She pushed on his shoulders, wanting to reach down and unbutton his jeans, but he held her fast. When she thought she couldn't take anymore, her nipples feeling raw and sore, he flipped her off him so her back hit the mattress in a hard bounce.
“Oh, firm,” she said.
“You said you like it hard.” He knelt down and whisked her panties down to her ankles. He placed his hands under her knees and yanked her toward him. His face was between her thighs in seconds, and she keened loudly when his wet, hot mouth found its way home. His tongue traced in small circles until her back arched and her groans echoed in the near-empty room. Licking, sucking, lapping at her, he was readying her for his cock. Just imagining him inside her, deep, hard, and rough, called up her orgasm. It rolled through her so completely, she stopped breathing. Her body jerked and her mind spiraled through the pleasure until her diaphragm forced her to gulp in air.
His hands released their grip on her hips, and he eased up. “Higher.”
On elbows, she inched herself backward, her thighs sticky and shaky. He split her legs with his knees and when he pitched into her hard, the last little bit of tension in her heart released like a fist uncurling.
His hands were on either side of her face, his chest pressing against her aching nipples, and his lips moved over her mouth in a tongue-tangling kiss. The raw, masculine scrape of his five o'clock shadow on her face called up more arousal, and her thighs grew slicker as a second orgasm built and teased her. She arched her hips, trying to capture more of him, but he pressed her more into the mattress to keep her body from asking, to keep her in a position only available for taking.
For long minutes, he moved her body around the bed—their bed— and worked her over as if seeking to possess her, body and soul. Resistance wasn’t anything she’d consider as his need to reclaim her filled her with a power she'd thought lost forever. There he was, wanting her and needing her, openly and with no reservation.
Later, when they were both spent, they lay on their sides staring at one another like two teenagers who'd just discovered love. That's when it occurred to her. She hadn't visualized a stop sign in weeks. She might never need to call one up again. Trick had been right—life could be better after tragedy. If only it could stay that way. She wanted to reapply for school and a million other things needed to be put in their place.
She eased up on her elbow and placed her hand where his heart beat under muscle and bone. “No more secrets from one another, okay?”
He smiled over at her. “Still suspicious, but, yeah … no more. At least not from me. The others at Shakedown? I can't vouch for them.”
A sliver of worry tried to rise up but she tamped it down. Starting over was going to be hard, but this man who she couldn’t stop touching would be there for her. He’d proven it time and again.
“I love you, Trick.” She brushed a shock of hair from his forehead. “Thank you for not giving up.”
“Never.” He pulled her so she lay on top of him, and her body rose and fell with his breath.
At some point, her mind drifted, and as she slipped from awake to asleep, she dreamed of a dusty stop sign leaning against a concrete wall, nestled between a mechanical bull and a Chinese dragon. It didn't cause a moment of pause.
Stop sign, meet Trick Masters, the man I love.
Epilogue
It was midnight, and the soft June air had even Nathan smiling. It was that magical period between spring chill and summer heat, where just enough humidity from the bay kept things cool and just enough warmth lingered from longer, sunnier days.
Nathan crushed a cigarette under his boot and leaned against the awning's post. Trick had never seen the man so relaxed, but then what did he know about the guy except he'd been oddly pivotal in his life, helping reconcile a long-standing problem by finding Jay’s address for Max.
“Got to thank you for helping us find Jay.” Trick dropped his head back, searching for the occasional star piercing the muddy sky over the city.
“Heard he got five years.”
Trick slowly nodded his head and brought his gaze down, putting him eye to eye with Nathan. “Glad Max was the one to haul him back here, otherwise you might have found yourself right back there with him.”
“I was just a guy who happened to let Max know where he was.” He shrugged.
Trick supposed that meant he hadn’t done anything technically wrong, but what if he had? Nathan, still on parole, couldn't afford one misstep, and one thing Trick had gotten clear on in recent weeks was he would never jeopardize this newfound family of his.
“Well, thanks.” Trick stuffed his hands in his pocket and stared out over the parking lot, devoid of life but every inch stuffed with cars. “Come on. Buy you a drink.” He inclined his head toward the club.
“Don't drink.”
Trick slapped him on the shoulder. “Okay, then. Water it is.”
They stepped into the club, instantly deafened by the music and the good mood of the crowd. “Rain check. Declan’s got me on some errand. Catch you later,” Nathan said and disappeared behind the curtain.
Trick lifted his chin in acknowledgment. The man did odd jobs, from unloading liquor shipments to running errands for Declan. It was one of the things that Trick liked about his boss—his loyalty to people he knew, creating jobs if he needed to in order to keep them solvent. Knowing Nathan's mysterious past wasn't important, only that he was important to Declan. In the meantime, re-opening the embezzlement case, retracing the money—if there was any left—and exoneration would take time. After seeing Jay, he sure as shit was getting that felony charge off his record.
Declan's broad back and his tell-tale cane were silhouetted at the corner of the bar. An uncomfortable sizzle formed in Trick's belly. Something was off. Declan lifted a glass of something brown to his lips. Declan didn't drink often so he was either celebrating or stressed.
Trick sidled up to him. “Declan.”
His boss nodded once and took a sip of his drink, the amber liquid flashing as it caught the light. His eyes stayed trained on one table in the dead center of the floor. Three men sat there, one Trick recognized with ice-blue eyes that, from even this distance, could chill a man to the bone.
“Ruark MacKenna's back,” Trick said. “Guess he likes burlesque.”
Declan's face turned to him, his eyes glittery in the darkened light. “Office. Gotta fill you in on some things. About Ruark.”
Over the last few weeks, Ruark MacKenna had stopped by a time or two to deliver threats Trick still didn't understand and Declan hadn’t cared to elaborate on.
As they passed by, Ruark raised those blue eyes their way. He lifted his glass in a toast to them and then turned back to his friends. He adjusted his suit, settled back in his chair, and resumed his watch of the stage where Midnight Starr sent her arms out wide and then down to caress her hourglass figure from neck to thigh.
Trick followed Declan to his office, away from the music, away from whatever was clearly pissing him off.
Trick shut the door behind them, the music growing distance once more. “Want to tell me what's going on?”
Declan took a long breath. “We have a problem. Ruark MacKenna.”