Preacher (Wayward Kings MC Book 4) Page 7

  I imagine the feeling of his breath against the most vulnerable parts of me. I imagine that first jolt as he touches me with his tongue.

  I can hear him tell me to ‘come’. His voice is deep, smoking with desire, and his eyes flash the command up to me.

  And when I think I’m done, he takes control.

  He won’t let me rest.

  My whole body tightens in sweet tension and I can feel myself climbing closer to the cliff that I desperately want to jump off.

  But I can’t get there yet.

  I imagine him rising up between my legs.

  Every inch of him hard, from his powerful chest, down his rippling abs, to his thick cock that throbs with his heartbeat as he poises himself at my opening.

  I’m his.

  Willing, waiting, wanting.

  I imagine my first halting breath as he slides into me. The heat of his body joining with mine. Gentle at first, but still firm and in control.

  He starts slow, but he won’t be able to hold back long.

  My fingers move faster.

  I can see the look on his face. Fierce, intense, burning.

  He’s so strong. He lifts and tosses me around like I’m weightless and I lose myself to his power. I hold on for dear life, enjoying every sweet second.

  My fingers move faster.

  Almost there.

  I can feel that feral roar inside him as he tries to hold back his orgasm, as he fights to take another precious second of owning my body. And he loses.

  And I feel every quivering inch of that loss loose inside me.

  He’ll lean down, pressing his body to mine. He’ll kiss me and run his hands across my body as he comes down from his release.

  I bite my lip. A little gasp comes from me.

  I’m there.

  My fingers tense along with my body as I clench and release and thrash on the bed.

  I whisper his name, just once, just loud enough that if he were listening, he might hear it.

  “Preacher.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Preacher

  I know what she’s doing.

  There’s no mistaking it.

  I can hear every sigh and gasp. I shut my eyes to keep from looking and I end up picturing every bit of her lithe blonde body stretched out on her bed.

  Damn her.

  I undo the buttons of my jeans and lie back and try to fall asleep with my hand on my cock, thinking in utter agony about what I can’t have.

  She’s mine for the taking. She wants it. She’s practically begging for it.

  All it would take is going to her door and saying her name.

  But I can’t.

  No matter how much she wants it and no matter how much I want it.

  So I wait until I hear her finish with a moan and a whispered name.

  My name.

  Damn her.

  I lay there, hand on my erect cock, until I’m sure she’s asleep.

  And then I recreate every bit of what she’s just done inside my own memory. I imagine it all, every smooth inch of her body, every flick of her wrist and fingers.

  I picture it all, while I wrap my fingers around my cock and stroke myself.

  I imagine what would happen if I went to her door. Her sweet lips kissing the head of my cock with as much tenderness as when she was touching my chest while she hung on my every word. Her eyes staring up at me through her messy blonde hair in the same way as she looked at me earlier when she invited me to bed. Her mouth open slightly in that inviting half-gasp as I get between her legs, my cock at the entrance to her, and a whispered ‘yes’ waiting on her lips.

  Every frame, every beautiful second of fucking her plays out in my head as I stroke my aching cock.

  Damn her.

  I imagine her pussy clenching tight around me, her legs wrapping behind me and her body thrashing beneath me as she climaxes while I’m inside her.

  I imagine her eyes flashing as she looks up at me when I whisper to her that I’m close, and the only words that come from her are “keep going.”

  Damn her.

  I stroke faster. My cock is pulsing in my grip, swelling with urgency as I grit my teeth and fight against making noise while I imagine myself balls-deep in that tight piece of ass in the other room.

  I want to claim every inch of her.

  I’m close, now.

  I imagine the tension that wells up inside me as I fight to keep going. I want to know what she feels like on the inside. I want to know how she sounds as she begs for more. I want to see the smile on her face as I make her climax harder than she ever has before. I want to watch the blush creep over her chest as she comes down from orgasm. I want to hear her deepest moans of ecstasy. I want to make her shout as I fuck her harder than she’s ever had.

  My head lolls back and my body tenses as I shoot all over my chest, thick ropes that cover my body. I nearly bite my tongue trying to keep quiet, but I can’t keep her name from leaving my lips.

  Jessica.

  Part of me hopes she hears, that she knows what she’s done to me, that she knows that even though I’ve just come thinking of her, that all it would take for me to be ready again is to hear my name whispered one more time from her doorway.

  All she needs to do is say my name.

  Just another invitation. Another look.

  I’m ready.

  But all I hear is silence.

  It’s for the best, anyways.

  Fucking me would just open up a whole new world of problems for the both of us. It’d put her in danger, I remind myself, and it’d complicate things for me. I need to stay focused on getting stronger so I can find my family.

  I can’t fall for the nurse that’s taking care of me.

  Can I?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jessica

  When I wake up in the morning, it’s like nothing happened last night. Maybe that’s how guys like him operate — it doesn’t mean anything to them; all they care about is the fun they have in the moment and, once that’s done, they move on. The little kiss I put on his cheek and the way I touched his chest isn’t even a blip on his radar. He’s so determinedly normal, it’s maddening.

