Strength & Courage (The Night Horde SoCal Book 1) Page 9

  “Where’s Roe?”

  “Doing his Zen thing. He found a rock off across the way”—J.R. waved his bottle toward the other side of the staging area—“and he’s sitting there staring at a tumbleweed or something. You know him.”

  Muse did. Ronin was one of the older members, in his early fifties. He’d been riding and doing stunts longer than he’d been wearing a patch. Real stunts, not this bullshit. But he was getting old for a lot of the higher-profile work.

  He was an odd bird. Muse wasn’t a big talker, but in comparison with Roe, who tended to speak only when addressed directly and then in one or two word sentences, he was a chatterbox.

  Ronin had gotten his road name for his samurai ways—his silence, his tendency to seek solitude, and his deft work with a blade. During their outlaw days, Roe had gone into any fray armed with a katana and several small blades. He did not trust firearms.

  And he barely availed himself of club pussy—maybe two or three times a month. Not that Muse kept track of his brothers’ dick usage, but the girls talked about it, and gossip got around an MC clubhouse like washday down at the river. It was apparently some kind of chick badge of honor to get attention from the mysterious Ronin Drago.

  J.R. got called back to the set for what Muse hoped was the last take. As he walked off, Muse’s personal cell buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out but didn’t recognize the number. Only a few people he knew used his personal cell. Expecting a telemarketer or bill collector, he almost disregarded the call, but he didn’t have anything better to do, so he answered.

  “Yeah.”

  A sweet, recently familiar voice sashayed into his ear. “Muse? It’s…um, Sid. Sidonie.”

  He smiled. “Hey, hon.” It had been five days since he’d dropped her off at her pink box of a car; frankly, he’d expected to hear from her before now. “You lonely?”

  “No—or yeah. Maybe.” She sighed. “Can I see you?”

  He got hard at the mere thought of getting between those slim, golden thighs again. “You can. I’m on a job out in the desert, but I should be done here in an hour or so. When I get back, I’ll have some shit to do. I can come by around nine or so.”

  “Okay. I could…cook?”

  She was offering to cook for him? Well, wasn’t that sweet. “Sure. Don’t need nothin’ fancy, though. What do you drink?” He was broke, but he’d lift something from the behind the bar in the Hall and replace it when he could. This Friday was payout day—and, hopefully, some better payouts were on the horizon, if—when—they voted in the new job from Wade Ferguson.

  “I have wine here. If you drink something else, you could bring that.”

  His mood had improved dramatically, and his patience with the commercial people behind him had crashed. He chuckled into the phone. “Hey, Sid—you just ask me on a date?”

  “What?! No! Just…no. A meal.”

  “That all? Just a meal?”

  He could almost hear her blush. “Fuck. This was a mistake.”

  “No, hon. I’m glad you called. I’ll see you around nine.”

  ~oOo~

  After yet another take in the desert, then a trip home for a shower and to hang out for a minute or two with Cliff after they’d gotten the bikes back and he’d shared a beer with his brothers, it was closer to nine-thirty when Muse pulled his Knuckle up next to her cotton-candy car. He dismounted and took a bottle of Cuervo Silver and one of Jack from a saddlebag. As he came up her walk, she opened the front door and stepped out onto her porch.

  He almost stopped in his tracks. She was just so fucking beautiful. She wore a long, white cotton skirt that skimmed her ankles, and a snug little pink beater, under which, it was readily apparent, she wore no bra. Her long, gold hair fell over her shoulders and down her back in soft waves. Fuck.

  Nothing about her was like the women he usually spent time with. She was all class and grace. Except for that filthy mouth. He sure appreciated a woman who didn’t get queasy over colorful language. The best, most versatile word in the English language was ‘fuck,’ and he liked people who liked that word as much as he did.

  Honestly, he didn’t ‘spend time’ with women all that often. He’d had a few regular fucks during his Nomad days, women in different cities he’d sought out for a comfortable bed and a reliably good time. He supposed he’d ‘dated’ a few of them, taking them out for a meal or a ride. But since he’d settled in Madrone with the Horde, he’d kept mainly to club pussy. Civilian fucks in the town he lived in meant complications, even in his new, mostly law-abiding life.

  So what was he doing here, grinning at this little local confection who was cooking him a meal? Something with curry, apparently—he could smell it wafting out the open door behind her.

  Was she Indian? Was that the foreign cast to her features? He wouldn’t have guessed Indian. Tonight, he’d just fucking ask.

  “Hey, hon. Sorry I’m late.” He stepped up onto the porch. She didn’t move back, so he came right up on her, their bodies almost touching.

  “That’s okay. ‘Around nine’ was sufficiently vague. You didn’t ruin dinner or anything.” She took the bottles out of his hands. “Thanks. Come on in. I’ll—”

  With his hands free now, he grabbed her around the waist before she could turn away, and he bent his head to hers and kissed her. No fucking peck, either. He took all he could get of her in that kiss. He’d caught her off guard, and she was stiff at first, until he grabbed a handful of her little ass and brought his other hand up to run his thumb over an eager little nipple, popping up under her beater. Then she went fluid in his hold, her body draping over his arm, and she kissed him right back, taking as much from him as he was from her.

