Kristen Ashley - Fire Inside

“I don’t go where Benito sends me, I’ll find it difficult to do anything seein’ as I won’t be breathin’,” the dealer returned.

“Not my problem. You picked the wrong profession, motherfucker,” Hop pointed out, pushing him farther into the wall, his arm sliding up to the back of the dealer’s neck, extending it unnaturally. “I gotta teach you this lesson now?” Hop asked.

The dealer, hoping for mercy, decided to get generous and shared, “Benito wants Chaos territory.”

“No shit?” Hop shot back.

“No, I mean he really wants it,” the dealer clarified.

Dog entered the conversation. “I think we get that, dealin’ with motherfuckers like you.”

“He’s kinda determined,” the dealer went on.

“Again, man, you think we’re not in on this fuckin’ information?” Hop asked, shoving him hard against the wall before he twisted him around and then slammed him back into the wall with a hand wrapped around his neck. “What Benito has got to get is that Chaos is more determined. You feel helpful, you share that with him and try to be convincing. But don’t matter if you are. We’re happy to put in the work to convince him. What you gotta take with you when we let you walk away right now is, he sends you out of the trenches, we see your head pop up, we’re aimin’ at you. We gotta get our message across to him, we’ll use any means necessary and that means takin’ out every soldier he sends our way until we drive it back to him.”

“Chaos isn’t ready for this fight,” the dealer replied, and Hop moved so he was in the dealer’s face.

“My brothers bled to keep this pavement, fuckwad,” he ground out. “You got a brother’s blood in the sidewalks, it never goes away, you never let it out of your control, you keep what you fought and bled for. Benito needs to get that. You can’t convince him, the other dealers and whores we send back to him can’t, we will.”

The dealer pulled breath in through his nose, stared at Hop before his eyes shifted to the side and he took in Dog then he came back to Hop. What he saw on their faces must have convinced him because he nodded.

“Again, one warning. Next time, you don’t walk away,” Hop stated.

The dealer nodded again.

Hop jerked his hand up to the dealer’s jaw, yanked him away from the wall then slammed his head into it. The dealer cried out before Hop let go and stepped back.

The dealer crumpled to his knees, one hand to his throat, the other one to the back of his head. He tipped his head back, looked at Hop and Dog, got to his feet, and took off.

Hop and his brother watched until the dealer was out of sight.

Then Hop asked, “You callin’ this into Tack or you want me to do it?”

“I got it,” Dog grunted, pulling out his phone.

“Brother,” Hop called and Dog looked from his phone to Hop. “We patrol every night. Used to be, few and far between, we find this shit. This is the second night this week.”

“Escalating,” Dog agreed.

Hop turned his head to look down the sidewalk where the dealer had taken off.

Benito Valenzuela had been a minor player years ago but one Tack had heard about and intuitively kept his eye on.

Tack’s intuition, as usual, was right.

When things shifted in the underworld of Denver—big players like Darius Tucker opting out of the drug trade, Marcus Sloan downsizing operations, the Russian Mob losing its leader and reorganizing, amongst other things—Valenzuela saw his opportunity and didn’t waste time. He quickly amassed territory however he needed to do it, negotiating for it or going to war for it.

But Benito didn’t bother approaching Chaos for a piece of their island.

For over a decade it was known the five square miles around the auto supply store and custom car and bike shop the Chaos MC owned and ran was clean of drugs and whores. The brothers fought for it to be that way and went out every night to keep it that way.

Benito knew better than to ask.

So he was going to take.

Everyone who tried before Benito, and they were very few, left with a Chaos warning.

But the battle to free Chaos, inside and out, of all that shit had been fought so long ago, new players like Valenzuela didn’t know or didn’t remember how brutal it was. He didn’t know how far Chaos would go to keep their patch clean.

Hop remembered how brutal it was. That memory was burned in his brain and inked into his skin, the last just like every Chaos brother.

They didn’t need this shit.

Dog started talking and Hop turned his eyes to him.

They didn’t need Benito’s shit but they were ankle deep in it.

And it was rising.

Hop turned his eyes back to the night, listened to Dog reporting in, and he did this thinking… fuck.

