Homecoming (Dartmoor Book 8) Page 3

  She picked out a modest café table that came with two chairs, but Ava steered her instead toward a larger, round-topped dining table with four chairs, and room to squeeze in two more in a pinch. The top was inlaid with several different kinds of wood, a pattern of varying stripes all sealed with poly, simply but elegant, very farmhouse-chic.

  Leah ran a hand across the glossy top. “Gonna guess this is out of my price range.”

  “Family discount,” Albie assured with a wink. “And I’ll throw in the chairs free.”

  “Oh, no–”

  “Consider it advertising.”

  Albie and Fox loaded it all up in the bed of Ava’s truck, and the kids were wrangled into the backseat, the boys red-faced and happily tired now.

  It was lunchtime, and Ava turned to her as she drove them back around to the front of the building and down the long, wide drive that ran back and forth across the entire width of Dartmoor. “You mind if we swing by and say hi to Mercy?”

  Leah bit back a grin. “You’re still a hopeless teenager about him, aren’t you?”

  Ava faced forward again, color blooming in her cheeks. “A little bit.”

  Mercy was camped out on a picnic table in front of the bike shop with Aidan, Tango, and Carter Michaels, the breeze trying to snatch away their sandwich wrappers.

  “Daddy!” Cal exclaimed, hand pressed to the window.

  Mercy stood when he saw the truck, wide grin breaking across his face, and Ava parked so she could get out and kiss him; so she could open the back door and let the boys out to latch onto their father.

  Leah walked around the nose of the truck and leaned against the brush guard, breathing in the scents of river water and motor oil. Déjà vu hit her hard: this could have been a scene from her high school years: the boys on a lunch break, Ava besotted.

  Only there were kids now, and wedding bands, and both everything and nothing had changed at all.

  It left her a little dizzy.

  Tango lifted a hand in greeting, and she waved back.

  “Albie give you the discount?” Aidan called.

  “Too much of one, honestly.”

  He nodded, pleased.

  “Hey.” The last came from Carter, who’d set his sandwich down so he could turn to face her, straddling the bench.

  She’d recognized him straight off when they pulled up, the back of his head unmistakable after spending three years behind it in English class. She’d known his home situation was bad before, that he’d lost his place on the A&M football team, and his scholarship. She knew all about shattered dreams. She’d known he was thinking of prospecting the club, but seeing him up close, face-to-face, was a shock.

  He’d always been the sort of All-American golden boy that left girls swooning and mothers reminiscing about their younger years. The sort of boy you wanted to make out with in a backseat, but whom you weren’t afraid to take home to meet your father. Never Leah’s type – she’d grown up knowing that success in any arena wouldn’t be found for her if she chased the popular crowd. Korean, adopted, different, opinionated, uninterested in schoolyard politics, she’d known she wouldn’t fit in and so she hadn’t tried. It was why she and Ava had become such fast friends. It was why she’d never entertained romantic notions about pretty blond boys like Carter.

  Well. He was still blond. And he was still pretty: those classic, masculine features, the straight nose, and the full lips.

  But his eyes. Their blue depths were full of shadows; full of unhappiness and cynicism, and a sort of sad resolve that was echoed in the stubble on his jaw, and the scuffs on his boots.

  He was properly patched in now, and his cut bore the wear and flaws to prove it. Gone were the polo shirts and the boat shoes. The rolled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt revealed strong, tan forearms and knuckles laced with scars. Old healed-over workshop cuts; evidence of punches thrown, and violence wreaked.

  He’d been depressed when he first came back from college, working the till at Leroy’s and wondering what to do with his life. But he’d still been Carter.

  The boy looking at her now seemed an entirely different person.

  “Hey,” she returned, belatedly, when she’d recovered from the shock.

  One corner of his mouth twitched in what wasn’t a smile, like he’d noticed. “You back for good, or just visiting?”

  “For good.” She didn’t manage to sound chipper, but she figured he understood all too well what it was like to come back after a big letdown.

  “She’s a got place over in Kris’s complex,” Ava said. “Now we’re job-hunting.”

