Zeke inhaled contentedly. His tenderness didn’t last. With one hand on her back, the other on her ass, he held her tightly against him, his strength precluding any escape. She lifted her face to assure him she wouldn’t leave.
He never gave her the chance. Zeke sought her mouth, his tongue demanding entrance, his kiss impassioned as though this might be their last chance. Their only time to seek comfort in each other’s arms.
Liz matched his intensity and desire, driving her fingers through his hair, grinding her pussy into his thickened cock. Zeke grunted in what sounded like pleasure. She moaned, proving hers. The sounds they made were uncivilized, delicious. They fueled her reactions.
All too soon, Liz needed a full breath but ignored it. She pushed Zeke’s tongue aside so she could slip hers into his mouth. They kissed greedily, their hands clutching, touching, caressing.
Only when her lungs burned for air did Liz pull her mouth free. Her lips brushed Zeke’s stubbled cheek as she whispered, “Not enough. I want you deep within me.”
Chapter Four
A little more than fifteen minutes ago, Carreon had reached the strip club. One of many enterprises his father had built, which Carreon had then taken for himself.
He sat on the black leather sofa in Ernez’s office, an ice cube pressed to his injured ear. Most of the Chivas Carreon had poured was already gone, drunk to blunt the pain. Fat lot of good the booze had done. The ache in his lobe had moved to his jaw. It throbbed as though an abscessed tooth caused the discomfort rather than his ripped skin.
Carreon kicked the cocktail table. It tottered on the carpeting, threatening to spill over before coming to a halt, still upright. Through narrowed lids, he regarded the area.
Although it was furnished with an expensive sofa, matching chairs and a chrome desk with a glass top, it didn’t own the opulence of his stronghold. He should have been resting there tonight as Roberto tortured Zeke to learn the content of his visions. Dr. Munez should have been in his room down the hall with no possibility of escape, while Liz…
Carreon gulped the last of his drink and splashed more of the liquor into his glass.
He pictured Liz in his bed, her hot, tight cunt sheltering his cock, her buttocks marked from the whipping he’d given her for defying him in the least.
In his fantasy, he imagined teaching her obedience to all that he willed, ordering her to strip and accept—no, to welcome her punishment.
Meekly, she would pull off her garments, while he remained dressed, knowing it would enhance her feeling of being naked and vulnerable. Without further direction, she would climb onto his bed and go to all fours, her head lowered in submission, her ass lifted in offering to appease his anger and lust.
She wanted his strong hand, his ruthless command of her flesh.
He wouldn’t immediately grant it. Instead, he’d make her wait and wonder about what he would deliver. Pleasure? Pain? A bit of both?
He’d run his hands over her plush ass, cupping her buttocks, separating them to further expose the tight ring of her anus and below it, her moist slit. Playfully, he’d explore her body, the delicate folds of her sex, her furry mound, then her snuggest opening, pretending not to know where to linger.
She wouldn’t dare speak or demand. Not even a pleasured moan would escape her lips as he focused on her rigid nub. She was his to enjoy in whatever way he deemed appropriate.
She’d smell of musk, her wanton need as great as his own.
He’d bring her within a breath of orgasm, noting how her body tensed. Only then would he stop and whip her for what she’d tried to do to him tonight, watching her ass grow pink beneath each—
The office door cracked open, interrupting Carreon’s thoughts. Pounding music from the business end of the club spilled into this space. Something crude and rough. Possibly Jay-Z.
Ernez moved inside with the grace of a panther, despite his size. He was six-one, the same as Carreon. Dressed in solid black—a silky shirt and well-tailored pants—he appeared both elegant and dangerous. His beefy shoulders, thick neck and arms revealed how much he liked to work out, no different from Carreon’s other men. Ernez wore his dark hair cropped very short, just shy of a crew cut. His face was clean-shaven, his complexion a deep brown from his ancestry and afternoons spent in the sun.
He stepped to the side to allow a young woman entry into the office.
Carreon knew she was just barely twenty-one. He’d read her employment application while Ernez went to fetch her. As one of the club’s strippers, she wore little on stage and nothing now except for spike heel, thigh-high boots. They laced up the front and appeared to be made of black suede.
Above the material, her legs were sleek, her cunt smooth, her feminine curls waxed off to give the patrons a full view of her sex. Idly, Carreon regarded her slit, and then her youthful breasts. Firm, lush, real—according to her application—which Carreon didn’t doubt. Those perfect globes enticed a man to cup them in his palms, squeeze them to feel their heat and suppleness. Implants could never provide what nature offered so easily.
This woman had received many physical gifts.
Her nipples were the color of damp earth, the areolas smooth. Clearly, the cold air pouring from the ceiling vents hadn’t chilled her…nor was she aroused in the least. For her nightly performances, she’d rubbed some kind of cosmetic on her nipples and mound that caused her skin to sparkle faintly in the light.
Her warm complexion proved she shared his clan’s blood. Her dark green eyes were a surprise, as lovely as her sensuous features and glossy hair. It was so black, blue highlights shone in it. One thick tress rested on her shoulder. The rest of her mane hung halfway down her back.
Tall, five-eight without her heels, she seemed decidedly unimpressed with the surroundings or with him.
Carreon wondered if she knew who he was, and figured Ernez had probably told her. Odd that she didn’t seem cowed or even curious as to why she was here, what he might want from her. Rather than irritating him, her indifference intrigued Carreon. He dropped the ice cube into his glass.
“Close the door,” he ordered Ernez.
Not bothering to watch, she lit the cigarette she held, then took a protracted drag off it.
She’d painted her long nails black. To match her hair? The boots? Carreon didn’t know. He liked the look.
She slipped her lighter into the top of her left boot, blew out the smoke and watched those grayish plumes rise to the ceiling.
“You know that’s not allowed in here,” Ernez said, scolding her as he would an annoyingly stupid child.
He grabbed a plate from his desk. Crumbs from his snack dotted it. He extended the item, clearly wanting her to use it as a makeshift ashtray.
She regarded her cigarette, then him.
“Put it out,” he ordered, his contempt deliberately obvious to prove she was nothing more than a dumb stripper. He called the shots in this place and she would do as he expected, especially in front of his boss. It was Carreon who didn’t allow cigarettes in the office. He didn’t want to smell the stench the times he did come around. If it had been up to Ernez, he would have joined her, given that he was also a smoker. “Now.”
Dutifully, she stubbed out her smoke. Not on the plate, though—at the base of Ernez’s thumb.
He dropped the plate and jerked back his hand. “Son of a fucking bitch. You goddamn stupid—”
“No one tells me what to do,” she interrupted, serene as could be. However, there was a slight edge to her words, as though she wanted him to know no one embarrassed or humiliated her, especially to make themselves look better. “You could have asked nice. You should have.”