BORDEN 2 (2 page)

I’ve watched your little lady for a while now. She’s very tasty, Borden. That body could make any man go wild. Her movements are fluid, her tits perky and just the right size. I can picture her silky black hair wrapped around my fist as I force her to look up at me. Is it as soft as it looks, Borden? Is she good with her mouth? She has a face with a bottom lip I’d suck happily while chained in my cellar. Naked, preferably. Just like your first whore was. I’ll make sure whore number two suffers longer.

Have I made you angry? Are you gripping my phone a little harder? Are you seething with the need to find me? Bury me?

I’d like to see you try.

“Borden?” Graeme’s voice sounded distant.

Borden gripped the phone tightly, the screen already stressing beneath his grip. His vision spotted, and like a supernova, his rage burst, lighting up his insides. He took a few deep breaths – breaths that sounded like pants – and slowly pocketed the phone he wanted nothing more than to smash; a phone that was left behind on purpose by a fuck that was actually a step ahead of Borden and beating him at his own game. A fuck that just told him he wanted his woman chained in a cellar naked…Like Kate. There were no words to describe the anger within him. It was so strong, he shook. Clenching his jaw, he tried calming down before looking up at Graeme.

“We’re leaving,” he told him, his voice dark and edgy.
“Right now.”

Borden

He fucking hated bikers.

Soulless things, bikers were.

And dirty as fuck.

Borden stared at the commotion in front of him. Bikers everywhere. Self-entitled little shits wreaking havoc like it was second nature to them. All over his club, hands up the legs of countless dancers. Glasses were smashed, curses were screamed, and even a brawl broke out between two patched members that resulted in blood and two broken tables. But…
why
? Why did it have to get so nasty? He didn’t fucking get it. Especially when the Neanderthals reconciled moments later, laughing with bloodied mouths, like what they had just done –
beating each other to pulps
– wasn’t absolutely Palaeolithic in nature.

Borden gritted his teeth. This was a bad idea.

“This isn’t a bad idea,” he heard Hawke suddenly say, reading his mind like usual. He stopped next to him, looking too at the chaos before them. “You need them.
We
need them.”

“Maybe,” Borden muttered in distaste. “Maybe not.”

“You don’t want to take a chance. There are too many threats now, Borden.”

“I’m aware of that, Hawke, so don’t fucking reiterate shit we’ve already gone through before.”

“Just repeating the facts so you don’t end up shooting somebody in the face tonight.”

“It would be for a just cause.”

“It wouldn’t be worth the effort.”

“They’re fucking up my place.”

“Think of the big picture.”

Borden nearly growled as he stressed for the second time, “
They’re fucking up my place
.”

“Chill.”

He didn’t want to fucking chill. He wanted to shoot bullets and get these guys to stop
fucking up his place
. These savages had no idea how long it took for him to have this place up and running when he first got here. He built Owls from the ground up, and now they were trashing the club like it was their nasty ass clubhouse.

Where was the fucking respect? That was all he wanted to know. Did it even exist to begin with? Or were they feral in that aspect as well?

Hearing a startled cry, he turned his head and watched a random woman get led out of the club with a biker whose grip was around the back of her neck. She looked horrified, her raccoon eyes glistening with unshed tears, her Botox lips puckered out as she whimpered helplessly. The biker didn’t seem concerned by her tears as he wiped his nose clean of whatever powder he’d just sniffed up it.

Fucking medieval, this shit.

“Just a biker slut,” Hawke assured him quickly. “One of
theirs
. Not ours.”

“I can’t believe you want me to be in league with a gang of rapists.”

“They’re not rapists. She’s club slut. They use her the way they want and she gets her next fix in return. Tit for tat.”

“You defending this shit, Hawke?”

Hawke frowned. “No, I’m just explaining it to you, Borden. If I was defending it, wouldn’t I be on
that
side of the fucking room right now?”

“You were once upon a time, were you not?”

Hawke’s face darkened. “Thanks for the reminder, but I kind of didn’t need one. I’m explaining their way of life to you, and it doesn’t have anything to do with what we have in mind. You have to keep to the goal. Don’t think about
this
shit. Think about Emma. This is about her, right?”

