Ransom (Dead Man's Ink Series Book 3) (4 page)

“Okay, baby. You asked for it.” Jamie licks me again, but this time he’s not licking at my clit. He licks my ass, and I buck against his mouth, surprised by the sudden heat and the intimacy of the gesture.
 

“
Fuck
! Fuck, Jamie. I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. Stay very still for me, sugar, there’s a good girl. I’m gonna take care of you. I’m gonna give you what you want.” His fingers are still inside me, thrusting into my pussy. He slowly slides them out of me, and then pushes them back inside much more forcefully. I gasp every time, my voice hoarse, my throat stinging as Jamie fucks me with his index and middle finger. It feels so fucking good.

I had no idea I’d like what he’s doing with his mouth, but every time Jamie licks my ass, the pressure from his tongue growing and growing as he works, I find myself falling apart piece by piece. This is incredible.
 

Seriously. Fucking. Incredible.

Jamie pauses, sinking his teeth none-too-gently into my right ass cheek. “You want my finger in there, beautiful?”
 

I don’t normally go in for this kind of thing, but he’s got me so worked up and crazy that I find myself nodding. More than that—I physically ask for it. “I want you to, yes. I want to feel you in my ass, Jamie. Please…I can’t take it anymore.”

“
Fuck
.” Jamie sighs out further colorful expletives as he gently, carefully pushes his finger inside me. I break out in an instantaneous sweat, my legs trembling as he moves little by little. It’s such an overwhelming sensation. The combination of pleasure and pain is dizzying. “You want my cock inside you, too, Sophia?” Jamie whispers. “You want me to fuck you in your pussy while I fuck your ass, too?”

My cheeks are the color of a freshly painted fire truck. I know this because it feels like they’re on fire themselves. For a second I don’t really know what to say. I don’t know if I can handle that. I don’t know if my body can take that much attention.
 

“
Sophia.”
Jamie slides his thumb inside my pussy at the same time, gently pumping both fingers in and out of my body. I gasp, clutching the bed sheets tighter. “Don’t overthink it. It’ll feel good, I promise.”

Jamie doesn’t make promises lightly. He’d never say something like that in order to get his own way. And he’d sure as hell never promise me pleasure and then not deliver. It’s a point of pride for him.
 

“Okay. Okay, yes.” My voice is quiet but I sound like I mean it. Like I want it. Jamie grunts, repositioning himself between my legs. His breathing is fast and labored like mine. His cock presses against me as he grinds his hips against my ass.
 

“I want to feel you come all over me, okay, sugar? I want to feel you getting tighter and tighter as you come all over my dick and my fingers. Can you do that for me?”

I can’t speak. I can only nod. Jamie leans back and pushes himself slowly inside me. “Damn it, Soph,” he hisses. “You feel fucking good.”

I feel so full as he works both his cock and his fingers inside me, thrusting both into me at the same time, carefully, slowly, deeply, making me shake and shiver. It’s like nothing I’ve experienced before. Nothing I’ve ever come close to feeling, and it’s amazing.
 

“I can feel myself inside you,” Jamie says. “I can feel my cock getting harder.”

I nod, clenching my jaw. “So can I. It feels incredible.” And it does. Jamie rubs his free hand lightly up and down my back. I want to feel his hands all over me, stroking me, caressing me, but he’s kind of busy, and I’m kind of enjoying what he’s doing too much to stop him.
 

“Holy fuck.” Jamie digs his fingers into my back, slamming himself into me harder now. I can tell he wants to fuck the sense right out of me, but he’s holding back. He doesn’t want to be too rough when he’s fingering my ass at the same time. I almost want him to, though. I want to feel like I’m being owned. I want to feel like my body is not my own for just five minutes. It’s a strange, dangerous thought. I push back against him, forcing him deeper as he fucks me. Jamie slaps my ass with his free hand, growling.
 

“Is that how it is, sugar? Is that what you want?”

“Yes. Fuck, Jamie, please. Fuck me harder.” I’m sure I sound like a clichéd porn star, begging to get pounded on by some gigantor-dicked playboy, but my pleas are genuine. I want him. Need him. Must have him.
 

Jamie obliges me.
 

