Riding Dirty (14 page)

“Dolce! Oh God, you scared me.” He was leaning against the bathroom door, arms crossed, watching her. “I’m sorry, I thought this was the ladies’.”

“It is,” he rasped, a cat with its mouse.

Deliberately, his hand turned the lock on the door. Dolce had had enough of Bronson’s uncontested dominance in the club. He’d had enough of the tight leash Axle kept him on, enough of being outvoted. He was absolutely fed up with trying to please or control Lola, painfully aware that he had never come close to replacing that cock-sucking prima donna Ramsey in her twisted little heart. What the hell was the obsession, the fascination? Women, men, everybody practically tripped over themselves fawning over that son of a bitch. Dolce didn’t get it. He was done being everybody’s second choice.

So, Rowan wasn’t going to get a choice.

Bronson had had his woman, now Dolce would settle the score. Rowan was wearing nondescript shorts and a t-shirt now, but Dolce remembered the way the contours of her body had assaulted his senses in tonight’s party dress at the casino. He could still see the definition of her hamstrings on her lower thighs and the perfect curve of her calves. Her hair was loose…the better to grab her by.

A cold wash of goose bumps whispered over Rowan’s skin as if a glacial draft had howled through the room. “Oh.” She took a step toward the door, but Dolce didn’t budge. Ignoring the dread in her stomach, she raised watery blue eyes to his and said in a firm, steady voice, “Is there a problem Dolce?”

“No problem, honey.” Dolce’s artificial eye moved almost in tandem with his natural one, the scar across his brow making him look like a Somali pirate. His gaze boldly fell down Rowan’s body and rested around her breasts. He felt his package stiffen. “In fact things are looking up.”

“Then let me pass, please.”

“Well, see,” Dolce licked his lips, smiling faintly, “The thing is I was just a little surprised to see you and Bronson so chummy today. I didn’t realize you were giving out free samples, you know?”

Rowan smacked his searching hand away from her face. “It’s not like that. Bronson and I are…” What? What was the word she wanted? “Dating.”

Dolce laughed brutally. “Sure, sweetie. Dating. Bronson. Let me translate that—you’re no virgin no more, are you?” When her cheeks flushed, Dolce took a step toward her, relishing the confusion he saw on her face. “Come on, I’ll date you too. I’ll date you right here, right now. Come on.”

“No, Dolce. I’m with Bronson.”

“You and every other ho in this town, peaches. I’m gonna liberate you.”

Dolce reached down and loosened his belt, causing a chain reaction in Rowan’s fight or flight instincts. No way. No way was this about to happen. This couldn’t be real.

“Help!”

She rammed her elbow into his side, quickly unlocked the door and reached for the handle, but his fingers closed around her hand and yanked her in to his body. She kicked and thrashed viciously, but he pulled her hair and forced her neck to bend back into a hard kiss. Rowan yelped and tried to writhe away, managing a swift kick to his shin, but Dolce was too strong for her. She managed to scratch his face with her fingernails, drawing blood, but soon her arm was twisted behind her back with blinding pressure and she cried out in pain.

“Stop, please! Help!”

She could hear people maddeningly close on the other side of the door, the din of the party. It was so jarring to think that kids were playing a few feet away from this scene of horror. She realized with a sinking feeling that probably no one could hear her over the music and din of the party.

“You like it rough, huh?” Dolce shoved her over toward the sink and she flailed, bouncing off the hard surface and sliding to the floor. He was hovering over her before she could stand. She whipped her legs around and kicked up at Dolce, keeping him at bay, and screamed as loud as she could. Where was her gun? Damn! It was in her bag, on Bronson’s bike.

“Get away from me,” she shouted, and screamed, “Help!” But already her voice was failing her, and she felt it was pointless anyway. Dolce had her pinned under him and his face and hands were everywhere. “Help! Please!” She couldn’t fight him off much longer.

Dolce heard rather than felt the crack of knuckles on the back of his skull, his skeleton vibrating with the impact as if in slow motion. Everything in his perception slowed to a grind as powerful, tattooed forearms gripped under his armpits and lifted him. He rose up as if through water, floating toward the ceiling, and capsized. Inexplicably he found himself bottom-up on the green tiled floor, his vision dim and his stomach lurching.

