A Secret Vow: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance (14 page)

“I need to rub some cream on it,” I tell him. “It’ll help with the swelling and the pain.”

He nods, brows furrowed. As gently as possible, I daub the ointment onto my fingertips and rub it in wide circles on his side. He still doesn’t cry out or acknowledge the pain. I can only imagine how bad it hurts.

When I’m done, I help him to lie down on his back on the couch behind us.

“Thanks,” he says, looking up at me after he settles down. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

“Of course I did,” I reply. “You were hurt. I can’t let you be the only one doing some protecting around here.” I give him a sly wink. He starts to laugh, but stops halfway to hold his side and cringe.

A drop of blood is oozing from the stitched cut. I lean forward to dab it off with a bundle of gauze. I start to retreat, but he grabs my wrist softly.

“Don’t go,” he says.

I stay.

His eyes are twinkling. I lean forward and brush my lips against his. His hand rises to stroke my face and entangle itself in the hair at the back of my head.

“You’re too hurt for this,” I whisper.

“No. I need this. I need you.”

My heart twinges at his words. The whole time I’ve known him, he has been this warrior, this impenetrable, unassailable man, impossible to read. It’s hard to know what he’s feeling, and I still don’t know how much I mean to him. Even after seeing him run into the burning studio to put out the fire and save the place that matters to me, I struggle to believe that it wasn’t just a show of dominance, another way for him to show that I’m dependent on him.

This, though, this wordless moment, somehow feels like it says more than anything else combined. Somehow, this is the tipping point. It’s like there’s a lever sliding in my chest, saying that yes, he cares; yes, he wants me; yes, he needs me, every bit as much as I need him. The fire in his irises is more confirmation than anything he could say. The gentle pressure of his fingertips on my wrist is a bold underline on all the words I wanted to hear. It makes them unnecessary, even. I don’t need him to say it. I just need to know it’s true: he cares.

Careful not to knock him with my knee, I swing my leg over his waist and straddle him. He sighs as he rests his hands on my thighs. We’re both still covered in ash and blood, bruised, reeking of smoke, but none of that is important right now. What’s important is the feeling of my lips running over his, of his hands claiming my body, of our tongues meeting in the middle.

He teases the straps of my dress off my shoulders, letting the top half of it fall to my sides. I unhook my bra and lay it to the side. His touch on my breasts is exactly what I need right now to feel like the world isn’t falling apart. This man under me can hold it all together. When I feel his hands, I’m reminded that he can do that.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” I say, pulling back from his warm mouth. “I don’t want to make anything worse.” I point at the bruise leeching across his torso.

He looks up at me and says the perfect thing, “Impossible.”

He pulls me back down towards him and devours me with his kiss. His hands squeeze my back and hips, like he wants to confirm that I’m here and in one piece. Thanks to him, I am. The salty tang of blood from both of our split lips mingles together, but neither of us cares.

I sit back, tug off his belt, and shove his jeans halfway down his hips. His member lurches upward. I take it in my hand, relishing like I always do the heft and warmth of it, how exactly it fits in my grasp.

There’s no time to waste. I pull my dress off over my head and hover my entrance over his cock. Spreading myself open wide with one hand, I guide him into me with the other. The slow descent, like every time before, is equal parts painful and perfect. I sigh, settling down and beginning to rock my hips up and down, gliding over him as I expand to take his engorged length deep within me.

“You’re as beautiful as ever,” he tells me.

I laugh. My skin is sooty, my lip is busted and swollen, and my hair is a mussed rat’s nest. But one look at him tells me he means it. There’s not an ounce of pretense in him, no room for lying or flattering. When he looks at me and tells me he thinks I’m beautiful, I know that it’s the truth to him. It makes my blood run hot.

