Unchained (11 page)

Bending, he kissed her tender ass and stood up.

“Come on, Fuck Goddess,” he murmured as he gently helped her move. It took a minute, but eventually, he got her up and standing with everything back in place except her panties.

She stood there meekly, still trembling and probably in a little bit of shock, as he slid on his briefs and slacks. Shoving his shirttails into the waistband of the pants, he quickly finished dressing.

Some sort of aftercare was always necessary when he used her so fiercely. Reaching for the drinks he’d poured earlier, Alex handed her the Jameson and watched as she carefully sipped. He followed suit and after a couple of swallows, some calm washed over them until he saw a flash, something like a shocked grimace, move on her face.

“What’s the matter?” he immediately asked.

Her eyes lowered, and he saw a blush burst to life on her face. With a finger under her chin, he tilted her head to force her to meet his eyes. He was astonished to see the embarrassment in her expression.

“Meghan, baby. What’s wrong?”

Wrinkling her nose, she shifted a few times on her feet and cleared her throat. “I can feel it.” Her voice sounded half amused and half flustered.

“Feel what?”

“Um,” she murmured before taking a small sip. Irish courage? Maybe. Whispering as though she was sharing a treasonous secret, she leaned into him and said, “You. Dripping down my thigh.”

Well, goddammit. He didn’t think she could possibly say anything sexier than that. Grinning like a damn fool, he sipped the Glenfiddich and leered at his wife.

“Well, there’s more where that came from,” he teased with a wink. “But I think feeding you is next up on the agenda. Gotta keep my woman’s strength up.”

She shook her head,
tsk’ed,
and rolled her eyes.

“You’re gonna need it later when you suck my dick for dessert.”

Meghan let half a giggle out before she looked at him as if he was a naughty kid.

“Dick dessert? I didn’t see that on the room service menu.”

“No?” He smirked in reply. “It’s a Double M specialty. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

She balls-out starting laughing. “Double M!” She shrieked with laughter. “Yep. That’s me. Meghan Marquez.”

Wiping away tears of amusement, she sniffed and ended with a bratty pout. “Well, I’m glad to hear it’s a specialty. Would suck for you if it was just some run-of-the-mill thing.”

Alex stopped and took in the moment. Glenfiddich in hand. A sexy, adorable wife by his side with his come slowly leaking from her well-fucked pussy. And the promise of a gagging Double M hovering in the immediate future.

Yeah. Ya know what? It was fucking great to be alive. And maybe, just maybe, if he made a real effort, he’d manage to tell her a few of the things she needed to know before any more time passed.

“T
HAT IS NOT
at all what I said, and you know it. Now, stop interfering and get lost. Unlike you, I have work to do.”

Remington Bisset was one of those girls you wanted to either seduce or push under the wheels of a speeding train. One minute, she was so sweet his teeth ached just being near her, and the next, he was contemplating having her deported on account of being a giant bitch.

“Ooh, burn, Remy,” her sycophantic assistant mocked, some twisted fuck going by the name Jean Claude. Seriously? What kind of stupid name was that?
Jon Clod,
he thought with a double dose of ridicule.

“Shut the fuck up, Jonny,” he sneered. “Nobody was talking to you.”

A filthy rag wadded into a ball went sailing past his head, missing him by a hair because he was fast enough to duck.

“Finn O’Brien, for god’s sake. What do you want? I have a metric assload of work to do, and the last thing I need is you throwing your weight around for no discernable reason.”

Well, she had him there.

“Tell your flying monkey to hit the pike and I’ll tell you what I want.”

Remy looked at him with such exasperation that he chuckled aloud. Slapping her hands to her waist, she cocked a hip in that ‘Fuck you’ way she did so well and huffed out a long, deep sigh.

“Aw, come on. Really? Why’s it gotta be this way, O’Brien?” Kicking the ground with her booted heel, she swore under her breath and crossed her arms defensively. “Okay. The flying monkey I get, but hitting the pike, I do not.”

Jean Claude stuck his pointy snout into the conversation and very nearly got socked in the jaw for it. Finn hated the slimy shit with an unnatural intensity.

“Monsieur O’Brien would like me to go away,” he said in a thick French accent.

What a fucking dick. He wanted to take a wicked piss right down the guy’s throat every time he saw him. What this skinny pants wearing butt farmer was doing out in the middle of the desert was a mystery, that was for sure. He came off as someone better suited for facials and body waxing in New York City than sweating his balls off in a compound so choked with testosterone someone should post a warning label.

Turning her back on both of them, Remy headed for the cool interior of the small adobe building he’d found out was the new domain for the band of people managing the stable, garage, and grounds.

Looked to him like Alex left nothing undisturbed or changed in what people referred to as the Great Justice Shuffle. He’d never been here before, so what the hell did he know? All of his information was filtered through the adoring throng of groupies who worked for the Justice chain gang or were part of the Villa staff.

He didn’t quite understand how Remy Bisset fit into this surreal landscape. Word was that she was a veteran like most everyone else. Not that he should care. It was just that of the dozens of people he’d met since his banishment to the desert, she was one of the few he found interesting.

Falling in behind her as she stomped into the adobe, he admired the tight efficiency of her denim-clad ass. Every side-to-side swagger reminded him that Remy didn’t give a shit in any way, manner, or fashion. Probably why he was so drawn to her. He was the same way, yet all it did was earn him a one-way ticket to the Wild West.