After patrol, he wanted to go to Lanie’s, take off his clothes, lay his body down in her soft sheets, curl her warmth into his and fall asleep smelling her perfume.

He couldn’t do that, for a variety of reasons.

Instead, he did what he had to do. When Dog finished his call with Tack, they moved to their bikes, threw their legs over and resumed patrol.

And when they were done, Hopper went home and laid his body down in his empty bed.

I was on an upward glide when I heard Hop’s voice, low and growly, order, “Enough, lady, come here.”

I didn’t go there. I kept working his cock, lips, tongue, suction and hand, bobbing and stroking, giving it my all.

His hands, both cupping my head, moved, his fingers sifting into my hair, and he repeated on a half groan, half grunt, “Lanie, enough. Come here.”

I ignored him and kept going. Pushing it. Wanting to give it to him. Wanting to drive him wild.

It worked. I knew this when his hips drove up, his hands in my hair pressing down, filling my mouth with his cock. I moaned against it even as he groaned, “Fuck.”

I pulled out all the stops and gave him more.

“Goddamn it,” he snarled, his hands moving from my hair to under my arms and I lost purchase on his cock because Hop hauled me up his body and rolled both of us so I was on my back, he was on top of me and he kept snarling but this time in my face even as he thrust inside, plunging deep, filling me, making me whole, “Come here.”

I was there, he was there and, incidentally, I was coming.

My eyes closed and my head shot back, pressing into the pillows but only for an instant because his hand drove into my hair, fisting hard.

“Look at me,” he growled, thrusting deep, so deep I knew tomorrow I was going to ache. Ache in a good way. Ache like I’d ached every day for thirteen days. An ache I savored. An ache, when it started to fade, I craved having back.

“Look at me, goddamn it,” he bit out and, even still coming, getting my fix, feeling the drug that was him course through my veins, I opened my eyes and looked at him.

The minute I did, his neck twisted, his hand in my hair yanked my head back, he buried his face in my throat and groaned deep against my skin as he buried himself to the hilt inside me and gave back what I gave him.

My arms were already around him but as he felt it, I wrapped my legs around him too and tightened both, holding him close as I came down. Holding him close as he came down. Waiting for it. The aftermath, the sweet crash I savored after the high.

I blinked at the ceiling when it didn’t come. When I didn’t feel the tickle of his mustache against my skin. The nourishment of his lips moving there. The nectar seeping in of his tongue on me.

I would know why when he lifted his head, looked down at me and I saw, regardless of the fact he just had an orgasm, Hopper Kincaid was pissed.

“Who has to clean up now?” he clipped and I blinked again.

Oh God, he didn’t use a condom.

Damn! He didn’t use a condom!

His hips pressed into mine and he kept talking, his words curt and angry. “I tell you to come here, Lanie, you fucking,” he dipped his face closer to mine, “come here.”

He’d never been pissed at me and, looking into his face darkened with anger, not hunger, it scared the pants off me—though, obviously, I wasn’t wearing pants.

Still.

“Hop—” I began, but he interrupted me.

“I wanna come in your mouth, Lanie, I’ll come in your mouth. The big clue you got that I don’t is when I tell you to,” he paused and his face got darker and scarier, “come here.”

“I was—” I began again only to get interrupted again.

“Not listening.”

“I know, but the thing is—” I tried again only to fail again.

“The thing is, you gotta listen. You don’t, you drive me there, you get what you want but maybe not where you want it. I come in you, Lanie. You know that. You got two weeks of knowin’ that shit.”

He was not wrong.

Before I could say a word, he did.

“I also don’t come on my gut. I give it, somewhere in you, you’re gonna take it. That said, I think we established the other night you don’t like it in your mouth so what the fuck?”

He was not wrong about that either.

My voice was small when I told him, “I wanted to make you wild.”

“Well, you got that, babe,” he shot back then bit out with no small amount of sarcasm, “Excellent work.”

As I felt the uncomfortable throb of his sarcasm hit me straight in the belly, he pulled out, rolled off me and my bed.

I rolled to my side, pulled the sheets up my front, and got up on an elbow.