This won’t be long. I can feel him stiffening under and within me already as I ride him. This is for him. I want to make him come, to let the satisfaction of climaxing inside me wash away the pain and the tension of the day. I moan and bite my lip. Reaching around to stroke his balls with one hand, I rest the other gently on his abdomen to balance myself as I bounce up and down on his shaft.

I’m being as careful as I possibly can, but I can tell he is close to coming and needs just a little more. I ride furiously, aggressively, throwing my weight up and down and back and forth, sliding along his whole length with each stroke. I lean forward to dangle the tip of one breast in his mouth. He seizes it and sucks greedily on the nipple. The soft shimmer of the sensation teases through my body, encouraging me to go faster. I’m eager to make him explode, to know that I can bring him some satisfaction. He’s pressing hard fingertips into my thigh, gripping, just about to climax.

I bounce, I ride, and then, with the spastic clenching of a hot orgasm, he tumbles over the edge. I don’t stop riding until he softens inside me and the muscles of his legs go limp. After a few deep breaths, Mortar’s eyes flutter open. He opens his mouth to say something, but I shut him up with a kiss.

He doesn’t need to say a word. I know.

He cares.

Chapter 8

Mortar

I limp into the clubhouse the next morning for the regular weekly meeting with my team to discuss business. My whole body is ringing with pain. That bastard cop packs a punch.

I make sure to arrive early, in a half-hearted attempt to avoid showing the men how beat up I am. Vince, Steezy, and a few others were there at the studio, so they know exactly what happened, but it’s not my style to feed the grapevine. Let the rest of the club figure it out for themselves.

The men file in the meeting room we use in the back. No one says a word about my split cheekbone or bruised knuckles. They know better than to ask questions like that. Everyone takes a seat around the table.

I go to start the meeting, but Vince beats me to it. “Mortar,” he says, and everyone’s heads turn in his direction. “I don’t want to speak out of turn, but before we even get to everything, you know we gotta ask…we’re fucked, aren’t we?”

I know what he’s referring to. Without Grady, there’s no way the races can continue. Without the races, there’s no drug money or bookie money. Without money, there’s no club. If all our pipelines are cut at once, we’ll be wiped out by rivals before the month is up.

I look around and see the same look of fear on the rest of the men’s faces. These are hardened men, good men, who’ve seen more than their fair share of shit and dealt with it, no bones about it. I don’t like seeing them scared.

“Is everyone else feeling the same way as Vince?” I ask. A few heads nod. Some look down at their hands on the desk, nervous to make eye contact. “Listen to me, brothers. We’ve been through shit before and came out rich and smiling. This isn’t any different. Think on your feet, do your job, and we’ll all be just fine once things shake out.”

It’s hard to speak loudly. I’m struggling to give my voice the confidence it needs to convince them that what I’m saying is true.

“Mortar…” says one of the prospects hesitantly, “…is that cop really pulling the plug?”

Other voices chime in. “Yeah, Mortar, what’s going on with Freeman?”

“I’ve heard he’s been acting crazy, man,” says Charlie, a grizzly guy who’s been an Inked Angel for what felt like forever. “Running around with his gun out, jacking people up, doing all sorts of insane shit. For fuck’s sake, man, he went down to a Vipers’ bar the other night. Just sat there and drank, like everything was a-okay! He knows they’d kill him if they had half a chance. The motherfucker has lost his goddamn mind.”

The room breaks out into a cacophony of voices, everyone trading stories about the latest rumors of Grady acting like a fucking lunatic. Drinking on the street, threatening the prostitutes, generally upsetting the delicate balance on which our tumultuous little underworld has thrived for a long time. It doesn’t take much to light the wrong fuse. From what I hear, Grady’s getting awfully close.

I slam a fist into the table. My hand is bruised, maybe even fractured, but I ignore the pain. I need to make my point. “Everyone shut the fuck up and listen,” I roar. Silence drops over the room immediately. All eyes are locked on me.

As the vice president, I’m their leader. These men need to be led. They’re steely bastards, and I’d take a bullet for any one of them, but right now, I need to lay down the law. My law.