In a flash, Borden pictured Emma being led out in a similar manner, and his vision blurred with red-hot rage. If anybody so much as touched her in that way, or even looked at her with wanting eyes, he’d happily decorate his club walls with their brains.

“Where is she?” Borden then demanded.

“Still with Graeme in the office. She hasn’t gone anywhere or else I’d have known about it. Do you want me to get her? Maybe seeing this shit would be good for her stubborn ass.”

Borden shot him a glare and saw the humour in Hawke’s eyes. Like fuck did he want Emma out to witness this shit.

“Come on,” Hawke added on a shrug, “you have to admit, it might shut her up for once. She’s been giving Graeme a hard time lately, asking questions, trying to get us to lay off her. I’m tempted to take his place just to keep him sane.”

Borden’s lips twitched. Emma could be a headache, but that’s the way he liked her. He loved that invasion of privacy, loved her potty mouth and shit attitude. Loved every fucking inch of that tiny little body too, including the soul that sat inside it.

“She could handle this debauchery,” Hawke carried on, motioning to the room with a concealed smirk beneath that thick beard of his. “She’d probably stab a fucker if he came a foot too close, though.”

“
I’d
stab the fucker,” Borden corrected, feeling a wave of possessiveness come over him. And that was the problem: he wasn’t handling his possessive nature well. Well meaning not at all. If Emma remained in the office, he wouldn’t have to constantly look over his shoulder, babying her and everybody else that orbited her.

It would end in a bloodbath, and he knew it.

Hell, everybody knew it.

Mostly, he was pissed that he was in this situation at all, and that he even had to think along these lines. But he couldn’t keep doing what he was doing, not when there was a genuine threat out there.

Just then, he remembered that night that started all of this, and what had happened after he got that godforsaken text two weeks ago.

They’d immediately left after he’d found that phone in the alleyway. He’d packed a few of Emma’s clothes, picked her up from the bed, and they drove to his place. She hadn’t returned to her apartment since, and he wouldn’t let her anyway. There was somebody out there that would jump at the chance to do her harm.

She has a face with a bottom lip I’d suck happily while chained in my cellar.
That line ran through his mind every single day since he read it. He felt queasy knowing some sicko had such sick thoughts of his woman.

He’d sent men out on the streets, tried to gather as much information as possible, but he came up with nothing at the end. The person truly had been smoke, scattering from sight. Borden had never come across a threat that had kept their mouth shut so long. It was exhausting, to say the least. That was why the dirty ass bikers were here now. And looking at them once more before he returned to Emma, he fucking wish they weren’t.

Yeah, he would totally stab any fucker that got a foot too close to her.

“I would too,” he heard Hawke mutter under his breath a few moments after he’d said it.

Borden glanced at him. “Is that right?”

Hawke nodded absently, not making any eye contact as he continued to stare around the room. Although that possessive nerve thundered within him, Borden purposely didn’t press the matter. Emma seemed to bring out the protective nature of all who looked after her. First Graeme and now…well, now it appeared Hawke was moulding to her presence. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that.

“Incoming,” Hawke then said. “Twelve o’clock. Red fireball of doom.”

Borden looked ahead and caught sight of Linda. She was squeezing her way through the crowd of men, an angry look on her face. The front of her red dress and the tips of her long red hair were drenched. When she caught his gaze, she turned her body in his direction and hurried to him. She was panting by the time she stopped in front of him, her tall, slender frame shaking with pent up fury. Hawke shook too, but with laughter, and she glared at him for it.

“What the fuck, Borden!” she hissed. “These men are animals! They are turning this place into a warzone! Do you know how long it’s going to take for us to clean this shit up?”

“Why are you drenched?” Hawke asked. “Looks like somebody took you for a spin.”

“Nobody took me for a spin, asshole!” she retorted. “But the fuckers in here seem to think I’m some club whore ready to spread myself out for them.”