  Hell, it’s probably happened to him a million times. He probably didn’t even notice.

  To him, I’m just a means to an end. A way to get well and get back to whatever the heck it is that’s brought him to Reno. Hurting people, probably.

  It makes me feel foolish thinking of the way I left my door open, just inviting him to come in and fuck me. He doesn’t see me that way.

  I shouldn’t see him this way, either. He’s trouble and I know it. But, for all I try to shout down the urge inside of me, something keeps drawing me towards him. Part of it is wanting to find out more about the kind of people connected to what happened to my father. But part of it is because I can see the good man inside him. That part of him is in pain. And healing people is what I do.

  I shake my head as I take a look at myself in my bedroom mirror. What a mess I’m in.

  I get dressed, respond to the text from Bryce that’s waiting on my phone reminding me that we’re getting drinks together tonight, and I decide the best thing to do is not even talk to Preacher about what happened because I don’t need to rehash my embarrassing little mistake. Instead, I’m going to go about my day like nothing happened.

  I head out to the living room and he’s already awake.

  Shirtless and on my couch, with the morning light coming in through the window and highlighting just how elegantly muscled he is.

  “Morning,” he says, with a breezy smile that makes my knees nearly buckle.

  All it takes is one look like that and I’m melting.

  This isn’t going to be easy.

  Every time I learn something new about him, every time he becomes more of a person and less some vague idea of a violent criminal, he becomes more and more attractive. I know I should keep some kind of distance between us, but I can’t.

  “Good
morning,” I say, in a voice I keep determinedly casual. “Breakfast?”

  I’m a nurse, I’m used to keeping my cool under fire, so I should be able to handle it pretty well when the fire is inside me.

  Right?

  Maybe?

  “Already made,” he says. “Bacon and eggs waiting for you in the skillet in the kitchen.”

  I’m so out of it I didn’t even smell the bacon.

  I step into the kitchen and help myself to a plate, glad to have something to keep myself busy while I try and put my thoughts together. I’m conflicted and keep circling back to figuring out just how to act around him. Do I mention what happened last night? Or do I not mention it, because nothing happened and, if I bring it up, it’ll just make things even more awkward?

  “How’d you sleep?” I call out, between a mouthful of bacon and eggs.

  He might say he can’t cook, but that’s a lie.

  There’s a pause before he answers. “Well enough. You?”

  His voice sounds completely normal. He must not have noticed anything.

  “Fine,” I answer.

  That’s good. Right? Casual?

  I breathe a little easier and remind myself not to feel more awkward. I’ve inserted catheters into patients, I’ve given people sponge baths; what happened last night — giving a kiss and putting out not-strong-enough signals to a guy I definitely shouldn’t get involved with — shouldn’t embarrass me.

  But it does.

  Or maybe it’s that he didn’t pick up on my signals.

  Am I not good enough?

  What’s wrong with me?

  I scrub my finished plate and decide I’ve just got to put this all behind me. Even though things last night got a little weird, he’s still someone that I’ve got to take care of, and doing that means I’ve got to be professional.

  Besides, I really shouldn’t hook up with a guy like him.

  I shouldn’t.

  I saw what happens in his world. Bullets, brutality, winding up on the blood-covered bathroom floor at the Joker’s Wild.

  I get back into my living room and there he is — shirtless and tempting and waiting for me — and seeing him like that puts me back into fighting with myself.

  When he lets his smile out, it’s lethal.

  “We should change your bandages again, check that everything is still healing ok,” I say. “Let me just finish getting ready for work first, ok?”

  He doesn’t say a word as I go into the bathroom, fix my hair up and brush my teeth, and then grab my medical kit and get back on the couch next to him.

  All he does is look into me with his glittering blue eyes. What is he thinking? Can he tell how I’m feeling?

  My fingers shake a little while I work on him and I nearly sigh with relief when I finish changing his bandages.

  “Looks like you’re healing just fine,” I stammer.

  He nods. And keeps looking right into me.

  Does he notice?

  “Thank you, Jessica,” he says, and he reaches up and brushes a stray hair back from my cheek.

  He noticed.

  Those eyes are just begging for me to try and kiss him again. There’s some kind of defiance in there, like he’s taunting me to do it. But that can’t be right. Not after last night. He’s definitely not interested.

  Is he?

  “I’ve got to go to work,” I say, standing up quickly.

  I can’t get that hungry look in his eyes out of my head.

  This is going to be trouble.

  * * * * *

  Mixologie is a fancy bar in the downtown district of Reno and it’s where Bryce and I are supposed to meet. Looking at the place from the parking lot, I’m glad I took the time after my shift to get ready for a night out: I showered at work, I’ve changed into some of the nicer clothes I have, and even did my makeup.

  The building looks semi-futuristic, but not from a time far in the future — just five to ten years from now where being this pretentious isn’t quite so looked down on. There’s a bouncer out front in a well-tailored suit, wearing sunglasses even though it’s nine at night and he is most definitely not Corey Hart.

  This isn’t the kind of place I would normally pick. But Bryce insisted.

