I stride out of the room a few minutes later, moving as carefully as I can. The wide, flared skirt is breezy and reminds me with every step I am not wearing underwear. I feel uncharacteristically vulnerable like this, and that's probably intentional. Gardel is subtly reminding me of our bargain, stating without words he can shove this skirt up at any time and take what he wants with his tongue, teeth, or cock.
He's waiting for me when I saunter into the foyer. There are more men here than before, and I note with wry amusement that the Kings look to be a sausage club. It’s not as if the Spades are a bastion of diversity. Men still outnumber women significantly, but the lack of women in the room is glaring.
An arrogant looking prick with dark hair is lounging against a nearby wall and has the gall to wolf-whistle at me. I wait for Calamity to bring the metaphorical hammer down on the guy, but he barely glances up at me as I shuffle into the room. Apparently, he's already putting what passed between us behind him. It shouldn't bug me, he's unaffected by me. The less of his attention I draw, the better, right?
But it does bug me. Because who the hell goes down on a woman one night and won't fucking defend her honor the following day? A fucking asshole, that's who.
I walk past him in a sway of hips, feeling petty after the way he left me to my own devices the night before. Let him get a good look at my ass and everything else that I have to offer because he is never getting a chance to have it. I'll make sure he’s a man of his word. He’s not going to fuck me until I beg? He’s going to have blue balls for a long time.
The arrogant biker who'd whistled at me pushed away from the wall as I approach and puts himself in my path. The patch on his jacket identifies him as Liam. And that was the last thing I register before Liam, the pompous little shit, reaches out and palms my ass. His fingers curl around the cheek and squeeze hard, and he lets out a low, coarse laugh. He flips my skirt to get a better grip and tries to grab the other cheek, attempting to grind himself into my front.
My fist is cocked before I even think, and my fist is colliding with the side of his smirking face seconds later. It hurt a whole hell of a lot more to punch someone with bare knuckles than I remembered. I usually have brass knuckles on my person. Figures that Gardel would steal those too and leave me to the mercy of his men—or so he thought.
Liam stumbles back a step, clutching his mouth and leveling me with a reproachful glare like I'm the one who's done something uncouth.
"Hands to yourself, asshole," I snap before pushing past him. I'm not sure exactly where I'm heading, but I know I can't stay in this front room. I can feel stares piercing me from every side. Smug, condescending stares that tell me I deserve to be fucked over by their leader in every conceivable fashion.
I end up on the front porch of the clubhouse, glaring out through the haze of rain to the bikes. It won’t be difficult to steal one of them if I try. I can hop on one of the Kings' precious Ducatis and ride my way to freedom. But I don't. Because unlike Gardel, I stick to my word. I won't leave until I've settled the debt I owe.
The broad, calloused hand that cups my ass makes me jump, but I don't turn to cold-clock the man doing it. I recognize the grip and the scent of the man behind me. Hitting Gardel will only further hurt my hand, and I'm not in the mood right now.
A warm hand slides into mine, and I turn in surprise to find Gardel cupping one of my hands, examining the abrasions on my knuckles. They're weeping, but otherwise not too bad.
"You put some power behind this."
"He touched my ass."
"I'mtouching your ass," he points out with a laugh. His chuckle makes things low in my body clench tight with want. Damn him.
"I agreed to let you touch my ass. Unless you want to share all this with your men?" I gesture broadly down my body, exposed by this pastel scrap that can barely be called a dress.
Gardel's gaze darkens and I catch him staring at my mouth for a hungry second before he shakes his head.
"If any of them touch you, come to me. I don't share my things."
"You act like I need your help," I counter with a smirk that's far cockier than I feel.
"Come to me," he insists.
"Or what?"
His lips part to reveal a glittering shark's smile, pitiless and triumphant. "Or I'm going to make last night look like child's play. I will eat your pussy so hard and so long that you will struggle to stand for a week."
I hide my shiver by stretching and faking a yawn. "That was supposed to excite me, was it? You're not so great, you know. Very over-hyped."
Those pale eyes glitter with amusement and challenge. "Don't test me, little girl. You'll regret it."
I smile back. He wants to play? I'll play. And he'll regret baiting me. "Bring it on, Gardel."
6
Calamity
I'm thinking I should have my head checked because this was never meant to be more than just a means to an end.
But I anticipate ten o'clock every evening. Because no matter what I've been doing all day, I know that when I enter the clubhouse, I'll find Penelope inside waiting for me. Every night she'll be laid out on my bed, still wearing the dresses she hates. And every night, I get to hear a soft chorus of moans and feel her resistance crumbling. It's going to happen sometime or another. There's only so long one can be denied, and I would have thought Penelope Cruz would have reached her limit almost a month ago.
I'm not sure which of us is punishing the other now. It's hard to tell where my spite ends, and hers begins. She strips down wordlessly when I enter the room, and every time she submits to my tongue, biting her knuckles to avoid begging for more. She refuses to even say my name, which makes me redouble my efforts every time. All I know is that I will bust a nut if one of us doesn't give in soon.
