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A zap of pleasure went through me, and I let out a moan. My arms slid up his neck, my fingers diving into his hair. “Harder,” I begged.
He shook his head. “Need you to feel every single inch of me, baby. Feel what you do to me. Feel how well you take me. Feel how wet your sweet little pussy is for me. Feel how you tremble around me. Feel what’s happening right now. Feel me, Valerie, feel me. Just me.”
“I do, I feel you,” I breathed, clinging to him.
“Take me, Enchantress. All of me,” he grunted, moving slightly faster now. His cock began hitting that spot inside of me over and over. It was building again, and I knew in my heart that when I reached this peak, it would be the most beautiful thing I’d ever felt.
“Yes! Yes!”
His head dropped and his lips found my ear. “You are going to take every last drop of me on this forest floor. Do you understand?”
I nodded, my nails digging into his shoulders now, bracing myself.
“My perfect fucking woman, taking my cock so well as I fuck her into the dirt,” he growled. He rose back up again, focusing on my face. Only my face.
“Fill me. Please, fill me, Denver.”
His eyes flashed and his jaw went slack. He came with a guttural roar that triggered my own climax. My back arched, and I gasped his name over and over. A hand caressed my cheek, and I opened my eyes to find him right there. In the middle of a sea of pleasure, he was there with me, drowning in it too.
Right where I needed him.
“I love you, Valerie.”
Here, on the forest floor, a dark cowboy declared his love for an enchantress.
Nothing would ever be the same.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Joseph Grayson
St. Louis, MO.
Aloud,sensualbeatpumped through the sound system in the space before me. Colorful lights illuminated the old, brick walls. The sound of power tools and someone barking orders echoed from the other side of the large building, providing a stark contrast to the side I currently occupied. Easy conversation and mingling took place a few feet from me at the bar.
Engines revved outside.
People cheered.
The countdown began on the loudspeakers above.
“Well, well, well, looks like we have a few cowboys at Oasis tonight,” a deep voice drawled.
My eyes snapped to my target, Mason Langston, as people clapped around me.
Oasis was an underground street racing organization on the outskirts of St. Louis. A man by the name of Jeremy Jones was the ringleader, along with his partners, Leon Torrance and Dontell Michealson. This building, an old, huge brick factory, abandoned during the Great Depression, was now the hub of the street racing operation. There was an auto shop on the far end of the building and a bar on the other side. Cars of all makes, models, and years were scattered across the glistening concrete floors. A grey 2018 Dodge Challenger with black pin strips and a 1969 grey Mustang—an Eleanor—were among the collection, owned by two men who didn’t give a single fuck about the law. My contact at the local FBI field office told me there would be big players here tonight, and that I needed to keep my head down.
I wasn’t here for the Italian Mafia or the baseball player. Sullivan Jones’ street crew and Jeremey Jones’ street racing empire were of no interest to me. I didn’t give a shit about the two Bratva men lingering in the parking lot outside. I was here for the bull riding cowboy who decided that Oasis was the place to be tonight. The PBR event ended about two hours ago. Mason and a few of the other cowboys came out here to let off steam or to chase the adrenaline high.
I’d been watching Mason for the last few days. I told Denver I had just gotten to St. Louis this morning, but I’d been here for the last three days.Studying.
Here's what I learned about the younger Langston brother—he was a wild card. He didn’t follow orders. He rarely listened to his manager or his PR manager. He didn’t travel with the rest of the cowboys. He didn’t show up until it was time for him to mount a beast who only wanted to throw him off. He didn’t stay for autographs. His only friend, it seemed, was the rodeo clown. The cowboys here tonight weren’t his friends, but he smiled and laughed to keep up appearances.
Anyone could come to Oasis, but if you wanted to race?
That was by invitation only, from a private number.
Racers would get a random text stating a time and location. There were smaller races going on outside. There was an old track behind the building, but those races were minor, new, young drivers trying to prove themselves to the bigger dogs. A new race began outside, and people inside slowly began to shuffle to the large bay doors. My feet moved, my eyes never leaving the target.
