Vipers Run (5 page)

I stared at Tenn, openmouthed, for a long while. It was only the slam of a door behind me that got me talking. “You're not serious about this.”

“Dead serious.” The awful gallows humor wasn't lost on me, but Tenn wasn't smiling. “You stay in there with him.”

“I don't think I can.”

“Why not? You said you needed money. You'll get a cut of the profits.”

How much could that be, really? And when I asked, he threw out a number, telling me, “That's only the first week.”

I headed to the room, ignoring his laughter behind me.

I had no idea what to do once I got in there. Maybe I wanted to let Cage off the hook, especially because he was muttering and pacing.

He stopped dead when he saw me with the camera. “That fucker.” He slammed the door open and yelled, “Remember that fucking hellhole in Jakarta, asshole? That's worth a million of these.”

I heard Tenn call back, “You let me think you were dead.”

Cage slammed the side of a fist against the doorjamb, put his forehead there, and for a long moment I had no idea what was going on. Not until Tenn called, “You're live in five.”

“I can't fucking believe this.”

“You told me to come here,” I pointed out unhelpfully, trying not to laugh.

“No, Bernie told you,” he corrected, then mumbled, “Because I told him. Fuck.” He turned to stare at me. I ignored the butterflies in my stomach and held up the camera like a challenge.

I don't know what I expected—maybe for him to walk out? And I wouldn't have blamed him.

But I was also an idiot to challenge a man like Cage. The look on his face turned from frustration to kid-in-a-candy-store in a second's span, and I swallowed hard when he shut the door, closing us into the small space.

I turned away from him, put the camera on the tripod and tried to line up a shot for the only chair in the room. Tenn had given me a sixty-second lesson and I tried to concentrate on that,
rather than what would be happening. Because I knew what happened in this room . . . I'd just never believed I'd be watching Cage do it. Or filming it for a live audience.

He was standing in front of the chair, staring at me through the lens. I pulled back and stuttered out, “We're going live in a minute. If you're, ah, embarrassed . . .”

Wrong thing to say, apparently, because he shrugged off the leather cut (I assumed because it was too visible) and took down his jeans in an effortless move before he sat, his cock out for the world—and me—to see.

His pierced cock.

Shit.

I couldn't even swallow. How did this man do things to me in a way no man ever had? Maybe it was just this room. And Tenn's living room. And the phone line . . .

“Might want to press the on button,” he said with a smirk as he palmed himself and stroked a couple of times, purely for my benefit. “First time behind the camera on this?”

“No,” I lied, and his expression tightened.

“Gonna be your best,” he said.

Oh God, this was really going to happen. I peered through the camera to make sure the shot was set up correctly. Someone rapped on the
door, which meant it was, and that the feed was going live . . .

Now.

I forced myself not to look anywhere but through the lens as Cage palmed his cock again. His legs spread, jeans shoved down, the piercing shining. He twisted it with one hand and I heard him hiss. He ran a hand along his belly and then slid it back down, watching me the entire time.

God, he looked fit and tanned . . . and the way he sat, with his scarred shoulder and neck away from the camera, you couldn't see anything but shadows. All you could see was his cock, big and full, and he was straining for his own touch.

I clenched my fist because I wanted to touch it. I wanted to play with the piercing on top. I wondered if there were more. He bit his bottom lip as he stroked it lightly several times, and what he was doing wasn't an act. That was what made this so damned appealing.

His abs looked like they were cut into his golden skin. His eyes were so green that they jumped out at me through the darkened room.

Had he done this before? Did he want me to get down on my knees for him? Because that's what I wanted, and my face flushed.

He glanced down between my legs and nodded slightly.

He wants you to touch yourself. Here. In front of him.

Instead, I put my hand under my shirt and pinched a nipple. I bit my lip and watched him bark out a soft laugh while he stroked more leisurely now. I'd learn later that the point was to give the people what they paid for.

The fact that others would watch him get off only served to make me hotter. The fact that he could expose himself to a camera—knowing it would be mainly men watching him stroke himself—was so incredibly tantalizing that I made a mental note to ask Tenn for a copy.

As I continued to watch the scene unfold in front of me—less than ten feet away—I noted how the camera really loved him, how it demanded more of the perfection it currently translated. It didn't matter that he was scarred. He had an indefinable quality that would make men follow his lead and women simply follow. He was brooding, promised to be moody as fuck, and if I didn't already somehow believe I'd fallen in love with his voice on the phone, I knew it had happened here. Completely. Inextricably. Unrelentingly.

But knowing and admitting it were two very different things, and I pushed it all to the back of my mind.

He was half naked to my fully clothed, touching himself, being filmed . . . baring everything. And every stroke of his cock throbbed straight to my clit. He'd made himself unbearably vulnerable to me and still he was somehow completely in control.

His hand palmed his rigid length, his flushed face a mirror to mine and his eyes glossy with pleasure. His lip curled hungrily. I fought every rational urge to strip and sit on his lap, lower myself onto his cock until I was full with him.

