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I could feel every inch of him, the network of veins, the fat head like the pommel of a saddle. Tissues swelling, my pussy gripped his cock. I dipped, rolled, every sensation magnified by his size and my arousal.
I lifted up. The thick head dragged inside me to hook and tug at my opening. His strong ass thrust upward to spear deep inside me, battering at my cervix. Moaning, I rested my head and hands on his chest as my hips began a slow grind. I scratched at his chest, sucked at his flesh.
So good. So fucking good.
My grinding grew more desperate. Dean cupped my face, tilting my mouth up to greet his. He kissed me between my needy groans and sharp pants as I sped toward my climax, slamming my pussy down the length of his cock, lifting, slamming, grinding as my nails dug at his flesh. Juices seeped from me, smearing both our thighs.
The moans leaving me were no longer human but sounds of pure animal pleasure. He stayed thick and long while I grew tighter and tighter. I knotted around him, pussy coiling and whipping as he continued kissing me. My nipples, sensitive and swollen with a sensual ache, dragged against his chest. Dragged as I knotted and knotted then froze.
I felt him jerk inside me, coming with me, his kisses turning to bites as he wrapped an around my waist to keep me from falling as my body went limp.
The kiss and our climax ended.
Behind us, a mocking clap sounded. "You should make a video—how to train your bitch in just one day."
Chairs scooted across the floor, followed by the heavy thud of a black duffel landing at our feet. A hand gnarled more with disease than age thrust a manila envelope at Dean.
"You’ve got two days to get this to the Thunder Valley chapter or you and your little mule…"
The chapter president brought his cane around front. I caught a glimpse of the carved silver rooster head at its tip before he lightly dragged the beak along my throat.
CHAPTER 8
GARNET
Two hours later, we were on the road. Each attempt at speaking earned a stony side glance from Dean or a terse "not yet." Along the way, we stopped once, pulling into an alley behind a burnt out liquor store. He left the van for less than two minutes, forbidding me to do anything but look out the front window. When he returned, we drove south. Eighty minutes later, somewhere west of Fort Pierce, Dean pulled up at a rundown industrial-looking building. Putting the van in park, he left the headlights on but turned the engine off. Reaching across the center console, he briefly took my hand. "Moment of truth, Garnet. Wait here."
That was it—leaving the keys in the ignition, he got out, walked behind the building and didn’t reappear. Twenty minutes later, a woman approached the van from the opposite half of the building, her lithe frame illuminated by the van’s headlights. She looked about forty, with short-cropped dark hair. What really stood out was the dark blue nylon jacket she wore over her jeans. The jacket had a gold star in a circle on the left front, the words "U.S. Marshal" in big print below the star.
Reaching into her pocket, the woman pulled out a badge. "Miss Williams, I’m Marshal Hollman. Leave the keys and come with me, please."
She opened the door. I stepped out, letting her lead me into the building. The interior was hollowed out, filled with rusting machinery surrounded by a few ceiling high partitions. Ten feet in from the door we entered, a folding table and a few chairs had been set up. A graying male sat in one of them. His jacket was a darker blue, the lettering on it boldly proclaiming DEA. Above him, a lamp was suspended from the ceiling, its small but intense circle of light like some parody of a cop show interrogation room.
Hollman pointed at the chair across the table from the man. "If you’ll have a seat, Miss Williams."
Listening for movement in the building, I nodded at the man and sat down. Everything was quiet, no sign of Dean—if that was even his real name. I was starting to think it wasn’t.
Marshal Hollman sat down and slid three photographs and a sealed bottle of water across the table. Opening the water, I glanced at the pictures. One was Condor, his real name listed on the bottom as Nick Toensing. The second was the man who had grabbed me in the apartment right after I discovered the dead body. Charles Weber, aka Griz. The third picture shriveled my soul. It was the chapter president, the man who had ordered Dean to fuck me in front of everyone. His club name was Rooster, but his real name was Herman Gaetz.
"We understand you’ve had a very harrowing day," Hollman started, her smile choppy as she got to the point of her presence. "Do you know what WITSEC is?"
Harrowing was an understatement and, right at that moment, I didn’t give a fuck what WITSEC was.
"Where is—" Feeling a blush heat my cheeks, I dropped my question, opened the water and took a long drink.
"Agent Ramirez has returned to the field, where I hope you’ll let him stay." It was the man who spoke, his hostile eyes as gray as his hair.
Hollman raised a hand, her previously relaxed gaze cutting in the man’s direction and narrowing. "We’ll get to that, Joe. WITSEC is?—"
"I know what it is," I monotoned.
Realizing Dean had left without so much as a goodbye, I started to close down. I was safe, but I had been abandoned to strangers with just a hand squeeze. I looked at Hollman and tried my best to keep the hurt out of my tone.
"What are you offering?"
The short answer was "not much." A fresh start, a new name, a butt load of rules to follow to stay in the program and a goodbye to my teaching degree. Half an hour later, Joe, who still didn’t have a last name, pushed a piece of paper toward me.
"Release from liability..." I quirked a brow at Hollman. "What’s this?"
