I laughed and walked out, the voices of my brothers following me all the way to the parking lot.
The bike waited, chrome still hot. I started the engine, let it settle into the old heartbeat rhythm, and thought about where I’d been and where I was going. The club was in good hands. I was in good hands, too.
I took a last look at the building, and then I kicked it into gear and aimed for the airport, the wind at my back and the next bad decision waiting just over the horizon.
***
It was dusk by the time I hit the old county airstrip. The Triumph idled as I coasted up to the chain-link, and for a second, I just sat there, letting the last fumes of the club whiskey bleed out through my skin. Thirty days inside and not a single dream of this, of freedom, of motion, of the kind of recklessness you only got when you’d survived every other option.
The jet was impossible to miss with its sleek, low-slung, silver paint polished to a mirror shine. It looked out of place among the crop dusters and rust-bucket Cessnas, but so did I, helmet still in hand and bugs crusted on the sleeves of my jacket. The wind off the mesa was hard, almost enough to knock you sideways, and I wondered if Catherine had ordered it that way just to see if I’d show up battered and unbowed.
I left the bike leaning against a cracked curb and walked across the tarmac toward the stairs. A pilot in uniform waited, cap straight, shoes shined, face fixed in the studied boredom of a man who’d seen everything and cared about none of it. He gave me a nod as I approached, then flicked his eyes at the open door of the plane.
“Mr. Wallace,” he said, in the tone of a man who couldn’t be sure if I was a client or a problem. “They’re ready for you.”
I grunted my thanks and climbed up, two at a time, the metal steps biting through the thin rubber of my boots. Inside, the world changed. There was no noise, no wind, just the hiss of air conditioning and the smell of leather, citrus, and femininity.
And there they were.
Catherine, sprawled on the forward couch, legs draped over one arm, body bare as the day she was born except for a single gold necklace that traced the line of her collarbone. She held a champagne flute in one hand, the other draped over the edge of the seat, fingers absently twirling a strand of her own hair. Herskin glowed in the cabin light, olive and pale, a map of bruises and old bites that told their own story. The look in her eye said she’d planned this moment to the second.
Jenna was on the other side, stretched out on the facing loveseat, knees pulled up and parted just enough to make it clear she was showing off, not hiding. Her breasts were small, sharp, and perfect, the nipples dark and hard. Her face was flushed, hair wild, and when she saw me, her mouth curled up in a smile that was equal parts hunger and victory.
Neither of them spoke.
I stood in the galley, suddenly aware of every rough edge on my own body. I felt outnumbered and outclassed, but also like I was exactly where I belonged.
Catherine broke first. She set down her drink, stood, and walked toward me, completely unhurried. Her hips swayed, bare feet silent on the carpet, and she stopped just close enough that I could smell the vanilla and whiskey on her breath.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Wallace,” she said, voice low and hot.
Jenna laughed, a raw, throaty sound. “Don’t just stand there. Strip.”
I shook my head, but my hands were already working the zipper on my jacket. I shucked it off, let it fall to the floor, then watched as Catherine reached out, hooked a finger in the collar of my shirt, and pulled me down to her mouth. The kiss was nothing like the one in the jail parking lot. This one was soft at first, then teeth, then tongue, then Catherine biting my lower lip until I tasted blood and salt.
She broke away, breathless, and ran her hand down my chest, fingers digging into the meat of my torso. “You smell like a man who’s been locked up too long,” she said. “I like it.”
“Not for long,” I said, voice gone ragged.
She turned me toward the main cabin, steering me like a prize animal. Jenna was waiting, legs spread a little wider, onehand between her thighs. I could see her nails tracing slow, lazy circles. She looked me dead in the eye, daring me to flinch.
Catherine pushed me onto the couch, then dropped to her knees in front of me. She worked my belt with the efficiency of a woman who’d written briefs on every aspect of male anatomy. In seconds, I was out, hard and straining against the air.
She took me in her mouth, slow, tongue tracing the ridge underneath, her hand stroking the base in perfect counter-rhythm. Her eyes never left mine, and I watched the dark pupils widen as she worked me deeper, then deeper still, until her nose pressed to my stomach and she held there, swallowing around the head. I groaned, tried to keep my composure, but she didn’t want composure. She wanted to ruin me.
Jenna watched, eyes bright, then slid off her seat and crawled up beside me, her hand on my thigh, nails scraping the skin. She bent and kissed me, not just lips but tongue, and I tasted the ghost of Catherine on her mouth. I wondered if they’d fucked before I arrived. Jenna’s hand cupped my balls, rolled them, then pressed a finger behind, finding the spot that made me see stars.
The two of them worked me in tandem, Catherine bobbing on my cock, Jenna licking and biting at my neck, her hand stroking the shaft wherever Catherine’s mouth left bare. When I was right at the edge, Catherine pulled off with a pop, her lips glossy and swollen.
“Not yet,” she said. “We want you to last.”
She stood, towering over me for a second, then climbed onto the couch, straddling my lap. I could feel the heat of her, wet and ready, as she lined me up and eased down, taking every inch. She let out a moan that was almost a growl, then started to ride, slow at first, then harder, the slap of skin and the squeak of the leather underscoring every motion.
Jenna wasn’t content to watch. She climbed up behind me, pressed her breasts to my back, her hands tracing the lines of my arms and chest. Her mouth found my ear, and she bit, then whispered, “I missed you.”
Catherine rode me harder now, her nails digging crescent moons into my shoulders, her hair falling over her face in dark, wild waves. I wrapped my arms around her, pinning her close, and drove up into her with every thrust. She came first, shuddering and gasping, then bit my neck so hard I was sure she’d leave a mark.
She didn’t stop, just kept riding, eyes locked on mine, daring me to come before she let go. I felt the heat build, then saw Jenna’s face over Catherine’s shoulder, her mouth open, tongue tracing her own lips, and that’s what sent me over. I came hard, Catherine clamping down and milking every drop, both of us groaning, then collapsing into each other.