My eyes roll back into my head as he speeds up, thrusting into me over and over again, and I can’t keep myself together anymore. I feel like I’m sinking into the mattress, my ass still sticking up in the air as Jamie fucks me, and it’s as though I’m rising up out of my body. I feel weightless, feather-light, seconds away from hitting the ceiling. Jamie groans as he slides his finger in and out of my ass.
 

“You ready now, sugar?” he asks me. “You ready to come for me?”

“Yes. I can’t hold out much longer.”

“Then don’t. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Come on.” The very last of his will power apparently burns off; he doesn’t hold back anymore. I feel like I’m being lit up from the inside as Jamie slams himself into me. I feel drunk, high, lost and found all at once. When the first rushes of my orgasm hit me, they hit with brute force strength, undeniable and unstoppable. Jamie must feel it, must feel the difference in me, because he starts swearing again.
 

“Oh my god, Jamie. I can’t—I can’t—” I lose the ability to speak altogether. I can only pant and moan and cry out as I’m swept away in the riptide. Jamie roars as he comes with me. He removes his finger and takes hold of me by the hips with both hands, and he fucks me hard and deep. We writhe against each other as the pleasure wanes, sensitive and stupid from the endorphins flooding our systems, and Jamie strokes my body, peppering me with light kisses all over my back.
 

Eventually he pulls out and lies down next to me. He smiles, brushing my hair out of my face. “You’re very flushed,” he announces. “Seems to me someone just had the servicing of her life.”

I stick my tongue out at him, lifting my heavy arm so I can playfully pinch his nipple. “Nope. I got the servicing of my life last week from a guy named Rebel.”

Jamie pretends to scowl. “I hear that guy’s an asshole.”

“He is. But I love him.”

Now he frowns. “I thought you loved
me
?”

“I do. I love you both. More than I should, I’m sure.”

He grins, waggling his eyebrows. “Good thing I’m not a jealous guy.” He wraps his arms around me and pulls me to him so that my head is resting on his chest once more. The sun is still bullying its way through the gap in the curtains, laying in thick gold bars across our bodies. Jamie runs his fingers up and down the leg I’ve thrown over his body, tangled up in his own legs. His fingers don’t deviate outside of the thick band of sunlight that marks my skin.
 

We lay like that for a long time, him stroking my hair and my body, humming quietly, until Carnie comes and hollers that he wants his damn breakfast through the cabin door. I tame my hair, throw some clothes on and leave, kissing Jamie on the forehead before I go. I know that when I kiss him later on down in the compound, whenever he drags his lazy out of his bed, I won’t be kissing the same person anymore. I’ll be kissing Rebel, the president of the Widow Makers Motorcycle Club, but it will still be as perfect. It will still be as magical.

CHAPTER TWO

CADE

Used to be that the hatch to the basement underneath the barn would get rusty. Anytime anyone wanted to go down there, they’d need to take a hammer and chisel to the handle and prise it open with brute force. Not the case these days.
 

Now the damn thing’s opened so often the hinge doesn’t even squeak anymore. Breakfast, lunch and dinnertime, someone has to go down into the basement to feed our current guest, and usually that someone is me. I don’t carry out the task because it’s something I enjoy. I draw the short straw every fucking day because the job is so unpleasant that no one else will do it, and besides, the other Widow Makers’ arguments
are
kind of valid: our guest
does
insist that I’m the one to feed her and clothe her, as well as take her out every evening so she can stretch her legs.
 

Today, Soph doesn’t seem to want to get her ass out of bed and make breakfast, so I’ve had to concoct something on my own. I told Rebel what I saw—an older guy, who appeared to be Alan Romera, being dragged into Ramirez’s place. He was understandably furious, but he’s kept the information from his girlfriend thus far. Said it would be for the best, until we can confirm it really is her father. I have to tell him later that it
is
Dr. Romera, one hundred percent, no doubt about it, which isn’t a conversation that I’m looking forward to. So yeah, I’ll let the prospect stay in bed and I’ll cook myself if it means I can avoid spreading that delightful news.

