Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense) (12 page)

Anton had listened to the story, holding Taylor’s soft hand, and had wanted more than anything to erase those memories. The only thing he could think of to do was kiss her and make love to her and hope that he could, with his body, ease some of the hurts of the past.

The kiss was intense and awoke in him emotions he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. He knew he wanted Taylor, and that was enough. When his lips touched hers, desire went up like a flame, coursing through him, unable to be denied. He held her close, her body soft and curved and round.

“Let’s go. Now,” he said. She kissed his neck and he shuddered a little. “Now,” he said again, voice tight. Instead, Taylor pulled him down on top of her, molding her body to his, the grass tickling her cheek.

“Taylor, I want to do this right,” he said gruffly, hands finding their way to her full breasts, groaning a little as he touched her nipples, peaked beneath her sweater.

“I can’t wait,” she said, biting his neck, reaching her hands under his shirt and jacket to tug at his belt.

“Ah, fuck, Taylor, don’t…,” he said, quickly losing all reason as her soft fingers found him, hard and straining, and closed around him.

“Now, Anton. Please. Now.” She breathed against him, running her fingers along his shaft. He was huge and Taylor wanted to know what he felt like. She wanted all of him.

Anton didn’t waste any time. He ripped her tights off and had his hand his between her legs in less than a minute, slipping into her slick cleft, circling her. She gasped and bucked, spreading her legs. He pressed against her nub with his finger, rubbing, circling. She was so wet.

He pushed her leg up, breathing hard, then positioned himself at her opening. His eyes looked down into hers, huge and wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed. She clutched. He thrust.

Taylor cried out, coming hard as he went into her. He was almost too big, and she bit at his neck, wrapping her legs around him to contain the overwhelming sensation of her orgasm. His hand was still between her legs and he moved his fingers against her, thrusting again and again. She held on, her body alight, feeling so good it was nearly painful.

It had been too long and her body was craving the closeness. She bucked against him, seeking more pleasure, more relief from this burning desire that was now fully aflame. She’d forgotten how sex could feel. Shattering, consuming, heat and skin and sweat. Having another person inside her was powerful, enticing, engulfing. She could hold him on the edge if she wanted. Or make him lose control. She could possess him and take him and make him hers. Forever.

“Tayler, I…oh god…,” he said against her. “You feel so good. You’re so tight and wet. I can’t…oh god…” Anton moaned, sheathed inside her, he was so full and hard.

He came with a shout, pumping hotly into her, her muscles spasming around him and letting out her own little moan as she came again.

They lay there, still together, panting and slick with sweat. The cool night air touched their heated skin like a caress. They didn’t speak for a bit, until Taylor couldn’t help herself and laughed. He looked down at her with surprise. She grinned up.

“I think you owed me that for a long time now,” she said, touching his face.

“You’re probably right. And I’m not done yet,” he said, kissing her again. She laughed against his lips.

“Good. Now take me home and show me just how sorry you are. Again,” she said.

As Taylor and Anton straightened their clothes, not far away, but far enough that no one could hear him, Greg Jackson, who Anton had recently encountered and was known around time as Officer “Gregor” Jackson, was screaming for his life. He was tied to a tree and had been doused in gasoline by a tall figure in a dark cloak, whose face he could not see. It was lighting a stick on fire, and Greg did not like where he knew it was headed.

Back in the day, Anton and Taylor had known Greg as the “brawn” of the Saints. He was big, mean, and stupid. He’d done whatever dirty work of Nick’s he’d been asked, and clearly enjoyed beating on those younger and less physically able than himself. He’d also had no problem hitting girls, as his ex-wife could have told anyone, if she hadn’t been too afraid to.

After high school Greg had gone into the local police force with most of the rest of the Saints. It had been pretty easy, though that little shit Powell had gotten in too and he’d made things difficult for them sometimes. Greg had always figured becoming a cop meant he could do what he wanted. But that little punk had always been trying to get back at them for kicking his ass in high school. Little snitch had even turned them in for smoking and “bullying,” the crybaby.