  Leah really didn’t want charity, but that we still felt good. Unlike Carter, she wasn’t on her own as she returned.

  He wasn’t either, anymore, but he had been at first. She wondered if, had things been different, if he’d had a support network, he would have joined the Dogs.

  Probably not. And he probably wouldn’t appreciate being asked about it, either.

  “Ready?” Ava asked.

  “Yeah.” She offered a wave. “Bye, guys. Good to see you again, Carter.”

  “Yeah, you, too.” He gave her a flat, unreadable look before he turned back around.

  Once they were back in the truck and driving away, she looked toward Ava and said, “God, what happened to him?”

  Ava shook her head, frowning. “I don’t really know. But he’s worrying me. Something’s not right.”

  Four

  Come over 2nite baby boy. Followed by a winky-face emoji. And a confetti emoji.

  That last one pulled him up short a moment, as he was stowing his tools and getting ready to leave the shop for the night. Celebration usually had a slightly different meaning for Jazz than it did for other people. Regular civilians went out to dinner. Bikers and club girls, well…things could get wild.

  It was after eight, and dark now, beyond the cinched doors. He was the last one here; the other guys had all gone home, but he’d been working on a custom bike and decided to finish the mods he’d been working on all day, rather than leave them for the morning. Now he was pleasantly tired, dirty, hungry – and vaguely unsteady inside in a way that no longer had anything to do with the morning’s hangover. He was just…blah. His usual state of being these days, and he had no idea how to fix it.

  Jazz had some ideas, though, if those emojis were anything to go by.

  He fired off a return text, cleaned up as best he could in the shop sink, shut off the lights, and headed out, desire and awareness already prickling along his skin and pooling in his belly in anticipation.

  When they’d first started…whatever you wanted to call this relationship they’d had going the past few years…Jazz had lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment in a bad part of town. But she’d asserted herself more firmly at Dartmoor, picking up some of Maggie’s slack after Ash was born, and she’d been able to afford a new place: a modest, but well-appointed condo in a new development that seemed mostly occupied by newly-married couples and bachelors.

  The lights were on in the bedroom when he pulled up. A car he vaguely recognized sat beside Jazz’s, a black Honda that he thought he’d seen at the clubhouse before. He braced himself, mentally, as he walked up the steps and to the door, let himself in with the key she’d given him when she first moved in. His pulse pounded in his ears, and in his gut, and his groin. He felt a little dizzy, almost sick with it. Blood already heated. He had a Pavlovian response to Jasmine, to her ideas; fingers and toes tingling, he went down the foyer and into the empty living room. Spotted three wine glasses on the kitchen counter.

  “Jazz?”

  From the direction of the bedroom: a giggle, a murmur, a moan.

  The door stood cracked open a fraction. He put his fingertips to the panel, and sent it swinging inward.

  The sight that greeted him was no longer merely the stuff of fantasy – but it wasn’t exactly commonplace, either.

  Jazz sat on the end of her bed, dressed in cutoffs and a denim shirt unbuttoned to her navel; no
bra beneath, her full breasts bare; her new manager nametag pinned forgotten above the chest pocket. The blond sitting on her left was one of the newer girls, something with an S. The curvy brunette on her right was Chanel, who’d been keeping company mostly – but not exclusively, he didn’t think – with Roman’s son Boomer these days. Both other girls were naked save for lacy thongs. The blonde had Jazz’s cutoffs unbuttoned, and a hand down the front of them, arm flexing as she worked her with doubtlessly skilled fingers. Jazz loosely clutched a handful of Chanel’s hair, holding her in place, as Chanel suckled at her breast.

  Jazz’s eyes were closed, her head tipped back; she bit her lip, and her hips worked in short little movements, shifting into the touch that worked between her legs. Enjoying herself, basking in the attention.

  She was someone who loved giving and receiving pleasure, in all its forms, always up for anything, never shy, never ashamed of feeling good. It was what had drawn Carter to her from the first, when the club was still this overwhelming spectacle, rather than his daily life. It was what drew him to her now, and every other time he was feeling lost, and hollow, and in need of feeling good himself.