The scrambled eggs, toast and sliced up fruit I’ve cobbled together aren’t going to be up to standard for our picky, precocious guest, but guess what? I don’t give a fuck. I lower myself down the rungs of the ladder that descends into the basement, using one hand to climb and the other to hold the plastic tray of food I’m carrying. Back when we realized we’d have to detain our guest for longer than we’d originally anticipated, Jamie had a proper AC and ventilation system installed down here, so thankfully it’s cool and doesn’t smell of shit and dried blood anymore. I head to the door at the end of the corridor and open it, readying myself for the abuse I’m about to receive. I’ve come to accept it now. The verbal and physical abuse (pathetic though it may be) I endure every few hours has become a regular part of my day. In fact, I find it kind of cute, now.
 

Inside the room, Maria Rosa, former head of the Desolladors Cartel, is sitting on a beaten up sofa, reading a battered copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. When Rebel shot her six months ago and we locked her down here, Maria Rosa’s English was pretty clipped. She could get by just fine, but she sure as hell couldn’t read in anything other than Spanish. Now she seems to be demanding a new book every time I come down here.
 

She knows I’ve entered the room, but she doesn’t look up from her page. Sometimes it’s like this—she’ll pretend I don’t even exist as I leave her food and clear away the remains of her previous meal. She’ll lay down on her bed and close her eyes, pretending to be asleep as I collect her dirty laundry and dump it outside for Sophia to pick up later. But then there are other days, when she’s like a deranged hellcat, jumping out from behind the heavy steel door, trying to claw my eyes out of my head as she tries, for the one hundred millionth time, to escape.
 

This morning doesn’t seem like an escape attempt kind of morning. Maria Rosa slowly puts down her book and stands, stretching, arms high up over her head. She looks like a cat when she does this, limbs long, fingers spread wide, head back, spine arched. She makes a quiet sighing sound as she turns around and bends over, reaching for the ground. The tight sweatpants she’s wearing—they read
Juicy
across the ass—don’t leave much to the imagination.
 

Her attempts to seduce me have ranged from subtleties such as this to blatant insanity, where I’ve opened the door to find her naked on her bed, her legs spread wide, while she teases her pussy and begs me to come fuck her. She stopped doing that a while back. Still, every once in a while she’ll try something like this, something designed to pique my interest. She should know by know that crazy bitches don’t get my dick hard.
 

“When is he coming to see me?” she purrs. “I need to talk to him.”

I put down her breakfast on the small chest of drawers we had brought down here for her, kicking the door closed behind me. “What do you need to talk him about?” This line is as old as the hills. She
always
needs to talk to Rebel, and Rebel
never
wants to talk to her. Funny, that.
 

“I need more space,” she says. Her voice is light. Breezy, almost. “I can’t work out down here like this. The place is too cramped. How am I supposed to stay in shape when I can’t run? Or do yoga?”

I can’t bite back the laughter that itches at the back of my throat. “I don’t think Rebel cares about you staying shape, darlin’. I think he cares about you keeping quiet and not trying to stab people in the neck with a plastic knife whenever they come in here. Or throwing your own shit. I think he cares about you not doing that.”

“I only did that once.” She pouts. Even without make-up, she’s a very beautiful woman. There are certain concessions Jamie’s made for her, certain demands he’s met in return for her vague cooperation, but make up hasn’t been one of them. “And I only did that to demonstrate how undignified this whole arrangement is, baby. I shit in the corner of the same room that I eat, sleep and bathe in. That’s fucking insulting, no?”

I smirk, grabbing her wash bag. “He’s already knocked through three of the rooms to give you more space. He’s not gonna give you any more.”

“But I need a treadmill,” she whines.
 

“You’re dreaming. It’s not gonna happen.”

“
You
could make it happen,” she says quietly. “If you really wanted to.”

“But here’s the crazy thing, Maria Rosa. I
don’t
want to.”

“Why not?” She seems genuinely confused.
 

“Hmm. Could have something to do with the fact that you tortured me for three days in Columbia? Could also have something to do with the fact that you were severely unhelpful when Rebel and I were searching for my sister? And for Jamie, I’m gonna say it’s because you fucking framed our club for the murder of eleven innocent people who were just trying to do their weekly grocery shop in Los Angeles.”

Maria Rosa laughs, head back, her voice tinkling like a silver bell. She’s fucking insane. “Oh, yes.
That
.”