But then everything had gone wrong when Nick and the others had died. He knew it wasn’t an accident, but he’d covered it up so no one would find out about the stuff they’d been up to. He’d owed them that. Friends stuck together, even when they got beheaded.

After running into Anton earlier—and damn, but he hated that guy—he’d been drinking in his car when he’d seen some lights in the woods near the old bridge. He’d gone to check it out; probably just teenagers, and he was thinking about how he’d give ’em a scare…when something had hit him in the back of the head. Hard.

And then he’d woken up, tied to this tree, stripped down to his skivvies. It was cold and he’d yelled for help.

Then the Rider had shown up and Greg had wet himself and started screaming. Because he’d known it was over and he was about to pay for what he and the others had done.

He begged. He pleaded. But the Rider just stood there, holding its fiery brand, hooded head cocked to the side, sword by its side.

“Come on, then, you fucker! Get it over with! Cut off my head!” Greg yelled. Then he heard the most horrible sound: the Rider laughed. It was a dusty, old, dead sound, like a coffin lid opening. It went on and on, rising and falling, making the hairs all over his body stand up and his stomach go watery with fear.

The Rider came forward, and Greg understood: he wasn’t going to be beheaded first. He was going to be set on fire.

And then he was engulfed in flames.

He shrieked and screamed, the smell of burning flesh and hair choking the air in the woods. The Rider simply watched, unmoving, until Greg stopped screaming and his charred head fell forward on his chest. Then the Rider took out its sword and cut.

It rode away, the smoldering corpse still hanging from the tree.

It was almost done.

Anton’s head was between Taylor’s legs, feeling her soft, silky skin. His mouth was against her, warm and sure, and he was taking his sweet time pleasuring her.

They’d been at it all night in one way or another, with a brief nap between bouts. He’d woken her up by kissing down her round belly, he couldn’t stand not being inside her any longer.

He slowly slid a finger inside her, he tongue working her clit. She grabbed his head, muscles tensing, and then he felt her come against his lips and tongue, shuddering.

He slid into her almost lazily this time, starting a now-familiar rhythm. She pushed at him and he rolled over, letting her take control this time.

Anton watched her above him, auburn hair wild and unkempt from being in his bed. She looked wild. His hands roamed over her body, marveling at the softness of her skin. He’d been right: she was a complete knockout in bed.

When Anton had finally gotten back to his place, up the stairs, and her clothes off, he’d been stunned. He’d known she was beautiful and had loved the feel of her body…but it was something else to see her in all her glory. She was defiantly curvy in a world that liked to pretend “curvy” was basically the same slim build but with a bit more bust. Taylor was not that. She was voluptuous, soft, with full breasts, wide hips, and a round, sloping belly. She was delicious.

Later, he’d discovered just how much of her was as delectable as she looked.

She moved above him and he was reminded of a poem he’d once read: “I measured time by how a body swayed.” He was captivated, entranced. She was hypnotically sexy and sensual. His hands swept down her back and came to rest on her ample, round bottom. He kept up with her rhythm, letting her take him wherever she wanted to go.

Her orgasm was thrilling to watch, her body rippling above him. Anton rode the crests to his own climax. They weren’t being careful and he didn’t care. He wanted to feel all of her.

After this last, Taylor curled up beside him and went to sleep. He held her, feeling satisfied in a way he hadn’t in years.

It scared the absolute hell out of him.

Taylor got dressed quickly, having slipped out of Anton’s arms as gently as possible. She didn’t want to wake him up for a variety of reasons, not least of them being how peaceful he looked. His body was layered with tattoos and, in the morning light, the work was incredibly beautiful. But also dark and sad. He wasn’t covered in generic tribals or dudebro work; it was finely etched, like Japanese brushwork in places. It reminded her of his artwork in school.

She left his house, noticing that he seemed to have several sketchbooks around and that the place was neater than she’d expected. It was almost sparse, like he didn’t want to acquire too much. It wasn’t the usual bachelor pad. He had several pieces of art on the walls, and they weren’t pinups or beer ads.

