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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PHILLIPA

I hadn’t lied. I hadn’t played poker before in my life, but I’ve always scored high on math tests, and in my investigative training, I’d learned how to never let my feelings show on my face. I’ve also been taught how to look at puzzles. Let’s face it. Criminals have a modus operandi and do the same things over and over again, and I was one of the best at being able to see a pattern and identify it.

As for being able to control my emotions, again, I’ve had much practice. Some situations, yeah, like a bullet shooting the man I was trying to protect, were pretty emotional, but otherwise, feelings had been trained out of me. I was Ms. Cool when I needed to be, and even if my legs were paddling wildly underneath, on the surface I was the graceful swan effortlessly swimming.

I’ve heard of card counting, and maybe that’s what I’d been unconsciously doing. But the men I was playing against had tells. Perhaps someone untrained wouldn’t have been able to see them.

Whatever, I’d held my own and legitimately won that pile of winnings. A sum totalling the princely amount of one thousand dollars. The money wasn’t important. I wasn’t even sure if I’d be able to benefit from the cash. But the principle of me besting them at their own game gave me a high.

For a moment, the control was with me, and not these men holding me captive.

Saint hovers but lets me negotiate the stairs on my own. More practiced now, I make it without stumbling to the top. I head toward my… his room, and pause to let him open the door.

“You tired?” he asks, as I hop inside. “In pain, want a pill?”

“Not really,” I answer the first question, then address the second, “Not right now.” Then take back the initiative. “What really happened with the sheriff?”

For a moment, I don’t think he’s going to answer, then he sits on the bed and pats the space by his side. Accepting his invitation, I gratefully take the weight off my leg.

“Someone reported the license plate of my bike being on the scene, but he’s got nothing to pin on me. My bike couldn’t have caused the damage that made your car run off the road.” He pauses and chuckles, “And there’s no way he would even come to the conclusion that I saw you go down the embankment and come to your help.”

“Why not?”

He belly laughs now. “Not me, not what I do.” He gives me a sideways glance, then a nod as if to emphasise his words. “I’m rightly known as an asshole, sweetheart. If it’s not a member of my club, then I wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire.”

I can’t help but snort. “You’d piss on your brothers?” When he raises an eyebrow, I get back to the topic. “So why did you stop? Why did you save my life?”

He glares at me for a moment, then looks away. “Truth?” He glances back to see my reaction, which, of course, is a nod. “I was bored, curious. Witnessed an obvious hit. When I heard them come back to finish the job, I was half-minded to just let them do what they wanted. But you reminded me I was wearing my cut, something I’d overlooked in the moment. Changed my mind and decided to try to run them off. Then the car exploded…”

Interrupting, I tell him. “I lit a cloth and threw it into the gas tank.”

His eyes widen. He obviously hadn’t thought it was deliberate. A second passes, and a look of almost admiration crosses his face. Then he finishes, “And you saved my cut.”

Turning away, I mumble to myself. “Should have let the damn thing burn.”

He’s beside me in an instant, his hand gripping hold of my chin. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Rolling my eyes, I give it to him straight, jabbing my finger into his chest to make the point. “By saving that piece of leather, I gave away that I had knowledge about bikers and their clubs. If I hadn’t…”

“We’d have done our investigation into you just the same.” His words are spat out, then he swings around, brushes his long hair back from his face, and shakes his head. “And if you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be in the position that I am now.” I just wait, tilting my head to one side to get him to explain. “You’re a fuckin’ Fed, you’re already dead, and I should make sure and put you underground. But I owe you a fuckin’ debt.”

I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t ask. But I can’t stop the words coming out of my mouth. “So, what do I need to do to repay you and get out of here with my life?”

His mouth turns up in a smirk. “Your only option to stay here is to become my ol’ lady, so giving me a trial run at your pussy might help convince me.”

My mouth literally drops open. Of course, being a man, sex could have been expected to be the answer, but it’s taken me off guard.

Would I be willing? My life as a secret service agent means I can be called to go anywhere at any time. There’s no place in my world for relationships, and I’m no virgin since that disastrous introduction to a boy’s penis following my prom. He’d barely broken my hymen before literally losing his shit. Thankfully, I’d made him wear a condom, I’d brushed myself off and set out to find a real man who could get the job done. To be honest, I’ve not yet found one that gives me orgasms as good as my battery-operated boyfriend, but I still like to experiment from time to time. Saint? Well, I reckon he’s got the equipment, but whether he can use it to satisfy anyone other than himself is still in doubt. Bikers are used to women offering themselves in return for a ride on a bike or a leather vest, naming them as property. I suspect most club girls are more skilled at giving and resigned to receiving not a lot in return.