This man came back from the dead for me. He wasn't playing games, wasn't going to come for me and leave. He was never leaving. This time, having a man tell me this was comforting.

“You like this?”

“More,” I whispered, and I saw the hint of a smile on his face.

“You like watching.”

I swallowed hard, knowing I couldn't answer, because even though his question wasn't for me but rather the masses watching him, I was dying to. A smile broke his face wide open for a brief, glorious second. He smiled because he knew, and then he said, “Don't stop—focus on me, okay, babe? I'm going to come thinking about you. I need you to know that.”

Oh God. I squeezed my thighs together as I
became a giant ball of need, the throb between my legs more intense than anything I'd ever felt. Everything that had bottled up inside of me over the past weeks was threatening to overwhelm me, consume me.

“God, I want you to suck my cock,” he ground out. “That's what's going to happen next, just so you know. You're going to get down on your knees and take it in your mouth and I'm going to come for you.”

I didn't care that he might be ruining this by talking. I didn't think that was part of it, but maybe he was performing for the camera only.

No way, Calla.

I couldn't stop staring—his gaze had me locked, loaded, mesmerized. I was aware of his hand moving faster along his cock, but that's not where I watched. Not completely. I could see the whole picture, but it was the look on his face, the way his lips parted slightly . . . his lower lip swollen and wet and I wanted to put my finger in his mouth and watch him suck it. I wanted to get on my knees, put my cheek against his thigh and lick his balls.

I wanted to be so dirty with him.

I was going to come from simply watching him. And if I didn't, I wanted to. Needed to. If I could've ground against my own hand or
anything else unnoticed, I would've, but everything I had was focused on him. I couldn't tear my eyes away, every muscle and fiber in my body invested in his orgasm.

His climax was brutally beautiful, a rush and a roar and his entire body shuddered, and it seemed like it could go on forever . . . and I would still watch. He ground out a strangled groan as he came, spurting along his belly and chest, a few drops hitting his scarred shoulder. He threw his head back for a moment, closed his eyes, and I wanted a still of that very moment, even though it was burned unduly in my brain.

When it ended—seconds, minutes, hours later?—his gaze through the camera leveled me. I had my hand on the off button, needing to press it, refusing to break the moment.

Could I walk over to him, straddle him, take him? Yes, he'd let me. Was I scared of my own arousal, fierce and needy?

Yes, terrified. Because I'd never thought I could feel even a minuscule portion of what I felt. And he knew, dammit. The self-satisfied, smug twist of his lip made me rethink the getting-down-on-my-knees bit. My body didn't agree, the tight, hot wetness between my legs aching for him.

Jesus Christ.

I yanked my gaze back to the viewfinder, like
I could hide there. But he was still watching me, even though I'd turned the camera off.

Once I'd pressed the off button, I'd expected the heated mood to shut down with it. But it didn't. It got hotter, even as he stood and tucked his half-hard cock into his jeans. His look, his stance—it was all an open invitation.

He picked up his shirt and walked toward me. I got my first up-close-and-personal view of just how far down those scars ran. To me, it looked like he'd been slashed purposely. He'd been tortured, and that would show in his eyes for the rest of his life.

“You shouldn't have been involved, Calla. But you are, even though it might only be peripherally. That's my fault. But I meant what I said about making the son of a bitch who hurt you pay.”

“All by yourself? That's impressive.”

“I'm sensing sarcasm.”

“It's a second language,” I muttered.

A corner of his mouth quirked like he was trying not to laugh and failing.

I was twenty-three years old. The guy in front of me was too wild. Too much of everything that was so bad for me, and what I'd just watched had done nothing to get it out of my system.

He brushed past me then, but before he did,
his gaze told me in no uncertain terms that this was far from over.

I'd fallen for him because of the unmistakable command in his voice. It'd been there even as he was dying. But the fact that he'd refused to leave without me was more than I'd ever thought I could handle. My head spun, my eyes locked to his, and I knew there would never be any escape from them.

And maybe I didn't want one.

Cage went into the shower and jerked off again under the cool spray, because once was not enough. It had been too long for him. Granted, he'd been dying, but still, his libido didn't give a shit. It gave less of one after seeing Calla watching him.

Goddamned Tenn and his ideas. And he'd let one of his best friends completely fuck him over by sending him into a room to jack off in the corner. It didn't matter that all money made from his shoots went to an LGBT charity of Tenn's choice. It was that Tenn knew exactly what he was doing by putting Cage in a room with Calla.

Like fucking TNT in a room full of lit matches.

He stroked his cock with a soapy hand, wondering if Calla was touching herself while thinking of him. He'd bet money on it, and he planned on
asking her the second he saw her. Which would be as soon as he dried off and dressed.

Because the whole “I don't know if I want to leave with you” bullshit was something he planned on ignoring. Even if he had to carry her out of there over his shoulder and tied up.

