Iron & Bone (Lock & Key #3) (36 page)

“I wanted to turn you on.”

He groaned, a hand rubbing across his forehead.

“Do you like it?” I hummed that Madonna song as I straddled his body on the bed.

“Jill.” His voice was a warning. His hands rushed up my bare thighs, and he ground his erection against me.

My fingers ran up his chest. “I’m sensing you like this look.”

His thumb grazed the patch of delicate fabric between my legs, and heat uncoiled inside me.

“Do you like wearing it for me?” His voice was husky, low. His thumb circled, applying more pressure.

My breath got shorter, and my hips rocked gently against his. “Hell yes.”

“You want me, Jillee?” Two of his fingers slid underneath the satin fabric of the panty and dipped up and down over my wetness. “‘Cause I want every inch of you, Firefly.”

My lids hooded my eyes. I couldn’t form words.

His free hand pulled on the elastic of my thong. “I like that you did this for me, but you don’t have to hook me, Firefly. I’m already hooked.”

He took his fingers away, and the stretchy fabric snapped against my skin. I let out a whimper at the mild sting.

“It’s icing on my already frosted cake.” He sucked on his fingers.

“G-good.” My voice shook.

He ripped off his shirt, and I helped him pull down his pants, tossing them to the floor. Sheer, blissful nakedness. His natural state. I loved his body. Lean and muscular, angrily inked, taut, and ready.

“Get back on me and turn around. I want to enjoy my present.”

Still kneeling on the bed, I turned around and straddled him again, shimmying my tush at him.

He muttered a few choice expletives under his breath, a hand gripping my ass cheek.

I peeked over my shoulder. He stroked himself with one hand. I took in the sight of him, his jaw slack, the muscles of his chest and arms straining as he rubbed his thick length, his eyes on me. My knees weakened, my heart beating wildly in my chest.

“Back up over me. Get close.”

I turned around again and inched back over his chest, my ass in the air. His fingertips traced patterns over my skin.

He let out a low moan. “What did you do down here?” A fingertip grazed through my little line of curls. “Fuck,” he growled, his hand cupping me.

Score for the airstrip.

Two of his fingers slid inside me, curving just where they should, stroking rhythmically. I cried out in return, the ability to form words beyond me as his fingers explored and beat out a rhythm, calling me to a primal ritual. I leaned over and nuzzled his stiff balls.

“Give me that pussy,” he said, his voice rough.

I moved further up the bed, and his tongue lapped at me. I jerked in his hold, my head falling forward, and I cried out at the lavish, sensual caress of his lips, the pressure and suck of his mouth. The pleasure was so delicate and so intense, all at once. Suddenly, his mouth turned savage, and I gasped loudly, my hands curling in the sheets, my body on fire. His hands held me in an urgent, painful grip, my breasts brushing the coarse hair on his legs. I felt shameless and wild and vulnerable all at once.

His fingers left me and rubbed my throbbing clit, punishing me with a fierce wall of pleasure. “Want my cock in you now.”

There was that savage impatience. A buzz of adrenaline shot through me.

I lifted off him, turned, and straddled him again, sliding his cock inside my wetness. “Yes!” I rolled my hips over him again and again, my hands planted on his chest.

I held his burning eyes as I found my rhythm, steadying myself on his chest. His hands slid over my undulating ass, keeping us close and tight together.

“Fuck me, Jill. Fuck me good, sweetheart.” His voice was hoarse.

“I want to…make you…come…hard,” I said on several gasp-filled breaths.

“Always do for you, Firefly. Only you, only you.”

His one hand grabbed ahold of the tie of my sheer lingerie and tugged on it. The material fell open, exposing my swaying breasts. He took one in his palm, roughly kneading it. I moved faster over him, the sensations leading me on, his hungry gaze chasing after me.

“Firefly,” he breathed, his corded neck straining. “Baby.”

I was lost in my rhythm, lost in the force of my body’s response.

The fingers of his one hand went into my mouth, and, grabbing his arm, I sucked on them for dear life. Their salty taste, the thick skin made my need more sharp, more fervent, more desperate.

He thrust into me harder. “Fly, baby.”

I flew, and all the bright pieces that were me were his to throw across his night sky and capture whenever he wanted.

“
ARVIN HIDES THIS SHIT, WILLY
. I’m telling you. I have never seen this kind of range of early Indian and Harley parts. Fucking unbelievable.” I opened up the back of my truck.

A knowing grin lit up Willy’s face. “The man certainly has a very particular supply.”

“I think he only likes to sell to Willy,” Butler said, laughing. “I bet he hides it from everybody else.”

“There is that, too,” Willy said, settling on his bike, putting on his gloves. “He sure doesn’t give us any discounts, but I’m still grateful.”

