Knowing there was nothing else to be done, he shoved the pillow beneath his head and reached for the button on his shorts. Releasing his dick, he pushed the waistband of his shorts beneath his ass. But not before pulling Samantha’s bra from the pocket. A naughty souvenir of their time in the kitchen. A little part of her he planned to keep for himself.
He brought the scrap of red lace to his face and inhaled that soft powdery scent that was uniquely Samantha. She was on his fingers. The sweet, musky smell of woman and sex and climax clung to his skin. It traveled up his nose and hit his brain like an H-bomb.
Closing his eyes, he rubbed her bra over his chest, letting it abrade his nipples until they pebbled and throbbed. Lower, along his belly, he trailed the delicate morsel of fabric until he finally brushed the lace over his swollen member. His toes curled as he remembered how she looked with her head thrown back and her perfect breasts bare and begging for his mouth.
He wound the shoulder strap of her bra around the base of his dick, trapping the blood there, making him harder still. So hard, he knew if he reached over and clicked on the lamp, he’d see the skin of his cock stretched tight, the whole thing shiny and red.
Then, with the picture of Samantha firmly fixed in his mind, he touched himself.
A moan escaped his throat at first contact. His shaft was burning hot against his rough palm. Without hesitation, he began to stroke. Soft at first and then harder and harder, his hips bucking in counter rhythm to his hand, the muscles in his battered thigh aching as a thousand different images of Samantha danced in his head.
The taste of her was still on his tongue. The smell of her still tickled his nose. And the sounds she made. That low, keening moan as climax overtook her. It was the sweetest damn music he’d ever heard and—
His orgasm burst from him, traveling like lightning up his shaft to explode in a torrent of need and lust. He had no idea how long he convulsed and stroked while whispering Samantha’s name into the darkness. But finally, long moments later, he was spent, shaking, and weak as a newborn kitten.
Chapter 10
Hog Help Motorcycle Repair Shop, South Ashland Avenue
Three. There were three stories in the day’s edition of the Chicago Tribune bearing Samantha Tate’s byline. But none of them gave Venom any clue to what she was after.
With a growl of impatience, he folded the newspaper and lobbed it toward the trash can in the corner of his office. When the edition bounced off the rim and landed on the floor in a mess of scattered pages, he barely resisted the urge to smash his fist against the top of his desk.
He had been in a terrible mood ever since Bulldog returned empty-handed the night before. Apparently Bulldog’s plan had been to abduct Samantha at knifepoint and force her to drive her car to the clubhouse. It was a decent enough idea. Not earth-shatteringly brilliant, but Venom didn’t expect brilliance from Bulldog. Just results.
Unfortunately, Bulldog had been thwarted. First by some mysterious blond asswipe wielding what Bulldog called “a well-used Beretta.” Then by the police when the sweet-assed journalist decided to make a stop at a cop shop on Wentworth.
What are you planning, you sly minx? Venom wondered.
Not that he was too concerned she could actually out him for his gunrunning business. Which, he had to believe, was what she was after, given that her little snitch inside the Black Apostles had been sniffing around and asking questions about that very thing. No, the guns were safe. They were buried beneath so many shell companies, the money routed through a dozen offshore accounts, that it’d take a genius, a forensic accountant, and someone with the clearance to view his military records to be able to connect all the dots. All things Samantha Tate and the CPD were not.
So it wasn’t the possibility of having the Basilisks’ most lucrative line of cash flow interrupted that made him grit his teeth so hard his molars creaked. It was the fact that having her sniff around for one thing could very well lead her to discover other illegal businesses the Basilisks were involved in that weren’t so airtight.
He’d gone home to his old lady, climbed naked into bed beside her, and after pulling the crotch of her panties aside and doing her the service of a quick squirt of lube, he’d screwed her long and hard. Poured his foul temper and volatile mood into her willing body, which usually worked to satiate him.
Not last night. He’d wanted Samantha. And nothing else, no one else, would do.
Curiosity had him leaning forward and moving the mouse on his computer. The monitor flickered to life, and he immediately did a Google search on her. A second later, his screen was filled with links to the articles she’d written. But it was the images of her he was most interested in.
Clicking through them, he saw neither hide nor hair of the blond guy Bulldog had mentioned. Instead, there was often the same small, dark-haired man at her side.
Venom lifted a brow. The guy was obviously important to her. A boyfriend, perhaps?
“Not the kinda man I woulda thought she’d go for,” he muttered to himself.
While handsome, the bespectacled man also seemed a little effeminate. But maybe that was how Samantha liked her men. Maybe she liked being in charge, running the show, wearing the pants in the relationship. She looked like the ball-busting sort.
Venom smiled, growing hard at the idea of giving her a taste of what it was like to be taken by a real man.
He clicked on one of the pictures, which took him to a newsy website that featured a blog post written by Samantha. After reading the first few paragraphs, he realized the dark-haired cat in all the pictures wasn’t her boyfriend but a coworker. And, according to her blog post, her best friend, even though they often competed for line space in the paper.
Boring.
He wanted something juicy. Something personal. He looked for her on Facebook. But before he could click to the social media site, the bell above the repair shop’s front door trilled its dainty-sounding tinkle.
He hated that noise. Thought it made it seem like a bunch of pussies ran the joint. But Crutch assured him that connecting a bullhorn to the front door would scare away business. And that, they couldn’t have. The repair shop was the front they used to launder most of the money they made from extortion and prostitution, which meant keeping the place in well-paying customers was a must so that the books looked good.
