laugh.

"How do you know that?"

"You know nothing about drugs, do you?"

"It wasn't exactly in my curriculum at school, no."

Guess that made sense. Sad thing was, I knew everything there was to know about drugs by the time I finished grade school. Despite my mom's, grandma's, and aunts' best efforts, there was no shielding me from all that shit growing up in the area I grew up in.