Sex, with Saint, despite his bad boy reputation, would no doubt be a disappointment. He’d be a selfish lover. But then again, he’s incredibly good looking, I find his long hair attractive, in a kind of fuck them way to the neatly groomed agents who’d tried to flirt with me at work. If he does want my body in payment, it certainly wouldn’t make me feel like throwing up. I start thinking I must definitely have a TBI as my body’s core starts heating at the thought of Saint taking what he wants. I should be disgusted, not getting turned on. And it would be him taking, I can’t be much of an active participant with my injuries.

Could I let him into my body for a chance to have more time? I don’t want to be here forever, or to be anyone’s old lady, but maybe by playing along, he’d relax his guard and I’d be able to escape.

Saint’s staring at me while these thoughts are going through my mind. His dark eyes are intense and focused, but his expression gives nothing away. Suddenly, I’m glad I wasn’t playing poker against him. I doubt my winnings would have been so much.

He breathes in deep, then, turning away from me, lets his breath out on a sigh, accompanied by a shake of his head. When he speaks, his tone is heavy and weary. “There’s no way you can leave here and go back to your life. No one fucks with the Kings.”

How can I convince him? “I’m not going to fuck with your club.”

Snorting, he refutes, “We killed you on paper. Your reappearance would lead straight back to the club.”

“Help me change my name. Start over.” Fuck knows what I’d do, but there’s enough doubt in my mind to realise that going back to my old life might not be in my best interest. There’re enough people with a target on my head.

Again, his head moves side to side. “Can’t do that.” His eyes find mine and hold my gaze as if trying to read into my soul. “Even if I accepted you want to take that way out, my club would never believe you.”

His actions have made me his responsibility. My life or death lies in his hands. I should fear this man, hate him, but something makes me feel sorry for him instead. I never asked for a rescue, yet he offered an, albeit probably short, reprieve from death. Though our occupations make us mortal enemies, I’ve a feeling that he wouldn’t find it easy to put a bullet in my head, though I’ve no doubt he’d do it. If our positions were reversed, me, a government agent with an outlaw motorcycle gang member at my mercy, I would be expected to restrain him and commit him to a cell where he was unlikely ever to taste freedom again. Or if it was a situation where it was either me or him, my training would have seen me sending him out of this world without a second thought. Are we really that different?

He swallows. His hand reaches down and touches mine. After a second, he gives my fingers a soft squeeze. A tactile gesture that suggests what he has to do might not align with what he wants.

Clarity hits me. If this is going to be my last night on earth, I want to leave it on my terms. All my previous partners have been respectable men, going out of their way to be seen as treating me as an equal in a man’s world. Perhaps what I needed all along was a man who couldn’t give a fuck about equalities and niceties. Though I don’t have high expectations that Saint would bother to satisfy my needs, by forgoing my chance to be with a bad boy, I’d go to my death never knowing what a dominant partner could be like.

Maybe it’s the threat of the loss of my mortality, but God help me, I’m part scared, but mostly turned on. Does imminent death increase the need to procreate? I’m sure I’ve heard that somewhere. Whatever the reason for my madness, I open my mouth to find myself bargaining, no, begging with the Devil.

“Fuck me, Saint.”

His body tenses, muscles going rigid. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. He didn’t expect me to give my consent. As my eyes lower, I see the bulge at his crotch enlarging. The bruises may not show my face in its best light, but that doesn’t seem to be turning him off and I’m confident that my tits are pert, and my ass firm and rounded. Maybe my stomach won’t work if he’s a man who prefers curves. Hopefully I won’t disappoint.

But his lack of response stretches out so long, I’m doubting myself. Perhaps he’s a man who prefers soft and thick to toned and muscular. Maybe my hair’s too short, too masculine in style… Or would he have preferred if he’d needed to force me? Maybe that’s the kind of sex he likes. He’s a biker from a notorious club, and I could be putting myself in danger.

