She let out a low moan, her forehead sinking on the table. I dug my fingers into her hips, slowly pulling out and rocking back inside her even deeper. My cock throbbed in approval.
“I went and got tested. Got the all-clear to go bare.” My brain cells bended and waved like flags obeying the force of the wind. “Oh shit, Jill. Shit, I can feel you on me, babe. So good, so fucking good.” I thrust into her tightness, an epic explosion building inside me.
Her breathing grew quick and choppy, her palms gripping the table. Her ass had me in a trance as I plowed into her, over and over again, watching my cock thrust in and out of that *, watching that * sucking me in. My pulse fired like a thousand rockets going off, one by one.
I drilled deeper, and she pushed back against me, shuddering in my hands. I couldn’t hold back any longer.
Sweetest fucking torture ever.
Everything faded. Everything melted away, except for this—me moving inside her, her all over me, taking me in and moaning for more, the table shaking and rocking, her cries getting louder. I exploded, my cum bursting inside Jill. I held her gorgeous body on mine, her sweat a sheen of gold on her pale back.
I leaned forward and licked a trail up her salty spine, my hands finding her incredible tits. “Which way to your room?” I pinched a nipple.
“Wh-what?”
I was a man on a mission.
A Fuck Mission.
A Come Until You Can Come No More Mission.
“Your room.”
She let out a groan—or was it a laugh? “I don’t think I can walk.”
“Walking ain’t required.”
I pulled out of her and grinned as she sank down on the table with a moan, her arms bent at her sides. I yanked up my jeans and lifted her in my arms. Her eyes met mine. Her lips fell open. Innocence and satisfied woman all in one.
Yeah, I was on a Melt with Jill Mission.
“Last room on the right,” she said, her hand wrapping around my neck, as I carried her down the hallway. “Bone, when you licked me in the kitchen that time, I almost…” she whispered, out of breath. “Could you do that again?”
A Make Jill Beg for Mercy Mission.
“I’m gonna lick you all over, Firefly.”
I kicked her fucking door open.
“WHAT DO YOU GOT FOR US, BUTLER?” Jump ran a hand through his silvery-black beard. The Jump signal for, Let’s hear your spiel. This had better be good.
All eyes in the meeting room turned to Butler.
Butler planted his hands on the great table. “The Calderas Group that Catch told us about is based in Denver. Salvadoran mob parading around as a Latin American import-export business—coffee, wines. They play it real highbrow, but they’re actually far from that.”
“What does that mean?” Jump’s eyes narrowed.
“They’re gangbangers from way back in the eighties.”
“No shit,” muttered Kicker.
“They got tired of being told what to do by the white-collared dons in town and of being pushed around by every new gang on the block, and there were many. In the mid-‘90s, they got their shit organized. They managed to control the low-level crap—robberies, assaults, murders—that had gotten them unwanted attention and their members in jail,” said Butler.
“They’ve risen above where they started, which was the gutter. Under the radar of their fancy big-money legit enterprise—the Calderas Group—they’ve managed to retain their ties with one major player from Mexico. Which means, they’re still heavy into crack, cocaine, weapons, like they used to be in their youth but doing it now wearing suits and ties and hanging out in better restaurants and clubs.”
After I’d left Denver, I hadn’t stepped foot there again, avoiding it at all costs. In my early years as a Jack, I’d told our then prez that there were warrants for my arrest, that I couldn’t chance it, which was partly true.
My fingers pressed into the smooth surface of the table. “Which gang from Denver in the eighties?”
Butler leaned back in his chair. “The Executioners.”
My eyes lifted to his.
“Did you know them?” he asked.
“I knew who they were, yeah,” I managed.
“They got control of choice routes out of the old country through New Mexico to Colorado. But since Colorado legalized marijuana, the Feds have been raiding pot businesses all over the state, so the Executioners or the Calderas Group has taken some hits over the years. They’re looking to shift their reach, and it looks like the Broken Blades snagged their attention in little ole Nebraska.”
I reached for a smoke and lit up. “The Blades have that old underground warehouse and meth factory somewhere in the boonies in their territory. Everyone’s had their eyes on it. Why not them?”
“Good point,” said Butler. “Plus, with the Blades making our life difficult in Colorado and down through Texas, if this Calderas Group works with the Blades, and they use that warehouse and factory as a new hub of operations, they’ll have us by the balls—as in, slicing our cojones clean off on our Southern routes.”