Page 22 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)
Chapter thirteen
Carly
He wasn’t on the couch.
He was at the front door, forearm braced against the jamb, entire body angled so that only half a shoulder and one sharp blue eye would be visible through the peephole.
In his left hand, he gripped the Sig Sauer with the offhand delicacy of someone who’d spent a lot of time not wanting to leave prints.
He didn’t turn, but he knew I was there—call it outlaw ESP or just that I’d always breathed loud in the mornings.
“You know this lock’s a piece of shit, right?” he said, low and clinical, finger resting on the trigger guard. “Could open it with a credit card.”
I shrugged, more interested in the way his T-shirt bunched over his back than the state of my hardware. “I don’t get a lot of unwanted visitors. Not the apartment type.”
He let the silence ride. Behind the door, the apartment hallway was dead.
Damron holstered the gun and dropped to a squat, scanning the baseboard for…
what, booby traps? Wire taps? Sometimes I thought he was just showing off.
But then he picked up a tiny red scrap, turned it over in his palm, and held it out to me. “That wasn’t here last night,” he said.
It was a plastic tie, the kind used to seal delivery bags from the restaurant down the street. “Maybe I ordered pad see ew in my sleep,” I said.
His mouth twitched like he was fighting not to smile.
“Maybe. Or maybe someone’s watching your food delivery.
” He went to the window, taking a circuitous route through the kitchen, never once crossing in front of the glass.
In another life he would’ve made a hell of a cat burglar, or maybe a Secret Service agent.
He flicked the curtain with a knuckle, just enough to peer out, then immediately ducked back.
I caught a flash of motion in the courtyard below—someone jogging, slow and steady, face buried in a hoodie. “Looks like a neighbor,” I said.
“Yeah. Except they lapped the building three times since dawn. And stopped twice to take out a phone.” He waited, counting off seconds, then moved again, this time to the bedroom.
I followed, arms crossed, robe cinched tight.
He didn’t stop until he’d made a full sweep: closet, bathroom, under the bed, even the crawlspace where I stashed my childhood diaries.
He straightened, hands on hips, scanning the apartment like it was a puzzle he could solve by staring hard enough.
I couldn’t help myself. “Enjoying the tour?”
He finally faced me, and for a second I saw the man from a decade ago—the one who once made me come on a roof in Albuquerque, then nearly got us killed two minutes later. “You got any coffee?” he said.
I led him to the kitchen. He watched me grind beans, eyes never leaving my hands, as if I might slip arsenic into the French press. When it was brewing, I leaned against the counter and let the silk robe slide an inch down my shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, but it’s a little much.”
“Little much is what’s keeping you alive,” he said. “You’re not safe here.”
“That’s the point,” I said, letting a smile flicker. “If I wanted safe, I’d be in witness protection, or dead. Maybe both.”
He took the coffee, sipped, made a face like I’d served him battery acid. “This is shit.”
“It’s organic,” I said, deadpan.
He stared at the mug. “It’s still shit.” Then, softer: “You could’ve told me about the apartment.”
I shrugged, because what else could I do? “Old habits. I kept it after the divorce. Sometimes I need a place to disappear.”
He nodded, like that made sense. “You disappear, people get worried.”
I snorted. “You mean you get worried.”
He didn’t bite. Instead, he set the mug down with a thud and stepped in close, crowding my space the way he always had—deliberate, not quite threatening, but loaded. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” I asked, annoyed at how quickly my heart started to hammer.
“That it’s not just you on the line. It’s everyone who ever mattered to you. Your campaign. The club. Me.” His hand drifted up, fingertips grazing the lapel of my robe, not quite touching skin.
I batted it away, forcing a laugh. “You planning to chain me to this life forever?”
“If it means keeping you alive,” he said, “fucking right I am.”
I couldn’t decide if I wanted to slap him or drag him into bed. Instead, I backed up, arms folded, and tried to look unimpressed. “You’re enjoying this a little too much, Damron. Playing the big bad wolf.”
He grinned, all teeth. “You always liked the wolf better than the sheep.”
Before I could respond, my phone rang—a shrill, insistent warble that could only mean politics. I checked the caller ID. “It’s campaign. I have to take this.”
He gestured, a mocking little bow. “Don’t let me stop you, Senator.”