When he finally speaks, he disavows me of that last worry at least. “I don’t want to fuckin’ hurt you,” he growls, his hands waving, pointing to my shoulder, my leg and my ribs.

A startled laugh barks out of me. “But you’d have no problem killing me.” Catching mine, his eyes widen, so I press my chance. “Doesn’t a condemned man, or woman, get a last request?” His brows rise so high, it’s comical. “So, what if mine is to feel what you’ve got between your legs?” Now it’s me who’s swallowing. “What if I want to know what you’re packing before I meet my maker?”

“You don’t know what you’re fuckin’ asking,” he suddenly roars. “You’re testing the limits of my control, woman.”

“So, fuck me.”

“If I fuck you, I’m going to ruin you for all other men.”

Ignoring that if the Kings have their way, there’ll be no one after him, I taunt, “Big words.”

The beast emerges in his eyes, and for a moment, I feel terrified. But when his hands reach for me, it’s with a tenderness that respects where I hurt. His lips first gently touch mine, his palm cradling my head. Then he increases the pressure, persuading me to let his tongue invade. He groans as I respond to him, and gentleness disappears as he crashes his mouth down on mine, taking what he wants from me, ravishing me, and God help me, but I realise I’ve never experienced such passion before.

Victim and murderer. Maybe that’s the combination that makes his taste so enticing, so arousing. Or it’s that this could be the last time I’ll ever be with a man. He ends the kiss, then expertly strips my… his shirt over my head, baring my upper body to him. His expression shows his appreciation even before his mouth descends to pay attention to my breasts. I love nipple play, previous lovers haven’t taken enough time before, but Saint does. He licks, nibbles, bites and sucks, resulting in begging sounds being drawn out of me, pleading for him not to stop. I’m seconds away from an orgasm just from his ministrations to my breasts before he pulls away, his breathing heaving, his own face red.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, so responsive. I’ve got to have a taste.”

Without having to remind him to be careful, he strips the pants I’m wearing down my legs, gently pulling the one in the cast through, before yanking the other side down. I’m wearing no panties, so I’m already bare. There’s no embarrassment, just anticipation, as his earlier ministrations have already got me on edge.

Other men have gone down on me, but now I know they were halfhearted and inexperienced. As soon as Saint’s mouth is on me, he’s playing me like a virtuoso. His tongue is so soft yet so malleable, and knowing all the moves, his teeth are teasing just enough to bring me almost to the peak.

Then he adds his hand, one finger, then two, gliding inside my slickness, touching that mythical spot no one’s ever found before. His mouth, his hand… within moments I’m totally lost. I scream his name as my orgasm rises, pulses through me, and seems to carry on. I’d been so wrong. Saint totally knows how to give.

I almost yell at the loss of his touch before his well-endowed cock plumbs my depths, his whole shaft pushing in without mercy, or giving me time to adjust. But somehow the invasion is both brutal and enough to extend my orgasm.

He yanks my good leg up and around him, managing to keep his weight off my broken limb as he thrusts in, and then in again, repeating his action time after time. I open my eyes, focusing on the taut lines on his face, relishing the sight of him chasing his own moment of ecstasy, then having to close them again as pleasure overcomes me.

I’m reaching a place where I’ve never been, heights never before reached. For a moment, I doubt he’d need a bullet to kill me as I touch an orgasm so intense it’s beyond belief. If I never recover from this, well, what a way to go…

I come back to myself, my breathing sawing in and out as though I’ve completed a marathon. Making an effort, I open my eyes to see his head rolled back, his eyes closed, his face taut as though in agony.

But as I watch, his tension releases, and he looks down, his facial expression, if I could find a word to describe it, would be confusion.

He meets my eyes. “Fuck.” Just one word, but it carries so much emotion, but nothing I can interpret. Hate? Perhaps. Satisfaction, possibly. But as he pulls out, I feel an alien sensation, and reality hits me.

“We didn’t use a condom.”

I’ve amused him. He barks a laugh. “You not clean?”

“I get tested regularly.”

“Considering the circumstances, you’ve no need to worry.” It’s a slap around the face that brings me back to reality.

I’ve just experienced the best sex of my life from the man who’s been charged to kill me. Guess he’s right. A little stickiness, his semen seeping out of me, is the least of my concerns right now.

But I don’t have a chance to say anything else, as Saint has already disappeared out of the door.