“They did this to you?” Borden said, looking down at her exposed wet cleavage. He could see the full outline of her breasts through her dress.

“After they rubbed their stiff dicks against my hips and ass, yes, they did this to me!”

Borden sighed, shooting Hawke a dark look. “Like I said, they’re fucking savages.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t,” Hawke argued. “I just said they aren’t worth a bullet.”

“What are they even doing here?” Linda fumed. “You could have warned me about them.”

Borden looked back at her. “You’re right. You shouldn’t be here. Grab your things and leave. Have one of the men take you home. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“Thank you!” she replied, her voice turning bitter. “Glad to know the only way you’ll get me out of this mess is by being sexually assaulted first. Boss of the year over here.”

Before he could respond, she turned away and hurried off, angrily shoving the men that reached out to her. They just laughed it off, causing more of Borden’s nerves to twitch.

“What is it with these women suddenly talking back to me?” he mumbled, shaking his head.

Hawke smirked. “After Emma’s back chat, Linda has no reason to fear you.”

“With Emma, it’s different. I like her filthy mouth. I don’t like it from Linda. Now let’s get the fuck out of here before I seriously end up shooting someone.”

They turned just as another smash tore through the air. Borden clenched his jaw as he heard the sound of two more men brawling over a bottle of spilled beer.

Emma

I looked like shit. I
felt
like shit. My hair was still damp and tied up in a bun, my face make-up less and tired. I felt like I’d been dumped here in the office, and if it wasn’t for the bowl of chocolates in front of me, I might have thrown a riot.

But chocolate, right? Who can be depressed about that? I’d consumed a few pounds worth, until my tastebuds gave out and my stomach threatened to explode. And still, I tore more wrappers off and ate some more.

Out of boredom, I played Angry Birds Fight on my phone behind my desk. Some dude with a flag of New Zealand was currently kicking my ass. I blamed my losing streak on my discomfort. I was seated in a weird angle in my chair, only because it hurt to sit down properly. Every inch of me below the hips was sore.

As I played, images ran through my mind of the shower I’d had earlier tonight. Of Borden’s mouth against mine, of his body pressing me against the stall as the water beat down around us. Of him sucking my tongue, nibbling at my lower lip, trailing those hard hands down my body, gripping me,
owning
me.

I felt hot just thinking about it. Of how powerful he was. The way he picked me up effortlessly, growling at me to,
“Wrap your fucking legs around me.”
I wrapped them around him like a vine, kissing him like my life depended on it, waiting for him to push inside me.

I should have known the asshole would tease me first.

He
always
teased me first.

“You gonna beg, doll?” he whispered into my mouth.

“No,” I’d retorted, stubborn and defiant.

His chest shook with silent laughter, and then he’d trailed the head of his cock against my folds, brushing it over my clit. I shook in his grip, holding him tighter. He smiled cruelly against my mouth, amused by my reaction as he teased me relentlessly.

“Beg, doll,” he demanded, still quietly, but more hoarsely than before. “Beg for me to fuck you.”

I dug my fingernails into his upper back, shaking all around him when he continued to glide himself along my sex. I dug my nails deeper with every passing moment. It was my way of begging him, and I knew it fed his masochism. Because his eyelids would go heavy and his kisses would become punishing, and he’d finally relent, widening my legs enough before abruptly plunging hard inside me.

He’d stilled after the first thrust, and for a moment, I felt this sensational feeling of fullness. It was always that first thrust that made my eyes roll to the back of my head. The walls of my pussy clenched him hungrily, and he groaned at the sensation. My mouth was hanging open, tasting the drops of water from the showerhead before his tongue invaded it. And then he moved, thrusting faster and harder, again and again.

Shit, it was
always
hard. I didn’t know how to like fucking any other way. He was an addiction. Terrible for my health but intoxicating. He possessed every inch of me; even my mind – the harshest critic – burned the bridges to the logical part of me.