  He must have made some sort of sound, though he wasn’t aware of it. Her eyes opened, and her hazy gaze landed on him. Her smile widened, dazzling, already half-drunk with pleasure, and only looked at him a moment, letting him get an eyeful.

  “Girls,” she said, voice throaty. “The guest of honor’s here.”

  Both turned to him, Chanel with one last flick of her tongue across Jazz’s nipple. Both of them looked eager, hungry, predatory; both raked him over with their eyes, flagrant scrutiny.

  “Hey, baby,” Jazz purred. “You wanna join us?”

  He stepped into the room already reaching for his belt buckle.

  ~*~

  There was a wide mirror mounted on the wall of the bedroom, and Carter stared at it, the view it offered him of Chanel’s heavy breasts swaying in time to the rhythm of his thrusts as he fucked into her steadily, but not frantically enough to bring either of them off yet. He gripped her hips tight, pulling her back onto his cock again and again, relishing the tight, hot grip of her sex, and the sounds she made: little cut-off moans and whimpers that might have been real, might have been for show. He didn’t care. Liked the way her eyes were shut, and her mouth was open, and the way she clutched the edge of the mattress, trying to keep her knees under her. He could see the play of light on the sweat that sheened his chest; the flex of his abs as he worked his hips.

  Every few seconds, he would glance over to the side, to where Jazz lay back against the headboard, propped on a stack of pillows. She held her breasts in her hands, offering them up; the other blonde – Stephanie – knelt between her spread legs, fingering her and sucking at her nipples in turn, back and forth.

  “Oh yeah,” Jazz panted, head thunking back against the wood. She arched up off the pillows, chest lifting. “Like that. Oh yeah. Harder. Right there.”

  Carter watched Stephanie’s fingers plunge deep; watched her cheeks hollow as she suckled hard at a peaked nipple, and his rhythm stuttered.

  Chanel pressed back into him, and he fucked into her hard, harder, his grip on her hips so tight it had to hurt.

  “I’m – I’m–” Jazz gasped, and came on a deep, throaty moan.

  Stephanie sat back grinning, triumphant, and worked her through it, stroking Jazz’s quivering stomach with her other hand.

  Carter closed his eyes a moment, thrusting into Chanel, listening to Jazz come down and catch her breath. He felt like he was on fire, flushed, and breathless, the sweat pouring off him. But he wasn’t ready to come yet, not even close.

  “Need a hand?” Stephanie’s voice asked, right in his ear; her hair tickled his shoulder.

  When he opened his eyes, she was right there, grinning at him, and a moment later he felt her fingers at the base of his cock. Circling, teasing at where he was joined with Chanel. Then she shifted upward, and he knew she was stroking Chanel’s clit when Chanel let out a quick, breathless cry.

  A few more thrusts and she was coming, clenching around him, screaming quietly into the mattress.

  He gritted his teeth and kept working his hips until she collapsed; then he slid out, and sat back, seeking her red face in the mirror, seeing its dreamy, blissful expression.

  Stephanie stroked the other girl’s back and her gaze went to Carter’s cock, still hard and wet. “Jazz, you weren’t kidding,” she said. “He’s got stamina.”

  Jazz chuckled, sheets rustling as she sat up. “You wanna hop on and go for a ride?”

  He ended up on his back, Stephanie sitting astride him. She peeled off the used condom, rolled on another, and sat down on his shaft without preamble. “Ooh,” she said with a breathless little laugh. “God, I love this club.” She tossed her hair back and lifted up onto her knees, settling into a hard, fast rhythm right away.

  Jazz stretched out beside him, with Chanel sitting behind her, watching.

  Jazz raked her nails across his chest, and leaned in to kiss his cheek, his jaw. “You like my surprise, baby boy?” she murmured, tongue tracing the shell of his ear. “Is it cheering you up?”

  Stephanie was clenching around him every time she sank down on him, and speech was beyond him at this point. He lifted an unsteady hand, got it tangled in Jazz’s hair, and pulled her in for a kiss.

  It was more like panting into each other’s mouths, uncoordinated and sloppy. She bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, and he thrust his tongue into her mouth, tasting wine, and cigarettes, and himself.