“I don’t give a flying fuck about Grady Freeman. We don’t need him. We’ve never needed him. I don’t want to hear his name again. Not today, not ever. As far as I’m concerned, the motherfucker is dead already. Am I understood?”

I look around, making eye contact with each man. I mean business. They can see that. It isn’t hard to tell that I’m not a man to be fucked with. These are my brothers, though, and they trust me. Threats aren’t necessary. They just need to be shown that we are not weak.

I settle back in my chair, opening and closing my fist to shake loose the pain. No better way to get rid of an injury than work it until the pain is constant and you can go back to ignoring it. Or maybe I’m just a stubborn fuck. Hard to say either way.

“Talking about the problem isn’t going to fix a damn thing. Talking about solutions, on the other hand, will get us somewhere. I want ideas. If the races are on hiatus for a while, we need new sources of cash flow. Anyone who’s got something, now is your time to speak up.”

I’m glaring around the room. Just as Vince opens his mouth to start the discussion, there’s a knock at the door. Boulder, one of Croak’s bodyguards, sticks his head in the door.

“Mortar. Prez needs you.”

“I’m in the middle of a meeting,” I say. “Tell Croak I’ll be there when I’m done.”

“No. Now.”

I growl, trying not to let my face disturb the concern gnawing in my stomach. Croak knows this is important. Why is he interrupting?

“Vince, Steezy, you two run the meeting. I want some good shit on the table when I get back. This won’t take long.”

I limp out the door. Boulder shuts it behind me and points down the hall towards Croak’s office. I give him an icy side-eyed glance, then stride forward as quickly as I can. I see Sturm, Croak’s other bodyguard, standing at the door. Just as I start to walk past him on my way into the office, he puts a hand on my chest.

Before I can react, he throws me against the back wall. Pain lances out from my fractured rib. “Spread your legs,” he orders.

“What the fuck is this?” I bark.

He says merely, “Boss’s orders,” as he pats me down roughly from head to toe. He takes the knife from my boot and the gun from my hip, handing both weapons over to Boulder at his side. Convinced I’m unarmed, he steps aside. “Go on in,” he rumbles.

This can’t be good. I’ve never been patted down in my own clubhouse. Croak wouldn’t dare disrespect me like that. I fix a scowl on my face and barge in.

I start to yell as I walk in, “Croak, what the—” but before the words are even halfway out of my mouth, he cuts me off.

“Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.” He’s angrier than I’ve ever seen. Normally the picture of cool, right now he’s seething. His hair is fucked up, eyes rimmed red, and bags for days lining the underside of his eyes. “What in the fuck are you doing?” he demands. “What part of ‘lay low’ was so goddamn confusing to you?” He’s pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, hands wringing behind his back.

“Prez, what are you talking—”

“No. No.” He sticks a finger in my face. “Don’t fucking talk yet. I’ll tell you when to talk.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. “You know what’s going on right now,” he’s rambling, “and you know what’s at stake. You’re supposed to be the number two around here, but what are you doing? Fighting a motherfucking cop in broad daylight! Explain to me exactly how the fuck that is in line with our whole plan to not draw attention to the club right now!”

I’m taken aback. This isn’t anything like the Croak I know. And then it hits me—he’s losing control and he knows it. He’s been sloppy, and now the chickens are coming home to roost. He’s overexposed. He’s slipping.

Part of me feels bad. He’s my president, after all. I promised to follow his lead. But it’s a dog-eat-dog world on this side of the law, and if you don’t take care of yourself, someone’s likely to take a bite out of your ass. Croak’s been around long enough to know that.

But right now is not the time for a power struggle. I know better than to alienate segments of the club by trying to push Croak out. Besides, I don’t want that responsibility yet. Being president is no easy job, and with all the shit I’ve got swirling around me right now—a girl at home, a baby to be bred, a cop carrying around a bullet with my name on it—it isn’t the right time to take up the mantle.