“What the fuck you motherfucker!” Boots were kicking him, heavy boots and heavy blows. Dolce curled in on himself, a reverse butterfly retreating into the cocoon. A kick came with each word, a punctuation mark. “That is my old lady you son of a bitch. You touch her again, you’re dead.”

“Ramsey! That’s—that’s enough bro,” the Prospect’s brown curly hair bobbed as he flitted in, trying to secure a hold on his violently angry superior. True to Axle’s orders, he had been tailing Dolce all day and had immediately gone to find Bronson when he saw him follow Rowan into the bathroom. “You made your point. Don’t kill him, man. Let’s go outside.”

Bronson saw nothing but red for another sixty seconds but when the rage finally subsided, he gulped in calming air and turned to his woman. Rowan was huddled in a corner like a frightened child, watching him with those maddeningly mysterious eyes. In an instant he was crouching beside her, rubbing tears off her cheek with his calloused hands and swearing under his breath. What if no one had heard anything? What if the Prospect had grabbed him five minutes later? It had been a close call. Too close, and in a place that should be safe: his home territory.

“You ok blondie?” When she didn’t answer, Bronson searched for something to lighten the mood. “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

Rowan’s laugh turned to a sob halfway through and she collapsed into Bronson’s chest. He held her, swelling with a strange sense of relief. She had needed him, and he had come through. The door opened and a few curious faces peeked in, snapping Bronson back to action.

“Get the hell out of here,” he barked, glaring until the door shut, and then turned and nodded at the Prospect. “You too.”

Without another word, the kid dragged Dolce’s prone form out into the hallway, the bathroom door swinging shut behind them. In one swift step, Bronson shut and locked it, giving it a punch for good measure. Rowan had risen to her feet and was splashing tap water over her face, staring stonily down at the sink. Bronson leaned against the door and looked at her, unsure what to say and unaware that he was mimicking what Dolce had done.

At length, he cleared his throat. “You’re too damn beautiful for your own good.”

“What, so I asked for it?” She flashed angry eyes at him, but then raised a shaky hand to her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Of course not.” Bronson rubbed a hand soothingly on her back. “It’s not your fault. It’s my fault, for bringing you into this.”

Rowan sighed, leaning tiredly against the solid support of Bronson’s body behind her. “No,” she murmured, “I’m the one who came here looking for criminals. I guess I’m just not as tough as I thought. What if I can’t do this, Bronson? What if I can’t keep up with you and your…family?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Bronson said, kissing her hair. “I’m tough.”

Rowan laughed, maneuvering her body in his arms until her face was pressed longingly into the plane of his broad, hairless chest. “Don’t leave me alone too long,” she murmured. “Look what happens.”

Bronson’s pulse quickened. Her hands were pressed against his abs, the curve of her breasts and hips clinging heavily to his adrenaline-soaked muscles. “I won’t,” he said, realizing it was a promise. “I don’t want to. I want to be with you. Rowan, you’re my woman, right? I want to know. I want to hear you say it.”

She blinked up at him, frowning. He had just fought for her, rescued her, proven to her that he cared. How could she show him what that meant to her? Her fingers wound into his hair, her hips twisted and pushed against his.

“You have any doubts about that Ramsey?” She took a step back and raised herself to sit on the sink. With a sly smile, she beckoned to him with an outstretched finger. Simultaneously, she reached out her legs and wrapped them around his thighs, drawing him in closer. “I don’t know what sex usually means to you, but you’re the only man I’ve had.” He was standing between her legs, the heat of her crotch reaching him through their jeans. “You’re the only man I want.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, breathing softly against his face. “I’m with you. You said I’m your old lady. I mean, I’m not that old, so, does that mean I’m the only woman you want? I’m the one you’ll protect, stay with?”

“Yeah,” Bronson whispered. His lips touched hers and lingered, not yet a kiss, but throbbing closeness. The cracking dryness of his skin bordered her lush wetness. Intimacy. Blurring lines of being. “You are.”