  Stephanie upped her pace, little, breathy “ah-ah-ah” sounds leaving her mouth on every drop.

  Jazz’s nails dug into his pec, he kissed her desperately, and he heard and felt Stephanie come.

  “Yes,” she moaned. “Oh my God, yes, fucking Lean Dogs, holy shit.”

  She slumped forward, hands braced on his heaving stomach, and he was still hard, still inside her, and he couldn’t take a deep breath, couldn’t think, couldn’t –

  “Here, honey,” Jazz said as she pulled back from him, voice all business now. “Here, hold on.”

  He closed his eyes, panting, struggling. Stephanie slid off of him, and then he felt Jazz’s familiar hands stroking up his thighs, over the trembling muscles in his belly. Back down in long, sure sweeps, petting him. “It’s alright, baby,” she murmured. “Look at me.”

  He managed to turn his head, and open his eyes. All he could see was Jasmine, poised above him, honeyed waves of hair falling around her shoulders. She looked like a washed-up mermaid, beautiful, mystical – and so much softer than she’d been only minutes ago, when she was chasing her pleasure. There was a sweet sort of concern on her face now – one that left him wanting to shrink away from her. She wanted to get off; to fuck and be fucked. She didn’t want to baby him; to take care of him. He was supposed to take care of her, and he–

  “No,” she said, gently, and stripped the condom off his cock. She stroked him a few moments, until he was fully hard again; he’d been holding off an orgasm so long that it hurt to be hard at this point. He bit his lip to keep from cursing, his pulse a loud drumbeat in his ears.

  “Here, baby,” she said, “I know what you need.” She mounted him, lined him up with her already-wet entrance, and sank down on him slowly.

  It was different than it had been with the other girls, and not just because he was bare this time.

  She braced her hands on his chest and leaned low, working her hips in slow rolls, barely pulling off. She leaned in to kiss him: his mouth, his forehead, his eyelids, when they fluttered closed.

  “You with me, baby?” A low voice, just for the two of them. “You feeling good?”

  He slid his hands up her thighs, smooth and flexing, and found her hips; cupped her breasts, briefly, squeezed hard like he knew she liked until she hummed against his mouth. Then he latched onto her waist, gathered himself, and rolled them.

  He opened his eyes when he was poised abo
ve her, saw her grinning at him.

  “There he is,” she said, and pressed her head back against the pillow, baring her throat. “Fuck me, pretty boy. Make me feel it for days.”

  He pushed her legs up, spreading her wider, and did just that.

  Somewhere between his teeth at her throat and her nails scoring his back, he found a moment of peaceful clarity. The strong work and flex of his body, and the soft, feminine yield of hers against it. He felt vital, and alive; felt needed, and wanted, and he wanted in return with the kind of hunger that always threatened to swallow him whole.

  He shouted against her collarbone when he came, vision going black and star-studded. And for that moment, nothing was wrong, and nothing hurt, and he understood perfectly why Tango had drowned all the bad in his life with sex for so long.

  ~*~

  Carter sat against the headboard, scrubbing a hand through his sweat-damp hair, dazed and numb. He took the glass of wine Jazz offered with a nod of thanks, and drank half of it down in a single gulp.

  Stephanie and Chanel were getting dressed; Stephanie zipped up the back of Chanel’s dress and said, “Like, seriously, is there a farm where they grow these guys or something?” Her voice had lost all its seductive tease and was just normal. A girl-talk voice. He may as well have not been in the room.

  Jazz chuckled as she sat down on the edge of the bed, wrapped up in a silk robe, now. “You’ve been hanging out with those new boys, haven’t you, Steph?”

  “Oh my God.” She made a dramatic expression, back of her hand pressed to her forehead. “The fucking Wonder Twins, those two.” She shot Carter a wink. “No offense, honey, you were fantastic.”

  “New boys?” he asked after his next sip. “Boom, and Deacon, and them?”

  Stephanie laughed. “Uh, no. Tenny, and the quiet one, Reese? Holy shit. He doesn’t have to say a damn word if he fucks like that.”