It was cold outside. Fall was clearly being shuffled aside for winter. Taylor took a deep breath, the air stinging her lungs.

Last night had been incredible. Her body felt warm, satisfied deep down in a way only multiple orgasms can really accomplish. Anton had been as good in bed as she’d expected. He was patient, passionate, rough when needed, slow and careful at just the right times. It was without a doubt the best sex she’d ever had.

Which wasn’t difficult, since she’d only had one other lover in college, and then a man a few years ago. Not that she was going to advertise that she was, by the standards of this day and age, practically a virgin. Anton hadn’t seemed to mind.

She’d never understood why people said you’d be “walking funny” after sex until now. Anton was, well, the rumors in school had been true. She smiled, remembering how curious she’d been back then. High school Taylor would be pretty surprised right now. For a lot of reasons.

As she walked, distracted with thoughts of bed sheets and a broad chest, several police cars whizzed past, sirens blaring, then screeched to a halt not far from where she was strolling. She looked up, startled.

They were in front of Anton’s. She started to run back.

Before she could get there, however, the police had busted down his door and were dragging Anton out, none too gently. He looked grim and angry, and when he looked over and saw her, he shook his head sharply and she stepped back behind a tree.

One of the officers punched him in the gut, and Taylor had to clap her hands over her mouth to keep from crying out. Another hit him in the kidneys, and he went down to his knees. Taylor couldn’t make out what they were saying to him, but it had to be bad. His face was twisted with pain, but he kept his mouth shut and never so much as groaned.

They dragged him to the squad car and threw him in, clearly proud of themselves. Taylor strained to hear and finally caught:

“…fucking Quinns. Always were good for nothing. We got him this time, though, after last night. And killing a police officer like that? He’s sick. And he’s a dead man,” the cop nearest her said. Her stomach tightened. They got in the car and drove off. As she watched, she caught Anton’s face in the backseat, jaw tight, face unreadable.

Whatever they thought he’d done, there was no way he had, Taylor was sure of it. And not just because she’d been with him all night. But another dead cop? What the hell was going on in Sweethollow?

Taylor’s instincts were to immediately head to the police station and try to bail Anton out, but there was no way they weren’t going to make him wait as long as possible. They were going to process him at least and make him sit in a cell for a while, and if she really wanted to be in a position of power, it’d be a good idea if she not only had his alibi solidified, but found more info on whatever the hell was going on. Because this had “frame job” written all over it. She’d posed on the phone as a state cop and gotten a lot of details on the night before. Greg Jackson was dead. He’d been set on fire and beheaded. Anton had apparently been pulled over by Jackson before their date but he’d logged that he’d left. They were trying to figure out how to explain that and the time of death later. Apparently Anton wasn’t being forthcoming. Good.

It was kind of frightening how sure the cops in Sweethollow were that it was him. He did have issues with the other Saints, but murder? She could easily see Anton in a bar fight, but not riding around in a costume, cutting off heads. Way too melodramatic.

Whoever was doing this was someone very theatrical and also, you know, insanely psychopathic. Of course, she didn’t know if this death had anything to do with the Rider. Yet. But it seemed likely. And whoever it was really wanted to make a statement with these killings.

It was time to find out what had really happened to the Coulsons. And the best place to find truth amid rumor: a bunch of gossiping, busybody old ladies with way too much spare time and some very active imaginations.

Taylor needed to see the Riderites and find out what people in Sweethollow were really thinking and whispering about behind all the tourist-friendly smiles.

She went back to the inn and took a hasty shower, staring at the number she was supposed to call while she dried her hair. Mabel Longworth was now the head of the Riderites, the group her grams has been happily part of for decades. They’d been good friends. She’d want to ask Taylor how she was doing. Ask why she hadn’t been at the funeral. Ask about the house.

Taylor sighed, wishing some other story had been her “big break.” This was all getting too complicated. She wasn’t being objective in the slightest, if she ever had been. So she decided to do something that had been nagging at her since she had first gotten into her rental car and driven up to Sweethollow.

She was going to go home.