  She gasped when he broke away. When he tried to speak, his voice failed him, and he swallowed and tried again. “Glad you called, hon. Been thinking about having my hands on you again.”

  That was true. Far too much of the past five days his brain had spent recreating that early morning, and comparing club girls’ assets and talents to Sid’s.

  He’d also been mulling over the pros and cons of trying to bring her to their way of thinking about Demon. That could blow up in his face if he wanted her for a regular thing. It could blow up in Demon’s face if he pissed her off. But it was worth a try, he thought. He wasn’t interested in her because she was Tucker’s caseworker, he wasn’t here for information or support for that cause, but on the other hand, it seemed wrong to waste the resource.

  That was a fine line for him to walk, and he had no real skill with diplomacy. He said his piece when he had to and kept his mouth shut otherwise.

  He wasn’t sure what he wanted with this girl or how to get it.

  “Muse?”

  He realized that he’d been standing there, holding her, staring into her eyes. He stepped back, keeping her steady while she found her feet again. “Sorry. Thinking.”

  “Changing your mind?”

  He grinned. “About dinner, maybe. Now I’m thinking I want something else first.”

  “Nope. No dessert before dinner.” She turned, and he followed her into her house.

  As he stepped in, she said, “Shoes off, please.”

  “What?”

  She pointed at the little table in the turret, the one he’d put her gun on the other night. There were three shelves under it, and a pair of flat, silver sandals was perched there. “I keep a shoeless house.”

  Something about that made him feel awkward and vulnerable. “I had my boots on before.”

  “Extenuating circumstances. Please?” She gestured with the bottle of Jack toward a little armchair at the edge of the living room. “If you need to, you can sit there to take them off.”

  He began toeing off his scuffed engineer boots, hoping he’d put on decent socks this morning. “I don’t need to sit to get my damn boots off,” he grumbled.

  “Okay. Meet me in the kitchen. Jack or Cuervo? You take it straight?”

  “I’ll take Jack tonight. Yeah, straight.”
/>
  She breezed off, and he finished with his boots. No holes in his socks. Good. Shrugging out of his kutte, he folded it and laid it over the back of the chair she’d indicated. Then he took a minute and looked around her cozy living room. She had a wall of photos and a couple of others on her mantle, all neatly framed, and he was curious.

  The photos on the wall showed places all over the world—Egypt, Europe, Japan, what he thought was India, and maybe South America. They were landscapes or monument photos, either without people or with Sid and an older man and a woman—her parents, maybe. The man had foreign features like Sid’s, but his skin was noticeably darker. The woman, taller than the man, was a blonde knockout. Really gorgeous.

  On the mantle were photos of Sid with the same people—one which was obviously a graduation picture, with Sid in a cap and gown, the man and woman on either side of her, and the other an older, professional portrait, with Sid as a young girl. Yep, definitely her parents.

  “You took off your vest.”

  He looked over his shoulder; Sid held out a glass half-full of Jack, and he took it with a smile. “It’s called a kutte. And yeah. No need to wear colors in your house. It’s like a uniform.”

  “I guess the biker thing is a big deal to you.”

  “The ‘biker thing’? Yeah. It’s my life.” Before she could ask more, he changed the subject. “What you’re cooking smells good. What is it?”

  “Just a Thai curry—like a spicy chicken stew. Pretty easy.” She smiled and sipped at her glass of red wine. “And tolerant of late guests.”

  “Thai—is that what you are?”

  She cocked her head. “What I am?”

  “You know what I mean. Where you’re from.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s a rude question.”

  “Why?” He was honestly surprised.

  “What I am is a person. A woman. Where I’m from is Huntington Beach. I’ve never lived anywhere but Southern California, and I’m not less Californian or American because my eyes aren’t shaped like yours. You’re making assumptions about me based on what I look like. It’s rude.”

  He did like her fight, even when it came in the form of a lecture. He turned the corner of his mouth up in a smirk. “You practice that speech often?”

  That bought him a smile. “I get that rude question a lot.”

  “Is there a polite way to ask what I want to know?” He stepped close to her and brushed her hair back over her shoulder, letting his hand linger over the knob of that joint. “You are beautiful, hon. But not in the ordinary way. You can’t tell me all your people never lived anywhere but Huntington Beach.”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I’m not Thai. I just like Thai food. My father is from Kathmandu. Do you know where that is?”

  What sprang first to Muse’s head was an old song by Bob Seger, but he kept that to himself. “Nepal, right? Mt. Everest and Sherpas and all that.”

  “Rude again, pal. But yeah, right place. He’s a dentist, by the way. He’s not Sherpa—and not all Sherpas are mountain guides. They are a people, not a job description.”

  Sliding his arm around her narrow waist, and feeling in his balls the smooth tautness of her lithe body, he turned her to face the photos on her mantle. “That’s your dad?” She nodded. “And the hot blonde is your mom? She looks pure California.”

