Page 39 of Loving Smoke

“Not yet, babe.” I wanted to bring her right to the edge, wanted her to give it to her so good she’d remember who took her there.

Her moans came louder, deeper.

“Tell me what you want, babe?”

“I wanna come all over your dick.”

“Yeah, I want that too, but first you gotta work for it.” I slowed the pace of my thumb and she bucked harder against me. I was torturing both of us.

“You ready, babe?”

“Yes, yes, please.”

That was all I needed, or more like all I could stand. I pinched her clit between my forefinger and thumb then twisted. Her nails dug into my abs, her hips jerked pulling me in deeper and when she screamed out, I exploded inside her.

Two seconds later she collapsed against my chest and I held her tight to me as the glorious sun beat down on our naked bodies. In this moment, I wanted to possess every part of her and find out what made my mystery woman tick.

15

Exhausted. Spent. Totally undone. I’d never experienced such a physical and emotional release in my life and it scared the shit out of me. I burrowed my body into Smoke because I couldn’t think. Hell, I could barely breathe. This man woke something in me. Something I didn’t know existed and I didn’t want it to ever end. I wanted to do this again and again.

I thought I knew all I needed to know about this man, but I was obviously wrong. My research about Smoke and his club told me what he stood for and his beliefs. How the Royal Bastards were a national outlaw club who had no trouble defending their turf and raining mayhem on their enemies for their transgressions. In short, they were criminals who took what they wanted when they wanted without much regard for others, but there was no way a man could give such pleasure and be all bad.

When Smoke revealed pieces of his past, I sensed his hurt even though he did his best to brush over it by being flip, then artfully changing the subject. I’d targeted him for a take down, but seeing his vulnerable side messed with my plan, and gnawed at my gut. Much easier to dwell on the anger and hate, but Smoke was definitely so much more than an outlaw biker.

“So, do you always carry around this many condoms?” Smoke dangled the strip from his fingers with his bad boy smirk firmly in place.

“Just believe in being prepared.” I’d spent at least a half hour in my bedroom practicing opening the annoying packets until I mastered it without fumbling. Then I stuffed the practice condoms in the bottom of my wastebasket for fear of Marta seeing them when she cleaned.

I hardly ever, as in never, carried condoms or had random sex. Any of my past encounters were planned, expected, and usually average—basically mundane.

He continued to smirk at me like he was trying really hard to figure me out, then he stretched out on the blanket taking me with him. A breeze blew over our naked bodies and he held me tighter relishing the heat his body radiated. I reveled at his firm, muscled chest, the cut of his abs, and the glorious V at his slim hips.

“Nothing like hot sex on the beach,” he mumbled into my hair. “With a beautiful woman.”

I had nothing to add because again my vanilla sexual encounters always took place behind closed doors. Never out in the open and certainly never on a beach, no matter how deserted.

Smoke brought out a part of me I didn’t know existed. A wanton freedom in my body and soul like nothing could touch me as long as I was with him. For the first time I experienced the spontaneity of living in the moment and not caring what others thought. Free to just be, and I liked it.

I’d spent so many years adhering to rigorous study schedules, and deadlines, always striving to be the best—and in brutal honesty—I did it all to please my father. A nod of his head, a slight gesture of his hand meant so much. The need to be perfect, a need which blossomed in me as I grew older. To be fair this drive lived within me, something I probably inherited from my father, but also something he didn’t perpetuate.

“So, c’mon, you gotta tell me something about you.” Smoke’s fingers lazily traced circles over my back. “Something you like to do.”

“Like a hobby?”

“Yeah, I guess. Anything you wanna tell me.”

Another first. Usually the men I’d known were perfectly happy to drone on about themselves endlessly rarely if ever asking about my dreams or aspirations. Sure, I’d love to tell him my love for languages or my acting ambitions, but those revelations would surely blow my cover.

“I like to cook.” I blurted out a truth wrapped in a lie.

“Yeah, that’s cool.” He tipped my chin away from his chest. Our faces only inches apart. “What do you like to cook?”

“The usual Mexican dishes but I’ve also branched out into Italian and French cuisine.”

Some of my fondest childhood memories centered around cooking in our kitchen at the villa with Rita. She patiently guided me and showed me old school techniques passed down from her mother. Comfort dishes and then fancier fare for parties and holidays. When Rita saw my interest she brought me cookbooks from other ethnic groups.

“Cuisine?” Smoke laughed around the word and I reminded myself to stay in character.

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