CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

It wasn't the kind of cheap lingerie you get off the Internet; Lydia had taken her right to the source. Irene Callahan, who happened to be Regan's mother, and who besides running a tidy Internet business making and selling leather motorcycle accessories, was also the unofficial seamstress for the Jockeys. The corset was made out of the same kind of leather – soft and supple and genuine – only the corset had laces up the sides, trimmed with long fringe, creamy against her skin.

 

But when she'd glanced out her door and caught a glimpse of Joe for the first time in days, she froze. He wasn’t looking at her – not at the moment, anyway. He was playing it cool, hands jammed in his pockets. Still, she knew this was her chance.

 

A little movement, a swish of her robe, had attracted his attention; he swept his blond bangs off his face and the hungry, almost rapturous look on his face when he caught sight of her again, like a starving man laid before a feast, reassured her that she had made the right choice. She would have him tonight. Instead of begging him to come to her, she'd have him begging to come to her. Her hands slipped awkwardly on the laces of the corset. He was here, his hand on the doorframe; she could almost hear him breathe. Her plan had worked.

 

"God, you siren," he whispered in the darkness of the doorway, half-playful, half-awed. Just one word, but it gripped her like a fist as she reached for the other strap on the corset, her hand brushing over her own breasts, her heart pumping blood aggressively into her limbs, her head. Now, though, knowing she had accomplished her goal of trapping him between her talons like a bird of prey, she paused, nerves getting the best of her. Her hands only fumbled a little more on the back knots of the corset as she pulled one of the tight strings, letting the leather grommets separate, revealing a patch of skin. She slipped a hand beneath her black, skimpy panties and pulled one of the skinny straps to halfway down her hip. She felt around in the small mound of hair until she reached her nub, which, as she'd hoped, was already starting to engorge with blood. It was growing hot and wet and eager under her touch and the knowledge that Joe was standing there, transfixed. She fixed the image of what his face might look like in her brain as she grazed her hand over her own skin, its every nerve ending standing up. She arched her back as she reached beneath the corset and cupped her own breast, fingers brushing her nipple ever so gently, then trailing her hand down the curve of her neck the way she liked it. She didn’t dare to breathe. She hoped Joe knew that the only reason she was so aroused was because she was imagining, his hands, his lips, his inimitable touch, like he had been crafted just to please her and her alone. She already envisioned what his face looked like in the darkness as his body cried out for her, and only her. She couldn't help but think of Lydia, who might have thought twice about helping her if she'd even known half of what, exactly, Ruby had planned. She let a small, kittenish sigh and tossed her head, as warm fingers sent flickering tendrils of pleasure up between her legs, into her chest, and down to her feet.

 

"Goddamn it, Ruby,” he said. She was tempted to reply, but she knew the longer she pretended to ignore him, the bigger her win would be. “Why are you doing this to me?” he moaned. She didn’t answer right away. “Why?”

 

“Because you made me wait.”

 

“I made you wait?” She bit down on her tongue as he entered the room and darted toward her like an animal on the hunt, jerking her arm backward and away from her own body. He practically growled, making her legs buckle as she fell down to her knees on the bed. Though he was still fully clothed, she could already feel his pulsating cock jammed up against the fabric of his jeans and drilling into her hip; he wasn't even trying to be subtle about it. He ripped down her panties so hard he practically tore them in two as he rolled them down her legs. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them on the bed.

 

She kicked them aside as he ripped off what remained of her corset and threw her face down on the bed, his hands gripping her hips, forcing her legs open, and her knees wobbled as she obliged, her hands digging into the bedclothes where he had placed them. Now his hands gripped each cheek and the sides of her thighs, and she could already feel liquid starting to gather within her in a gushing pool, primed for his entrance into her, the moment of which both terrified and elated her.

 

Her clit still swirled like a whirlpool where she'd touched it, alive with sensations, and she raised a hand to it again, but Joe, knowing what she was doing it, forced it down, his own hand grabbing onto the hardened nub between her legs, sending a clap of thunder through her, pressing her body into the bed. He pressed down hard again, practically raking his fingers over her clit, and she felt her pelvis thrust up to meet the jolting orgasm that grabbed her like a hook. But there was only a split second of pure pleasure before he had thrust himself up and into her vagina, and she cried out at the strange new sensation of being entered from behind, his cock tight against her slick walls, jammed upward through the narrow passage. She let out a little whimper, then a larger one, as he careened into her, a reaction like electricity.

 

In her racing mind, she thought that something about her teasing him like this, and the fact that she had made him wait days for it, had brought out the wild creature in him, the feral animal, the badass who took without asking and never apologized because life was just going to screw him anyway. And god, she wanted that part of him tonight. She wanted to be part of that tonight.

 

He thrust forward as if he were urging her on like a horse, tossing her forward, almost into the wall, and she pawed for a handhold.

 

Another thrust and a little moan from Joe, and it was over. Joe grabbed her from behind and pressed her into his chest, where his leather jacket felt warm. He hadn't even bothered to undress completely before claiming her. That pleased her. She reached up behind his head, where his hair was already damp with perspiration. Overcome with exhaustion, she fell forward, and he hitched her up as if she were a rag doll, kicking off his boots in the process and tossing his jacket aside. She tried to move, but his hands seemed as strong as steel chains.