I retreated to the bedroom, phone pressed to my ear, Damron’s silhouette still visible in the kitchen.
As the voice on the other end launched into damage control over yesterday’s fire, I stared at him through the doorway.
He stood with his back to me, arms folded, head cocked, every inch of him radiating the promise of violence and the threat of something more dangerous.
When the call ended, I exhaled hard and wondered—not for the first time—if there was such a thing as a safe place anymore. Even surrounded by deadbolts and alarms, it never felt like enough.
Not when the wolf was already inside the door.
I returned to the kitchen for another shitty cup of coffee. I leaned against the counter, facing Damron as I sipped. His eyes landed on me with dirty intent. He approached slowly, eyes never leaving mine. His hand slid down between my knees and then began working upward toward my wet pussy.
"Aren't you a little eager?" I asked, my voice dropping to a husky whisper despite my attempt at sarcasm.
"Fuck," he growled, pushing my robe up my thighs. "You've been teasing me since you walked in with this fucking silk thing barely covering you that delicious cunt of yours. You know exactly what you are doing."
His fingers found my already slick entrance, and I gasped as he slid two thick digits inside me without warning. My head fell back against the cabinet with a thud.
"Fuck, you're soaked," he muttered, his eyes darkening. "Always ready for me, aren't you?"
I wanted to deny it, to maintain some illusion of control, but my body betrayed me as I ground against his hand. "Don't flatter yourself," I managed to say, but the words dissolved into a moan when his thumb found my clit.
Damron smirked, that cocky half-grin that had always made me want to both punch him and fuck him senseless. "Your mouth says one thing, but this sweet pussy says another."
In one swift motion, he lifted me onto the counter, knocking my coffee mug to the floor where it shattered. Neither of us gave a damn. He yanked my robe open, exposing my breasts to the cool morning air.
"Still perfect," he muttered, lowering his mouth to one nipple while his fingers continued their relentless assault between my legs.
I reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. "Just fuck me already," I demanded, past the point of pride.
He chuckled against my skin. "So the senator wants to be fucked on her kitchen counter? What would your constituents think?"
"That I have excellent taste in kitchen furniture," I shot back, finally freeing his cock from his jeans. He was rock hard, the thick length of him hot and heavy in my palm. I stroked him once, twice, loving the way his breath hitched.
"Enough games," he growled, batting my hand away and positioning himself at my entrance. With one powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
"Fuck!" I cried out, legs automatically wrapping around his waist.
Damron didn't wait for me to adjust. He pulled back and slammed into me again, setting a punishing rhythm that had the cabinet doors rattling behind me. His hands gripped my ass, lifting me slightly to hit that spot deep inside that made stars explode behind my eyelids.
"Look at me," he demanded, one hand moving to my throat. "I want to see your face when you come."
I forced my eyes open, meeting his intense gaze as he pounded into me. The counter edge dug into my ass, but the pain just heightened every sensation. His thumb returned to my clit, circling roughly.
"That's it," he encouraged as my walls began to clench around him. "Give it to me, Carly."
My orgasm hit like a freight train, my body convulsing as I screamed his name. He didn't let up, fucking me through the waves of pleasure until I was shaking and breathless.
"That's my girl," he growled, his thrusts becoming erratic.
"Now I'm gonna fill this tight cunt up." With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself deep and came with a roar, his hot seed flooding me.
We stayed locked together, panting, sweat cooling on our skin.
When he finally pulled out, I could feel his cum starting to leak from my well-fucked pussy.
Without hesitation, I slid off the counter and dropped to my knees on the kitchen floor.
"What are you—" he started, but his words died as I wrapped my lips around his semi-hard cock.
I could taste both of us on him as I took him deep, cleaning every inch with my tongue. His hands fisted in my hair as I worked him back to hardness, sucking and licking like a woman starved.
"Fuck, Carly," he groaned, hips bucking. "Your mouth is so fucking good."
I pulled off with a wet pop, looking up at him with cum-slick lips. "I want all of it," I said, then dove back down to suck his balls into my mouth.
Damron's head fell back, a string of curses falling from his lips as I worshipped his cock with my mouth. I was filthy for him, desperate, taking him so deep I gagged.
"Gonna come down your throat," he warned, but I just sucked harder, wanting every drop.