  “She’s not. She’s from Quebec. My parents met at an international student mixer in college. And it’s also rude for you to call my mom hot while your hand is on my ass.”

  He laughed and gave her ass a squeeze. “Sorry. You’re like the United Nations all rolled up into a tight, perfect little package.” Before she could slam that remark for being rude, he leaned in and sucked lightly on her neck. “Baby, if we have to eat before we fuck, I hope that curry thing’s almost ready. Because what I really want to fill my mouth with is your pretty pussy.”

  “Fuck, you’re raw.” The words came in a whisper, and he felt her pulse quicken against his tongue, so he didn’t think she was complaining.

  “You want a gentleman, you called the wrong number, hon.”

  She leaned back at that and looked up at him, her dark eyes catching fire. Then she put her glass to her lips and drank the wine down. “The curry will keep.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” He finished off his Jack and took her glass, setting them both on her little square coffee table. When he stood back up, she wrapped her arms around his neck and leapt up; he caught her ass, and she hooked her legs around his hips. Sweet fuck, he loved her body, her limbs so long and thin she seemed coiled around him, her hair brushing over his arms, her tongue twisting with his. Sweet fuck.

  He turned, trying to make his way to her bedroom without taking his mouth from hers. He missed, hitting a wall full-on and knocking a couple of her travel photos from their hooks. One broke when it hit the floor, the glass shattering, but when he tried to turn to see, she clutched his head and bit down on his lip.

  Fuck it. He was going to fuck her right here, against the wall he’d run her into. He’d eat her out later. He hadn’t even been blown since the weekend, and that hadn’t gone especially well. He needed to get off, too. He grabbed at her skirt, seeking but not finding the end of the material, until he jerked his head from hers and growled in frustration. “Where the fuck is the end of this thing?”

  Unwinding one supple arm from his neck, she reached down and helped him. “I thought you wanted to eat me out.”

  Hearing her talk like that sent waves of need into his gut. “I do, hon, and believe me, I will bury my face in your pussy and eat you raw. But right now I gotta get you on my cock.”

  With her mouth twisted into a raunchy leer, she reached down between her legs and opened his jeans, yanking the zipper down without any concern about what she might catch in it—a concern he had, since what was inside was just about tearing the zipper open, trying to get free. He was, as usual, commando, and she took hold of him and pulled him out. “You have a great cock.” She gave him a squeeze, and he rocked his hips with a groan. “Condom?”

  He still had her against the wall, holding her up with one hand and the weight of his body, so every movement she made between them came with a maddening kind of pressure. She felt it, too; he saw her eyes widen each time her hand or his cock brushed her core. Under the skirt bunched between them, he could feel her heat.

  With his one free hand, he fumbled for a condom. She took it from him and rolled it on. Then he knocked her hands clear and reached between them, spelunking past her skirt. “I hate this fucking skirt,” he grumbled as he finally found her and yanked the slender fabric of her panties aside so that he could sink into her wet depths. She cried out, her legs clamping hard around his hips and her fingers yanking his short hair, her nails scratching his scalp.

  “Ah, God, yeah. Baby, you feel like heaven.” Her eyes were closed, her teeth biting down on her lower lip. “Look at me, hon.” She did, and he liked to see that those deep brown eyes were dazed and unfocused. “I am gonna fuck you hard and fast. I’ll take my time later. Ready?”

  That sharpened her focus. For a moment, she stared into his eyes, then she nodded, a slow lift and drop of her head. He changed his hold on her, hooking her legs over his arms one by one. “Hold on, hon.”

  He did what he’d said he would, pulling almost fully out before slamming into her, moving back and forth as quickly as his hips would go. Each time he went deep, grunting as he felt the limit of her body against the tip of his cock, she hit the wall, and a little burst of air left her, carrying a high-pitched grunt, too earthy to be a squeak, with it.

  Jesus Christ, she was tight and lush, and her perfectly smooth, hairless pussy was slick with her juices. He could feel her desire, wetting him, clasping him. He could smell her. Hear her. Moving faster and faster as the hot fingers of ecstasy uncoiled in his gut and made his balls clench and his cock throb, he yanked her beater up and bared her fantastic little tits, then leaned in and sucked one hard and deep into his
mouth. She went off at once, crying out ohohohohGODohGOD, arching off the wall with a strength and force he wouldn’t have expected from her slender body.

  Her flailing forced him to take a step back, and the change in position sent him over, the climax forcing such a spasm of tension and release into all his muscles that he folded over her nearly in half, standing in the middle of her living room, groaning, his legs shaking.

  “Christ, hon.” He was shaken in more than his legs. What was it about this girl that was so fucking hot? He stood straight and tried to set her down, but she whimpered and tightened around him, tucking her head into the crook of his shoulder.

  “If you won’t let me go, I gotta sit.” She nodded, and he turned and stumbled to the chair near the turret. He was still mostly hard and fully inside her, and all that movement made him twitch and groan. When he sat, he went deep again. His eyes rolled back, and she moaned.