Tears leaked out of Rowan’s eyes as strong emotion crashed through her mind. She had gone from attack to sanctuary in less than a minute and felt dizzy, spinning. A strong sense of belonging linked her with Bronson, while the drifting discomfort of being an outsider in the club kept her spirit at sea. Exhaustion, desire, fear, and gratitude pulled at her from all directions, and she fought to bury her confusion in the sloppy, hungry kiss that she gave Bronson.

“I need you,” she whispered. “I need you, Bronson.”

Their tongues rolled over each other, familiar and desperate, the very roots of their beings yearning to get closer. Closer.

Rowan’s legs enveloped Bronson’s hips in a binding vice-like hold. Bronson had wrestled and boxed for most of his life, destroying some of the most famous grapplers in mixed martial arts, but in this moment he felt utterly powerless to break free from Rowan’s touch. Even if he had wanted to pull back, his body had a mind of its own and surged nearer and nearer to hers, seeking union and oblivion and release. With a moan, he rocked up and in, letting her silky flesh enfold him.

Bronson’s hands searched for gaps in Rowan’s shorts, urging higher toward the delicate skin of her inner thighs. The probing pressure of his fingers made her wet and warm, and she responded by kissing him deeply, urgently. He lifted her hips off the sink, but her legs kept their clasp and held her up tight against him even as he fumbled with the zipper of her shorts. Getting her out of them was awkward and had them both laughing softly; she was reluctant to disentangle her legs from their stranglehold around her man and Bronson was eager to get access to her pussy.

After a brief struggle of wills, a compromise was reached. Bronson leaned Rowan’s heaving body against the sink again and coaxed her shorts and thong down off her ankles. Once the landing pad was clear he ricocheted his hips back to position up close and personal as quickly as possible, rubbing his pelvis along her welcoming flesh and groaning in pleasure.

Rowan wasn’t satisfied to tease and pushed him away, reaching greedily for his fly. It had been a rough evening and she was not messing around. She needed Bronson inside her, needed the comfort of his possession, and had no patience for foreplay. His rock-hard cock was out in her hand in seconds, and he tripped in surprise, his jeans still caught around his knees. She led him back to her, arching her hips, and guided his naked cock as he thrust in to her wet pussy.

The moment their bodies locked, Rowan tossed her head back and gasped. Bronson traced his fingers along the extended line of her throat, following with his lips. He launched his shaft into her pulsing sex and thrust in a steady, firm rhythm, laying his claim on her and relishing the feel of her palms pressed against his chest.

In the bathroom mirror he could see their reflection; her slender back, her hair in disarray, her naked hips curving wide over the sink to open to him, his broad shoulders and arms sheltering her. He smiled at himself and turned her chin a little so she could see them too. She laughed.

“Look at you,” he said. “Look at that junk. You’re gorgeous. I love fucking you.”

Perched on the high top of the sink, Rowan’s angle was intense and, when he pounded into her, the friction hot. He could feel her interior walls shuddering and throbbing against his dick, wet and firm. They surged together, moaning, straining. The build to heaven was fast and furious.

“Bronson,” she whispered in between shuddering breaths, her arms clutching him hard. “I’m falling for you.”

“Baby,” he replied, “I’m down and out.”

“Oh God,” she moaned, caught in the wheels of a long orgasm as the momentum pulled her under. Her limbs convulsed restlessly, every nerve on fire, the white heat pulsing from the pleasure center between her legs. Her teeth felt like they were burning, her whole body shuddering. “I love you Bronson!”

He barely heard her, driven by his need to join in the explosion. He boned her deeper, harder, faster. They trembled together as one, their fuses sparking each other, until the fireworks went off in Bronson’s body.

“Yes, baby, uh, God!” Bronson pulled Rowan up off the sink and slammed her against the wall, letting his body seize up in surrender. She ground her necessaries into him, extending the ride. His weight embraced her, enveloped her as she enveloped him, and with a groan he came, shaking in ecstasy. “Fuck, Rowan, yes!”

He slumped against the wall with Rowan, panting, and let his cock slide out. He pulled up his pants as the thundering of his heartbeat cooled and pressed Rowan into his arms.