Once inside the cooler interior of the unusual office building, she tore a bandana from around her neck, swiped it across her forehead, and tossed it onto the desk. She spared him half a glance—a dismissive half glance—but he wasn’t so easily dissuaded. He also rather enjoyed watching her. She was interesting and then some.

Going to the refrigerator anchoring the end of a galley kitchenette, she pulled out a sports bottle, flipped back the cap, and took a long pull. With a satisfied ‘
Ahhh
,’ she pushed the cap closed and smacked her hand on the top till it snapped shut.

Then she gave him her full attention. She regarded him as though he were a bug-splattered windshield.

“Do I have to tell Calder you’re stalking me?”

Pfft
. Calder. Another privileged know-it-all.

“Stalking is kinda a strong word.”

She was really good at not taking the bait and never showing anything. The girl should try her hand at Texas Hold ‘Em.

“Sorry, Beantown. Strong words are all I know. If you need unicorn farts and princess language, I suggest you hang out with the debutants at Whiskey Pete’s.”

He was gonna let that one go. She already got too much mileage out of that sharp tongue, and he didn’t feel like playing. Snatching the sports bottle out of her hand, Finn ignored the irritated gasp and helped himself to her water.

With a half-assed shrug, he ignored the muscle twitching in his jaw—she got under his skin and not in a good way—and gave her a patronizing response.

“Nice try. A for effort. What was that? A
Cosmo
suggestion for a clever put-down?”

Her eyes narrowed. He’d hit a nerve. Interesting and a bit of a surprise. Remy didn’t react to much, so Finn plowed on.

“And what the fucking fuck is with that Ken doll you pretend is an assistant? You two got something going on?”

Oh, my fucking shit. Did he actually say that?

The color drained from her face followed by a vivid flush. He guessed, this time, the nerve he hit was especially sensitive. When she stiffened like a plank and straightened to every one of her five-foot-eight inches, he had the disheartening thought that he’d hurt her in some way.

Shit.

“My personal life is none of your concern, Mr. O’Brien. I want you to leave. Now. And stop bothering me. Quit with the bullying while you’re at it. I don’t give a shit who you are. Unless you show up with a notarized permission slip from one of the Justice principals, you are not authorized for any vehicle. Same for the horses. If it moves and I have control of it, you can piss off.”

At least she was direct and didn’t mince words. He’d been put on the naughty list after a wild fracas out in the desert at some spot called Three Points. Along with a guy who worked in the compound and some guys he’d met at Pete’s, they took a cache of guns, a shitload of ammunition, and a case of cold beer on an ATV jaunt that ended with a bang. Literally.

Half drunk and feeling no pain, he and a dude named Jeremy were gun slinging through what their beer-soaked brains imagined were some smooth Wild West moves when they opened fire on one of the Can-Am Renegades and blew it to smithereens. The explosion and bonfire ended up being mighty impressive until he had to explain what happened.

After that, he was labeled a dumb fuck and relegated to the perpetual detention squad. Cam, Drae, and Parker all rolled their eyes when he was around. And Calder? Jesus. That guy was just a dick. Plain and simple. Now that he’d more or less earned the derision he felt flowing his way, Finn felt more trapped than ever.

“Look, silver tongue,” he jeered snottily. “Nobody gives a shit about your private life, and you obviously know nothing about bullies if you see a simple request as hectoring.”

The glacial chill and unyielding body language intensified as he spoke.

“All I’m asking for is a tradeoff. I’m driving Alex’s Mercedes. Nice ride and all but really impractical. What’s the big deal about trading and getting access to one of the pickup trucks? Or my sister’s SUV.”

Seemed like a no-brainer to him. His brother-in-law’s fancy Benz was so not his style. Frankly, he’d been damned surprised Calder let him drive it at all.

But now he had shit going on, and a truck or an SUV would be much more practical. He’d already decided that if she wouldn’t go along with his plan, he was gonna pull a fuck it, drive into Sedona, and buy his own damn truck. He wasn’t a kid, and he had his own money. A couple of years working nonstop as a paramedic and living practically rent-free with his brother meant he was sitting on a nice little nest egg. Finn O’Brien might be invisible to most folks but to a banker? A banker was going to welcome him with a smile and a handshake once he got a look at his portfolio.

But he had other more important and worthwhile things to invest his hard-earned money in. Which was why he needed a truck.

Remy scooted behind her desk. Was she putting space between them or brushing him off? It was hard to tell. Girl was pricklier than a cactus and gave new meaning to the expression ‘running hot and cold.’

Pulling an elastic band out of her hair, she dropped it on the desk and pushed both hands into the long black mass, fluffing it out and away from her neck before dropping it down her back.

“I’ll speak to Mr. Dane,” she told him matter-of-factly. “If he gives the okay, I suppose you can take a crack at your sister’s Explorer. Bigger target,” she added with a snide tinge in her voice.

It wasn’t a victory, but she hadn’t threatened him with bodily harm, so there was that.

He had nothing else to say, and her body language was screaming at him to leave, so he lifted an eyebrow and gave her a barely there nod.

Dismissed, he turned for the door but stopped at the last second and looked back at her. “Hey,” he blurted out. “You going to Pete’s this weekend? The Chixie Dicks are playing. Should be a good time.”

She looked at him funny. Had he spoken in tongues or something? Why the hell did she seem to be struggling for words?

“I, uh … no.” She adamantly shook her head, which made the shower of her silky black curls swing back and forth. “No,” she asserted again, only this time with some oomph behind it. Who was she trying to convince? Him? Or herself?