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“You’ve done enough for me, Brock,” she says softly, even though that look in her eyes speaks loud and clear, blazing with the same hope that hammers in my heart. “And you’ve got your own problems now with the Skulls after you for killing Durand.” She flashes a little smile. “Thank you again. It sounds so inadequate to say thanks, but I do mean it. Oh, and I will find a way to pay back the fifty thousand.”
I run my tongue over my lips, picking up the hint of her tang from when my face was buried beneath that dress, tasting what was mine.
What’s still mine.
“That fifty thousand doesn’t need to be paid back,” I drawl as I roll the throttle and make my bike growl like the possessive beast coming alive inside me again. “It was money put to good use.” Revving my engines, I flash a wolfish grin at her. “I bought you with that money, Yolanda. And if you want to enter this dark underworld, then you play by the rules of this world. Which means I own you. I fucking own you. Now mount up behind me like a good girl. Put your arms around me and snuggle up close. My cock doesn’t like it when the pussy it owns is so far away.”
Yolanda stops mid-stride. Even in the darkness I see the color rushing to her cheeks. She swallows thickly, and I swear I sense her pussy tighten beneath her dress, like it knows it belongs to me, was claimed by me, will only open for my cock from now on.
Slowly she turns her shocked gaze in my direction, her eyes wild and wondering, like she’s not sure if this is part of the act, if there ever was an act at all.
“I know you’re joking,” she says, her voice trembling just enough to tell me she knows damn well I am not joking, that I’m serious as hell, determined as fuck. “But it’s not funny.”
“Nobody’s laughing,” I snarl, idling the bike alongside her, my engines growling angrily, my cock throbbing lustily. “Mount up behind me. That’s an order. Don’t make me get off my bike, Yolanda. These are the rules of this world. You don’t like the rules, then turn your pretty ass around and march yourself back to Texas, go back to your sheltered world of Starbucks and Applebee’s and Sunday Night Football.”
“Um, I don’t do any of those things,” she says, curling a strand of hair around her ear, exposing that dark bruise on her cheekbone that makes me want to murder Kazi myself, break every bone in his ugly face for laying a hand on my precious woman, my sweet Yolanda, my personal fucking property. “No coffee. No restaurant food. And certainly no football. It’s too violent.”
“Says the woman who just declared she’s going to buy a gun and hunt down a Russian sex-trafficker,” I remind her with a sideways grin as Yolanda slows and then stops again and turns to face me.
“And his mother,” she reminds me in return, putting her hands on her hips and shaking her head, a cautious smile finally showing on her pretty face. “Are you serious about helping me get Marybeth?”
“How about we get you some shoes first, all right?” Beckoning with my head for her to mount up behind me, I grin when she sighs and finally obeys. Her scent comes to me as she saddles up and slides her arms around my waist again. It feels like those hands belong there, like her body was designed to fit against mine, her curves against my muscle, her satin against my leather.
“And some panties,” she whispers shyly against my ear from behind. “I lost mine in the chaos.”
My bike growls as I open up the throttle and prepare to roll us back into town. But then I sigh, hold the bike in place for a moment longer, reach into my jacket pocket, my fingers closing around the satiny treasure that I seized before we made our hasty exit.
“You have got to be kidding me!” she gasps in shocked amusement and mock disgust when I pull out her crumpled panties, open them up, then hang them on the bike’s handlebars like a proud flag of victory. “Give me those, you pervert!”
She reaches for her underwear, but I smack the top of her hand, making her yelp and pull her arm back.
“They’re mine now,” I inform her in a low growl. “Don’t try to take what’s mine. Because there will be consequences.”
“Well, the sticky consequence is that your semen is leaking out of me all over your leather seat,” she whispers as I snatch her panties off the handlebars and tuck them away in the possessive privacy of my pocket. “Ohmygod, I can’t believe I just said that!”
My face widens to a grin, and I roll the throttle, making the bike jump. Seconds later we’re thundering down the dark empty road and I make a hard left so that Yolanda has to cling on tight, slide right up against my body, her parting pressed up against my butt, her wet scent swirling around us like fairy-dust.
Except this isn’t a fairytale, I remind myself grimly as the excitement of our decision settles to the apprehension of what it actually means.
It means instead of riding off into the sunset with his rescued virgin princess, the knight is taking her right back to the dragon’s lair.
9
TWO HOURS LATER.
HOTEL MARIGOLD.
JUAREZ, MEXICO.
YOLANDA
“My hair’s a mess,” I say after catching a glimpse of myself in the elevator mirrors as the metal doors slide closed and the elevator climbs to the third floor of this four-story hotel on a quiet street a safe distance from Juarez’s main drag. “The biker-chick lifestyle doesn’t do a woman’s hairstyle any favors.”
Brock comes up behind me, and I see his handsome face in the mirror alongside mine. Well, above mine, since he’s about a foot taller. He’s also handsome, it occurs to me. Much more so in the light than in the darkness.
His green eyes darken as his gaze rests on my bruised cheekbone. He says nothing, but I think I see something flicker in those eyes, an anger that excites me more than it alarms me, like Brock really wasn’t kidding when he spouted all that stuff about owning me, about me being his property.
Because a man defends his property.