Besides, Croak is a good man, and I’m not a mutineer. He deserves better than that, and I refuse to stoop to backstabbing to get what I want. For now, I’ll listen.

“You’re being reckless, and you’re jeopardizing the club,” he asserts, leaning back on the desk and crossing his arms over his chest. “You need to sort this shit out,
now.
” He’s not asking me for a favor; he’s giving me an order. “You’re going to pay that stubborn motherfucking cop every cent that he’s owed. Out of your pocket, not with the club’s money. And you’re going to stay the hell away from him. I’d ask if that’s clear, but I don’t think you’re dumb enough to misunderstand what I’m telling you right now.”

I nod. There’s not much else I can do. It’s no use trying to explain the situation. Croak doesn’t want explanations. He wants money, plain and simple. The circumstances don’t matter. All that matters is the club’s survival.

Croak walks back to the other side of his desk and sits down as he ruffles through papers. I stand to walk out the door.

Just before I leave, he speaks up. He doesn’t look at me as he says, “End this, Mortar. Before it ends us.”

Easier said than done.

* * *

Walking in my front door, I notice a pungent chemical smell filtering in from the living room. I turn the corner to see Kendra happily absorbed in her own world. She wiggles her hips as she streaks broad daubs of paint on a fresh white canvas. I can see her feet tapping. She tosses her hair side to side to the rhythm of the music in her head.

My heart softens.

Kendra hears my boots clack on the tile of the hallway entrance and turns. The second she sees me, her face lights up. Eyes wide, huge smile, lips curving up to let those perfect white teeth glisten in the afternoon sun that dives between the window shades.

I’ve got a lot on my mind. For starters, I have no idea how I’ll pay Grady the restitution money he’s demanding. All my cash is tied up in investments that, without the races as a bartering ground, will take a long time to pay dividends, if they ever come through at all. Even if I did have everything, the amount he’s quoting is highway robbery. I still can’t believe that Kendra ever agreed to such a ridiculously unfair arrangement. Fuck him for taking advantage of an innocent girl.

But for now, I can push all that away. It’s easy when there’s a girl like this running towards me, jumping in my arms, and smothering me in a wet, tongue-deep kiss. I hold her ass in my hands as she wraps her legs behind my back. The money, the pain in my ribs, the lunatic policeman trying to kill me and the future mother of my children—all that is a distant afterthought compared to this moment.

I spin and pin Kendra up against the wall as she tangles her fingers in the roots of my hair and presses her face against mine. I kiss her back, then break away breathlessly.

“Busy day?” I ask, grinning.

“One of the prospects picked up a few canvases and some paint from the studio,” she says with a beaming smile. “It felt so good to paint again.”

Fuck, that happiness, that smile, that laugh. It’s intoxicating. Nothing has changed since the moment I first sat next to her on that club couch. I still want to coax that laugh out of her every day. I can’t imagine it ever getting old.

“Time to take a break,” I tell her.

“Hmm, what kind of a break did you have in mind?” she asks playfully, chewing on the end of her finger.

“One that doesn’t require any clothes.” I lean back in and suck a hungry kiss from her. Her body is smashed up against mine, close enough that I can feel her heartbeat throbbing in time with my own. She’s got on a soft, gray cotton dress, and I slide my hands under the hem to squeeze the plump skin of her thighs. The rasp of panties under my fingertips contrasts with the smooth texture of her skin.

I lift her higher with one arm, freeing the other to shove aside the underwear and insert a questing finger into her slit. I slide several long strokes, but it takes nothing for her to become wet with glistening moisture.

I want a taste of it.

She’s so light in my arms that it’s hardly an effort to push her even higher. I seat her legs on my shoulders, facing me, and rest her back against the wall.

“Mortar!” she yelps in fright, but she stops as soon as I start to lick her.