I had felt so tiny in his grip. He had held me like I weighed nothing, and I delighted at the look of his large biceps straining, those veins poking out, creating sexy lines I wanted to lick. He was delicious. I feverishly licked at him back, uncaring what I was kissing, what I was sucking, what part of him was in my mouth. I lost myself in him, crying out, teeth scraping against his hard jawline, as I came hard.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, breathlessly, “even I felt that, doll.”

I just moaned in response, feeling aftershocks of pleasure consume me as he carried on.

My favourite part was watching him fall apart. I felt so powerful, and at the same time humble for being that person that got to see his face crack with emotion. Right before he reached his orgasm, his lips would go gentle. He’d tenderly stroke my tongue, kissing the corner of my mouth as his blue eyes warmed. He looked at me like I meant so much to him, like I was the fucking sun and he was a planet orbiting it. That look put a lump in my throat every time. I wanted to shake him, tell him no, I wasn’t the sun,
he
was! And I was just the helpless little rock, getting closer, getting hotter, as I spiralled out of course and into him.

He incinerated me. He made me feel alive, and I knew it was the same for him. I could
feel
it. I wanted him to vocalise it; to reach that limit some people reach right before they’re about to explode, when they throw caution to the wind and say shit without thinking. I wanted him to tell me he loved me; that the tenderness in his eyes wasn’t all in my head. That it was true and tangible, a fantasy made real. But he never did it. He never got pushed far enough; he was still so well in control of himself, no matter how far off the edge he was.

I hated it.

After he set me down, he kissed me softly on the lips and went back to being normal Borden: hard, sarcastic, serious, but still with that lustful eye when he looked at me. It left me frustrated, and it left me panting. It made me want to question his feelings, and it made me terrified to know the answers.

Things were a bit of a clusterfuck.

Tonight he’d been off. Minutes after the shower, he changed into a pair of sexy faded jeans and a heavy black sweater. He didn’t fix his unruly hair, didn’t decorate his wrist with a watch. I had a feeling that shit was going down, and I wondered what he was up to.

“Get dressed,” he told me, his demeanour relaxed. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

My jaw dropped at the sudden demand. My hair was still dripping from the shower, my skin flushed red, and there was a dampness between my legs I hadn’t found time to properly clean up.

“Can’t I just stay?” I replied, wearily.

He rubbed at his cheek, which was loaded with stubble and about a few days away from a full beard, and turned to me.

“No,” he simply said. “You can’t.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, fuming. “I’m really exhausted, Borden. We had a long day at the office.”

“It wouldn’t have been so long if you hadn’t looked at me like a little hussy,” he replied, smirking at my unimpressed expression. “Next time keep your sex eyes directed to your computer, hmm? Then I wouldn’t have to fuck you so much.”

I pretended to be angry at him and glared. It only made him laugh as he left the room, but even I had to smile at that.

God, I really loved this man.

Still. I was so tired, and the last thing I’d wanted to do was get dragged back to the club, which had practically become my second home. To make matters worse, the office wasn’t particularly soundproof. Now I could hear rowdy screams and shit getting smashed. It wasn’t a normal sound. Whoever was out there was fucking shit up bad.

I kept glancing up at Moustache Man – or Graeme I finally relented to calling him – who was sitting on a chair next to the door with a grip on his gun, and he was tentatively doing whatever he could to avoid making eye contact with me. He didn’t want to talk about why Borden was being a possessive asshole, forcing me to follow him wherever he went. The lead around my puppy dog neck was getting shorter every day and I was slowly losing my sanity.

“I know all about the text,” I muttered to Graeme after I lost against the asshole in New Zealand. “You don’t need to go all weird, you know. You’re a bad actor. You wouldn’t even get the Golden Raspberry award, you’re so bad.”

“I’m just not allowed to discuss it with you, Emma,” he replied, exasperated. We’d gone over this at least a dozen times tonight.

“Why? Because you don’t want to tell me you’re planning on gutting the guy that’s threatening my life and decorating the streets with his guts as warning?”

I was talking out of jest, but the look Graeme shot me was enough to make me shut my trap. He was pissed. Yeah, well, so was I. There was only so much of this being coddled like a baby I could take. It was only natural to get mouthy with the people you were forced to be around 24/7.