“So am I.” I shoved a box of vintage headlamps into the truck. Butler and I loaded my truck with the rest of the engine parts and the rusted frame we’d just bought from Arvin Hooper, an Army veteran buddy of Willy’s who lived outside of Spearfish.

We were working on a special made-to-order bike and had contacted Arvin. Sure enough, he’d had a few prime parts we were after. We’d also found some specialty items Lock and I had wanted for the shop.

Willy adjusted his goggles, his lid fitted over his thick gray hair brushing down his neck. “Let’s get on home.”

I stared at him as he gunned his engine.

In my first years as a Jack, Willy and Wreck used to say that very same phrase when we’d be on the last leg of a long run. To me, it had always been a throwaway saying, old-fashioned, a cliché. I’d be exhausted from hours in the saddle, from too much partying, only wanting a couple of beers to knock me out and a real bed to collapse on. I’d roll my eyes and groan when I’d hear it come out of their mouths.

Looking back on it, it was the
way
those two used to say that phrase along with a quick, purposeful glance at each other, each and every time. It was as if they had known something the rest of us didn’t.

Those words had never sounded so good to me.

I raised my chin at Butler. “Let’s get on home.”

Butler got into the passenger side and slammed the door shut.

My phone rang.
Dawes.
“Hey, we’re just leaving.”

His sharp intake of breath over the line made me still. My hand clutched the door of my truck. “Dawes?”

“You gotta get back quick, man.”

“What is it?”

“Mindy. It’s Mindy.” His voice was low, almost choking.

“What about her? She causing problems again?”

“No. Someone shut her mouth for her.”

“What?”

“We found her this morning on the back gate off the track.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We found her body hanging off the old gate. There was a crowbar on the ground, covered in blood and—fuck, it’s bad, man. It’s bad.” His voice shook. “Jump is freaking out.”

My eyes squeezed shut. “Where do you have her now?”

He cleared his throat, sniffing in air. “Dealing with it. What the fuck is going on, Boner?” Dawes whispered hoarsely.

“Do what you got to do. We’re just leaving now.”

“Okay, okay.”

I got us back to Meager in record time.

“Holy fuck,” muttered Butler at the photo Dawes had taken of Mindy’s body hanging off the fence. An unwanted doll ditched in the garbage teetering on the edge of the can.

Her face was unrecognizable, her long brown hair matted with blood, and her clothes were ripped and soaked in red, her body broken.

I deleted the photo.

“This isn’t Catch. He’s crazy, but he isn’t vicious like this,” Butler said. “This is just fucking over the top. You’re gonna have to work hard to convince me this is him.”

“It’s not him,” I said.

“Well, it’s a fucking message. Someone’s watching us. Are they fucking with Jump? The whole thing with Alicia put Mindy on the map.”

“She was leaving town,” said Dawes, his arms wrapped around his middle. “One of the girls said Mindy had already packed up her shit at her apartment and was planning on leaving this weekend. Just like she had been told to do. What the fuck?”

I stared at the crowbar at my feet in the grass, my eyes following the long line, the curve of its head. I recognized the incisions, the notches on the lower left edge. My hands flexed on instinct.

It was my crowbar.

My piece of iron was covered in so much blood and bone—and not just Mindy’s. Etched with marks from my many early successes. I had left it behind in Denver, a wild, stupid gesture. A fuck-you to Inès. A fuck-you to Alejandro Calderone.

And now, he was fucking me right back.

“
PERFECT
,” I murmured to myself.

Six new T-shirts for Boner, washed and ready to be worn. Three black and three charcoal-gray T-shirts, each one bearing a different graphic design—discreet, hip, nothing too crazy trendy. One had Johnny Cash’s name and guitar on it in a faded print. Two of them sported Harley-Davidson graphics that I’d picked up from the store in Rapid. One was from his favorite local craft brewery. The other two were simple V-necks that were a fitted cut, close to the torso, a little sexier than the usual boxy, loose fit. I folded them, smoothing out the fabric on each one, and made a neat square pile on his bed.

Boner had given me a key to his house so that I could drop off a few things, if I wanted, to make life easier for us. Being able to spend time together was a last-minute thing usually. I’d brought over a small package of diapers, a toothbrush, underwear, the baby-doll nightie, and a pair of comfy leggings and a T-shirt to keep handy here in his room.

I went through the drawer with his T-shirts and took out the really old, faded, and worn ones. At least ten of them. I planned on putting these in a corner of another drawer, just in case he didn’t want to part with them. I knew better than to dictate fashion to a man like Boner who seemed only comfortable in a certain zone. I wanted him to find the new ones in the morning when he went to get dressed, and hopefully, he’d enjoy the surprise.