Tied up
. Fuck. He put his forehead against the cold tile and stroked faster, his breath hitching as he pictured her lips and how they'd look wrapped around his cock. Pictured her on her knees in front of him, her hands holding fast to his hips, his hands buried in her hair.

He came with a hiss, the orgasm ripping from him, harder than the previous one. It was like being a teenager all over again. He held himself steady with a hand against the wall as he breathed hard. His shoulder and neck ached, like the doc told him it would, especially if he overdid it.

Who knew a hand job would be overdoing it?

Tenn was waiting for him, stretched on the bed, his long legs crossed. Cage slid on a pair of jeans and asked, “Please tell me you don't have cameras in that shower.”

Tenn just laughed. And didn't answer him. Fuck. “She put her jeans on.”

“And that's a good thing? Because I'd rather her naked.”

“First time she's put on her own clothes since
she got here. Maybe give her half a second to adjust to your walking-dead state, Cage.”

“Said the man who had me beat off in front of her.”

“Had to let her see what she's been missing.”

“Aren't you sweet. Definitely Mr. Romance of the Year.”

“It was for your own good,” Tenn said. “Try to tell me you didn't enjoy it.”

Cage didn't lie as he yanked on his T-shirt and dragged his cut on over it. His keys and phone were in his pocket and he checked his phone messages.

Nothing.

“Heard you might not be welcomed back.”

“Heard you weren't keeping up with the MC these days,” Cage shot back.

“Yeah, like that's possible with Tals keeping tabs on me every five seconds,” Tenn told him. “So you've really got no place to go? Because you'd better be seriously kissing Preacher's ass to get yourself back into MC Land.”

“I'll be fine.”

“It's Calla I'm worried about.”

“Why's that?”

“There's something going on with her. Not sure what but . . . don't fuck this up.”

Cage had a feeling he knew exactly what was
going on with her—but he couldn't push that with her. Not yet. “I don't intend to. At least not any more than it already is.”

“How reassuring,” Tenn drawled.

Cage caught his friend's gaze. “Check your phone, asshole. I called you that night. You didn't pick up.”

Tenn paled and Cage instantly regretted saying anything. But fuck . . .

“Even if I knew that, I would've filmed you,” Tenn told him, and suddenly Cage felt a whole lot less guilty.

“Yeah, I know. Because you're a bigger bastard than me.”

“I'm a bastard because I believe in romance?”

“That was romance to you? Jesus H. Christ, Tenn, you're way more fucked up than I thought.”

“But she's going to agree to go with you.”

“Why? Because of the hand job of love?”

“Something like that. Trust me. I know shit.”

Tenn did. He was right about a hell of a lot of things, including relationships. Excluding his own, since he never seemed to have one. Claimed it was by choice, but Cage didn't believe that for a second.

Cage sighed. “She has to come with me. She has to stay with me.”

“So what's the issue?”

“You and I both know what kind of life I have. She doesn't belong with someone like me.”

“Maybe not. But the way you two look at each other . . .” Tenn shook his head and stared at him. “You're not leaving each other anytime soon.”

If Tenn could see it, that meant it was worse than Cage had originally thought. It was bad that Tenn could see through it so easily. The visceral drag between them reached out to grab Cage by the throat when he'd first seen her. And every second thereafter, it had only gotten worse.

One phone call and his goddamned heart was gone. Done. A lifetime of no attachments to women out the window. He'd analyzed it from every angle, thought about it till he drove himself crazy and realized that the only thing for him to do was find Calla. And surrender.

And he'd realized he was in deeper than he'd thought. Because as he lay dying on that fucking freezing cold floor, Calla's voice brought him back to life. And instead of dying he'd been comforting her.

Lying in his hospital bed, he'd practically seethed with rage and vengeance, used those emotions to get himself up and moving, much faster than the doctors wanted. But no matter how much they—and the nurses—threatened, then cajoled, then threatened again, it hadn't
stopped him. Because the idea of finishing this once and for all made him move through the pain; it was Calla that got him through.

The entire time he was healing, he heard her voice when he let the shower beat down on his sore muscles, stiff from underuse. Her voice lulled him to sleep. Finding her and getting her out of trouble became the drumbeat of his soul.

He let that thought comfort him while he mourned Bernie.

Laid down his life for me, dammit.
And Calla's too, by the sound of it. He'd heard Preacher and Tals talking about it when they thought he was asleep, how Tenn had called about a woman who'd been sent to him by Bernie. And he'd been grateful she'd been with Tenn. He didn't want Tals or Preacher near her, not without him. He didn't want her any more frightened than she no doubt was.

He couldn't have that. Tenn could be scary enough, but he wouldn't say a word about his war with the Heathens, the possible connections. Not until Cage went to him.

And so he'd been relieved Calla was with Tenn. But Tenn wasn't him. And about a thousand times a day, he convinced himself that Calla would be better off without him, that he should
just let her go off on her way. She'd disappear and he'd take care of any danger that might follow her. She'd meet a nice guy . . .

And that last part would make Cage rethink his plan every
time.