“Your humour is too dark for me,” he remarked, shaking his head.

“Well, we all know where I got that from.”

“You’re meant to be a lady.”

“You can remove the girl out of the ghetto, but you can’t remove the ghetto out of the girl. Isn’t that the saying these days?”

“I don’t know what the saying is these days, Emma.”

“Guess you’re just not hip, Graeme. Haven’t endured much hard times to appreciate some dark humour, huh?”

He rolled his eyes, and it was funny to see a grown ass, big framed man nearing fifty with a bushy moustache, rolling his eyes like a petulant schoolgirl.

“You have absolutely zero comprehension of the hard times I have endured, Emma, and I hope you never have to,” he replied, solemnly. “And that’s why I’m here. That is my job.”

I sighed. “You’re such a party pooper.”

“Why am I a ‘party pooper’?” He said that with air quotes and all, looking offended.

“Because you don’t know how to just relax and have fun.”

“I’m not paid to relax and have fun. I’m paid to protect you, and the situation we’re in demands a certain level of seriousness that forces me to be a so-called ‘party pooper’.” More air quotes.

“Boring.”

It was his turn to sigh.

In all seriousness, I understood the situation warranted caution. The text had visibly rattled Borden, and while I didn’t actually read it, I knew it was bad and the threat was real. I was doing as I was told because I didn’t want to be those dumb girls that defied orders and went out on their own, pretending there wasn’t a real danger in doing so. I watched enough horror movies to know they always died, and they died in the most awful way too. Like being cooked alive in a spa booth, or hacked to pieces by a chainsaw. Real fucked up shit like that, which led me to questioning why on earth I would watch movies like that in the first place.

Anyway, I didn’t want to die. I liked my life lately. I was being fucked by a god of a man on a daily basis, was still free to see my friends and grandmother, still making good money at a job next to said god of a man. The only complaint was that I was surrounded by Borden’s men in the process.

Or Borden himself.

I had to be honest, it wasn’t so bad when he was around. He was unpredictable, and I always felt my pulse race in anticipation when he lingered nearby. Sometimes he’d just look at me, his face clear of emotion save for those icy blue eyes which bore into me with a lust that made me tingle everywhere. He wouldn’t touch me in those moments. Just stare and admire me the way a person admired a delicate piece of art.

And sometimes he just fucked me, out of nowhere, right when I least expected it. I could be making coffee in the kitchen and find myself bent over with my cheek pressed against the kitchen counter and his cock deep inside of me. Muttering things in my ear. Biting at my shoulder. Pounding into me until I came so hard around him my vision would lose focus, and he’d just carry on until he came, marking me.

There was no consistency with him. No night time sex sessions all neatly planned out and pencilled in. The spontaneity was glorious. I loved being used for his pleasure, which was a sick admission, I knew. But…it made my body fiery hot with need. Horny Emma was currently satiated and quiet.

No complaints here.

“Can I know who’s down there at least?” I asked, purposely steering clear of images of Borden inside of me, working me like the strings on a guitar. “I mean, how come Linda gets to walk in and out, and smirk at me like I’m beneath her, and I’m stuck here?”

“Linda is different.”

“Different how?”

“She doesn’t belong to Borden.”

Yeah, but I bet she wanted to. She hated me, probably as much as Hawke did. Only difference was I caught her staring at Borden at times and her look was so penetrating and filled with emotion. She cared for him, and it was no wonder she was always such a bitch to me. Whereas Hawke’s hatred was immediate and without real reason, and it only extinguished in the presence of Borden. He reminded me of a stray cat Granny used to take in some nights when I was a child. She called her Joy, and I never understood that, because that fucking cat wasn’t joyful in the slightest. She scratched and clawed, growled at me whenever I was within five feet of her, and hissed like I’d burned her with red-hot oil. Yet she pranced around Granny like a lover reciting a sonnet to its beloved, rested on Granny’s shoulders at night, and purred into Granny’s ear as she was stroked in ways that if it were done by me, I’d have ended up looking like I’d gone through a fucking shredder.