I run my hand up and down the length of my dick, breath catching in my throat. She’s dangerous. Wanting her in any way, shape or form is probably the stupidest thing I could ever do, and yet right now it’s taken every scrap of will power I possess to stop myself from opening that door back up and destroying her pussy.
I work my dick, holding myself tighter and tighter as I edge closer and closer to coming. Soon I’m frantic. My legs are shaking, my head spinning when I explode, a jet of semen spilling all over my hand, onto the floor, almost hitting the opposite wall. I grind my teeth together, holding in the need to groan as my body convulses and trembles.
God.
Holy fuck.
What the hell is wrong with me? I feel numb and boneless as I pick up Maria Rosa’s wash bag and open it up. Her black panties are the first thing I pull out, which is kind of fitting. I can see that they’re used. I’m not a complete pervert, though. If I were, I might consider holding them to my nose and inhaling deeply. Even the thought of doing something like that makes me angry—a sensation at odds with the equally prominent desire to give in and just do it. I wipe myself with the black cotton, cleaning myself up, and then I use the panties to mop up the mess I made on the floor, too. The scrap of material is sticky and saturated by the time I’m done.
I throw them back into the wash bag, knowing that I’ll be cleaning the entire contents myself this morning instead of leaving it out for Sophia to do. It might be a shitty prospect job, but there’s no way I want my boss’s girlfriend handling my fucking come.
I’m bemused as I climb the ladder out of the basement. I lied to Maria Rosa. I told her that crazy bitches didn’t make my dick hard, but it seems as though that was an out and out lie. Crazy bitches do make my dick hard. They make it very hard indeed.
CHAPTER THREE
SOPH
“Get that fucking bitch out of here. Now.” Shay glares at Carnie with the intensity of a thousand violently burning suns. The two of them have been sleeping together for months now, but for some reason Carnie turned up to the clubhouse this morning with a skinny blonde on his arm, and red lipstick smudged all over his smug face. I sigh as I fix up three more plates of bacon and eggs and shove them down the bar. It’s kind of pathetic that these two can’t get their shit together. Carnie collects one of the plates I slid down the highly buffed wooden bar top, and then he picks up another. He holds out the second one to the skinny blonde, who I’m sure has never eaten a strip of bacon in her entire fucking life.
“You’re not the only one who can have a slip up, Shay,” Carnie says. “We’re all human here. Right, guys?”
The other members of the club weren’t born yesterday, though. They know backing Carnie up right now is essentially picking a side, and picking a side is basically the same as signing your own death warrant when it comes to Shay. She’s completely psychotic most of the time. Angry and volatile. Not a one of these men or women would willingly bring her wrath down on their heads without good reason, and this is definitely not a good reason. She can fight her own battles with Carnie. Better to let the two of them go three or four rounds and then forgive each other than find yourself trapped in the middle of a life long vendetta that will only end in tears.
None of the Widow Makers look up from their plates. Carnie pulls a face at Cade, who’s sitting alone at the table reserved for him and Jamie. “Pussies,” he says under his breath. And then, louder, he says, “I don’t see what the problem is, Shay. Your other boyfriend gets to eat breakfast with us. Why shouldn’t the girls I fuck share the same privilege?”
Sounds like Shay’s bruised Carnie’s ego a little. She stands up from the table where she was eating and folds her arms across her chest. She’s wearing that look on her face that can only mean trouble. “If you’re referring to Cade,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at the dark-haired guy sitting alone, “then he’s hardly my other boyfriend, in the same way that you aren’t my boyfriend either. Cade and I fucked. Get over it. He gets to eat in here because he’s the motherfucking vice president of the club, you moron.”
The clubhouse falls quiet. All conversation ceases. Cade stops eating, putting down his knife and fork on either side of his plate. He doesn’t look up at the fracas taking place. Instead, he grinds his teeth together, making his jaw muscles flex as he studies the mess of egg yolk and blackened bacon in front of him.
Carnie makes a disparaging sound at the back of his throat. “Great. Just fucking great, Shay. Tell everyone, why don’t you.”