  He’s waiting for me outside. With his arms crossed and his feet tapping impatiently. He’s dressed up and looking almost nice. His typical beat-reporter brown mop of hair is combed into some semblance of order. He’s wearing a button-up shirt, with the top three buttons open, and a suit jacket. I don’t doubt that he spent a decent bit of money on his outfit.

  Even though he looks good, I can’t help but picture Preacher in his place, wearing a leather jacket, jeans, and a t-shirt that hugs his impeccable abs. He wouldn’t be tapping his feet impatiently, he’d be relaxed and perfectly at ease… even if I was half an hour late, like I am right now.

  Bryce glances up from his cell phone as I shut the door to my car.

  “I didn’t think you were going to make it,” he says.

  “Sorry. Work’s been hectic lately.”

  “Yeah, but half an hour and no text? A little rude, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, sorry, but again, it’s a bit crazy being a nurse and dealing with the aftermath of a mass shooting,” I snap back. “People dying and all that.”

  “Sorry. How about I buy you a drink?” He says, looking considerably chastened.

  “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just things are crazy and I haven’t slept right since the stuff that went down at Joker’s Wild. But that’s no excuse for me being an asshole.”

  “A beautiful woman like you can get away with a lot of things. Come on, let me get you that drink.”

  “Thanks,” I say, sparing him a smile.

  Inside, Mixologie looks like some hipster’s wet dream brought to life. It’s like a speakeasy and a Banksy graffiti had a baby. The bartender is wearing suspenders and a fedora and exudes this holier-than-thou attitude overbearing enough that it makes me want a drink just to be around him. Which I suppose is good for business, at least.

  We take a small table not far from the bar. Bryce sits down so close to me it’s bordering on uncomfortable.

  There’s a cocktail menu on the table and it has the word ‘Pre-Prohibition’ on it in six different places. Next to the menu is a pint-sized typewriter with a small card loaded in the paper slot.

  “How do we order?” I look around the half-full bar. There’s only one waitress, and she doesn’t seem interested in coming over to take our orders.

  “They do it differently, here,” Bryce says.

  I wrinkle an eyebrow. “You mean, we don’t get to order? Is it like one of those ‘just tell the bartender what mood you’re in and what your favorite style of pocket watch is’ and they make you a drink?”

  He shakes his head. “No. You have to type your order out on the card, and then, once you have it ready, you put it in here,” he says, reaching over to pull a tiny catch-lever on the table, revealing a tiny slot. “The card goes through this tube — like the suction tubes they have at banks — and then they make your drink.”

  It’s the most pretentious thing I’ve ever seen and I’ve been to Brooklyn.

  I stare at it. “Ok, but why?”

  “Why, what?”

  “Why do it that way? Why not just let me tell them what I want? Why do I have to stick it in some tube? Why do I have to feel like I’m a bank teller from the 1920’s?”

  “Because it’s cooler this way.”

  Bryce is already tapping away on the miniature typewriter.

  I’ll bet he feels like Hunter S. Thompson bashing away on that thing.

  Then he finishes and slides the typewriter over to me. I type in “vodka”. In the box next to my drink request, there’s a space for ‘mood’. I type ‘vodka’ again. Then I pull the card free and stick it down the tube.

  It disappears with a giant whoosh.

  The sucking sound is kind of cool, I have to admit. And it’s fun
to see the card disappear through the pneumatic tube. I smile for a second.

  “See? Cool, right?” he says.

  I humor him. “Yeah. It’s pretty unique.”

  “It took me a while to get us on the list here. I owe my boss a favor for this one. He had to pull a few strings.”

  Our drinks show up, delivered by a waitress with boredom and indifference looking chiseled into her stony face.

  My drink is straight vodka. I’m glad nothing got lost in translation.

  “Well, it’s nice,” I say. I wait a moment to give Bryce some time to savor his drink — some concoction in a martini glass with three olives and some miniature yellow beads swirling around in it — before I get to the point. “Did you have any luck looking into news about my dad’s murder?”

  Bryce takes another long drink, sucking down half the swirling beads in his cocktail glass as he does. “It’s spherified olive essence,” he says, noticing me staring and, probably, looking confused by a man drinking tiny yellow orbs. “They use some special kind of salt to make these little pearls of olive juice, and I think there’s a bit of pear essence, too. And something floral, but I can’t quite place it. I put ‘martini’ and ‘playful’ on the card. You want to try it?”

  I take a sip.

  It’s a martini.

  “It’s nice. Did you find anything about my father’s case?”

  He frowns a little, annoyed. “Do we have to get right into that on our date? I worked really hard to get us here so we could have a good time.”

  I can’t help but feeling disappointed how much Bryce is trying to impress me right now. The harder he tries, the more I think about Preacher. Preacher doesn’t give a damn about impressing anyone or acting like he has something to prove.

  “Bryce, I appreciate it. I do. You know that. But I nearly died the other night, and I have had one exhausting day after another since then. I would be really grateful if you could tell me what you’ve found out.”

  He takes another sip of his martini and looks at one of the olive oil spheres like it’s a crystal ball that’s going to show him the magic pathway into my pants.