Page 5 of Damron
He didn’t move. Just waited. Sometimes the best way to control a room was to see who talked first.
She didn’t. She just crossed the space, took his glass, and knocked back the rest of his whiskey. Then she slid her hands down the front of his shirt, slow, like she was searching for old wounds.
He caught her wrists, hard enough to leave a mark. “You sure you want this?”
She pulled her hands free and slapped him, just hard enough to sting. “Shut up, Damron.”
He kissed her, and it was the same old collision, violence and hunger and the need to prove who could take more damage. He backed her to the desk, knocking over a stack of bills, sending them fluttering to the ground. She bit his lip and tasted blood, grinned, then pushed him back and peeled off her jacket. He yanked the knot from her hair, letting it fall wild. The blue jeans lasted about four seconds before he ripped the blouse at the collar, buttons clattering to the floor. She wore black lace underneath. It wasn’t for him, but now it was.
He spun her, bent her over the desk, gazed at her plump ass. Her skin glowed under the cheap fluorescents, thighs marked with old bruises, and now fresh ones. he reached into the desk and grabbed a tube of lube, shoving a blob between her ass cheeks, working into into her asshole as she relaxed and accepted his finger. He took his time, allowing the puckered hole to expand. Ten minutes later it was time. He pushed into her, rough and fast, one hand on the nape of her neck, the other braced against her hip.
She groaned and clawed at the desk, shoving ledgers aside until she found a handhold. He fucked her ass hard, one of the last tests to be an old lady. She pushed back, refusing to be passive, grinding against him with a fury that almost knocked him off balance. She felt full, the pain of having his large cock in her ass not something she had expected but something she’d want again and again.
When he pulled out, she turned, eyes fierce, lips swollen. She yanked his belt open and dropped to her knees, dragging him into her mouth with a hunger that made him dizzy. He held her hair, forced her to take all of it, and she never broke eye contact.
“Goddamn, Carly,” he whispered.
She came up for air, spit shining her lips. “You deserve it.”
He lifted her, set her on the desk, and knelt to taste her, rough and deliberate. She shivered, then arched her back and dug her heels into his shoulders. When she came, she didn’t make a sound—just clamped down and rode it out, nails carving crescent moons in his back.
He was on her before the aftershocks faded, pinning her arms, fucking her until the desk itself groaned. She bit down on his shoulder, drawing blood, and he finished with a growl, burying himself deep.
They stayed tangled there, breath ragged and skin slick, until the sweat cooled. He found his jeans and zipped up, then tossed her a rag from the filing cabinet.
She wiped herself clean, then dabbed at his shoulder, shaking her head. “Fuck that was good.”
He grinned, grabbed the whiskey, and poured them both another round.
Chapter three
The Question
The Red Rooster sat forty miles outside Los Alamos, surrounded by nothing but cactus, oil stains, and silence. The parking lot was dirt and broken bottles, the clientele split between local mutants and the kind of drifters who thought the apocalypse already happened and they were the only survivors.
Damron St. James claimed the corner booth, back to the wall, eyes on the exit. Carly sat across from him in a denim miniskirt, boots that could kick a man’s teeth in, and a v-neck that did war crimes to every guy’s self-restraint. A pitcher of Modelo sweated on the table. She poured him a glass, foam head thick as clouds.
“You still drinking light beer?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
He shrugged. “It’s not light if you drink the whole pitcher.”
She snorted, sipped her own glass, left a perfect lipstick stain on the rim. “You always were a cheap date.”
“And you were always high maintenance, darlin’.”
Carly grinned, white teeth bared. “Careful, or I’ll filibuster your ass right here.”
He liked the way she said it: like she might, like she already was. He started to reach for the pitcher, but her phone vibrated.
She thumbed the screen, face blank. “Fuck,” she muttered.
“Work?”
“Mother.” She rolled her eyes, poured herself another. “You ever wish you’d picked a quieter life?”
He considered it. “Briefly.”
She flicked a peanut at him, nailed him in the chest. “Asshole.”
