Either way, Jack was fucking with me and I didn’t like it.
“I need to use the john,” I said, rising from my seat and making my way through the house, as Lacey came down the stairs. She had changed into a black tank top and a pair of pants that looked like leather. I looked to the bathroom door in the hallway next to the stairs, pulled open it open, before checking to see if everyone was still at the table then I pushed her into the bathroom and closed the door.
“Nice outfit,” I growled.
She bit her lip, as she leaned against the door, peering up at me from the fringe of her lashes.
“I think so,” she murmured.
“Bet a lot of people will,” I affirmed, pressing my palm against the door, above her head as I leaned into her. “Girl, you looking to be noticed?”
She didn’t answer instead; her tongue took a swipe over her lip. I brought my free hand to her hip, pulling her hips against me and forced her to arch her back against the door. I leaned forward, nuzzled her ear as my fingers dug into her hip.
God, I wanted her.
I was thinking about taking her again.
And again.
Because the next time would be slow, making up for the first time but after that, after I gave her the good she deserved, I’d free the beast and fucking devour her.
“Remember who saw you first, Lace,” I demanded, against her ear. “Remember who owns that part of you,” I ground out, sinking my teeth into her ear lobe.
“Blackie,” she rasped.
My hand traveled from her hip to the snap of her pants, skimming the waistband with my fingers before teasingly sliding them beneath the fabric.
“I want you to call me to pick you up,” I instructed, removing my hand from the door and pulling the elastic of her pants so my other hand could slide further into her pants and tease her pussy.
“Yes,” she panted, grinding against the palm of my hand.
“That’s my girl,” I growled, moving her panties to the side with one finger. “I can’t wait to get my mouth on that sweet cunt,” I said, running my finger up and down the seam of her pussy. “Make it real good for you, Lace…I promise.”
She whimpered as I leaned back and removed my hand from her pants. I lifted my hand between us, wrapping my mouth around the finger that teased her pussy, sucking the taste of her off before pulling it out of my mouth with a pop.
“Make it quick. I’ll be waiting,” I ordered, pressing my lips to hers briefly before reaching behind her and opening the door.
I left her in the bathroom, closed the door behind me and leaned against it before I blew out a ragged breath.
Decision made.
I was going for the rewrite.
Chapter Eighteen
I visited Christine’s grave every Saturday for the last month as a way to repay Blackie for always doing right by me. I knew it meant something to him, that it gave him purpose in a world where he thought he didn’t have any, and every week he missed a chance to bring her flowers was one week he thought less of himself.
The first time I brought the flowers I felt like I was doing something wrong, like I shouldn’t have been there and didn’t have the right. It’s kind of fucked up, visiting the grave of a woman who was married to the man you love. It’s not like they were divorced and fell out of love, they were a tragic love story, a modern day Romeo and Juliet, two people who loved one another but fell victim to corruption.
I know Blackie will always hold a certain love for her.
As he should.
That kind of love doesn’t die, it stays with you, guides you into eternity.
I want that kind of love.
The second visit I felt the same way but as I stared at her name I forced myself to remember the faint images my memory carried of the woman who made Blackie smile. It was my eleventh birthday and my father threw a party for me at the clubhouse. It was awkward being the biker princess when there weren’t any women in the clubhouse and the presents I got that year were just as strange. Wolf bought me a catcher’s mitt and told me boys my age loved girls who played sports. Pipe, the poor bastard, he gave me a Barbie doll. Imagine? I decided I didn’t really want presents after that, and I anxiously waited for Blackie to arrive.
He finally showed up, but he wasn’t alone…Christine was with him and they looked so damn happy. I hated them both. Let me explain, I was an eleven-year-old girl, with a crush on a man, not a boy, and he was married to the prettiest girl I had ever seen. Prettier than my mom, prettier than my favorite actress. I realized then, even at that tender age when a girl notices boys, that Blackie only had eyes for her.
Of course they bought me the cool gift.
A caboodle full of lip gloss and nail polish.