 

"You're not going anywhere," he murmured as if in a daze, wrapping his tattooed arm around her waist and crushing her to his warm, slightly damp body. She let out an exhausted sight and surrendered, burrowed her head into the crook of his arm, enveloped in silence, listening to his lungs gradually steady his breathing, all his former aggression ebbing away, leaving only innocence and peace. She knew he'd be asleep within minutes, despite all protests to the contrary, and she gave thanks for that. He deserved it. At last the two of them, lay in a heap there on the guest bed, breathing in time, saying nothing.

 

She knew not how much time had passed. Though she could see little of him in the dark, a white shaft of moonlight seemed to split him in half, his right eye and half of his full, pillowy lips, the notion that the gorgeous young man next to her had surrounded her, within and without, and was now content enough to lay beside her. Yes, had taken her, had owned her, but she had invited him in.

 

***

 

"Oh," she breathed as her eyelids fluttered open. She'd felt a touch, halfway between a dream and the waking world, and had been afraid it was her mind doing what it always did when slept alone, creating something beautiful out of nothing at all, leaving her to wake to empty memories.

 

But this couldn’t be false, not something this lovely. Joe's beautiful face was a vision in the sunlight streaming in, playing with the hair that just touched his bare shoulders, like a hazy summer wheat field, his full lips leaned on one elbow to look at her. He rested his head in one hand, and his other hand was, as usual, cool and slightly roughened as it skimmed softly across her bare stomach, gently, curiously, as if he were touching some fragile jewel. She curled her toes, and her limbs stiffened, newly awake with sensation and the knowledge that she was lying nude in bed next to Joseph Ryan. For a moment, she wrapped herself naughtily in the memory of how they had spent the night before, and she watched as his lips quirked up in mischief.

 

"You know, the leather’s right down there,” he mentioned, casually gesturing.

 

"God, do you have any idea how uncomfortable that stuff is?" she said with a little moan. "Special occasions only."

 

"Oh," he said falling back on the pillow for a second, then glancing back over, still coy. "Did I forget to mention today is my birthday?"

 

She laughed and closed her eyes again, decided that was worth letting him explore her however he wished. She caught his hand that was on her chest pulled his wrist toward her, her other hand cupping his chin, bringing him down for a kiss, gently at first, and then pressing him to her more urgently, as if she held something valuable in her arms. His other hand skimmed down lower on her body, over her navel, to where the brown triangle of hair, pressing lightly on the mound, testing it, his index finger grazing every lower, exploring the reactions her body made to every subtle movement of his hand. He brought his mouth down to her neck, and she arched her back with joy as he opened his mouth to suckle on the skin of her neck, teeth tugging at her ear playfully. She reached down to her midsection where her hand at last touched his knuckles where they curled up against her body. He batted her hand away. "Relax," he whispered, an order. "I owe you for last night. This is all me."

 

She pretended to pout as he traced circles onto her, easing his fingers into the folds, tickling the delicate nerve endings that sprang up like flower buds at even the whisper of a touch. Runnels of liquid pooled within her, lubricating her, anticipatory, joining together. Nothing about it was forceful or violent; he caressed her sex as if he were plunging into a warm bath, and her body responded the same way. At last, a long, languorous orgasm bubbled up and took her under, and she let out a huge sigh, cooed and snuggled up against Joe like a kitten, nuzzling into the warm side of his strong, flat torso. When she raised her head again, Joe had his hands folded behind his head thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling. The first time she'd spent the night with him, she'd awoken to Joe on his back, face to face with the massive winged horse, the Steel Jockeys M.C. logo spelled out boldly beneath, a tattoo that only half-distracted her from the score of scars on his shoulders, back, and hips. Here, she reminded herself, was the living proof of why Joe always expected punishment, even for doing the right thing. His front was only slightly less scarred, and she jerked her head up, ashamed when she realized he'd noticed her staring at a long, raised laceration running across his sculpted shoulder.

 

"Not too pretty, am I?" he asked.

 

She leaned down to kiss the mark. "You wish."

 

At this, he laughed and looked at the ceiling again, and her eyes caught on the Celtic cross he had tattooed over the left side of his naturally toned chest, tendrils of inked ivy curling down. His heart. Written alongside, she could make out the initials K.C. and a number. "This is the date Kyle died," she whispered, stroking the place, overcome. No longer could she doubt that her brother had also been Joe's brother in every way but by blood.

 

"And this--?" she asked about the other side, the initials C.R. and a much earlier date. But before he could respond, she knew. "Your mom. But she--" she stopped herself.

 

"OD'd," he said, his voice emotionless, matter-of-fact. "I guess more than anything, it's a memorial to a wasted life. And a reminder."

 

"What was her name?” She asked, and the slight surprise in his eyes told her this wasn't a question he was often asked.

 

"Colleen." Ruby reached down and touched her lips to the tattoo; Joe's chest, unlike his hands, was warm, and she rested her head there and listened to the beating heart of a young man who’d seen death – young, vital and alive.