The Dust and the Roar Read online

  “I will not be taken advantage of,” she gritted out.

  “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

  “Oh yeah?” Her voice had an edgy, mocking tone. I held her hard gaze, held onto her. “You think I owe you now, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, right. All men think that.”

  “I’m not all men,” I snapped back, my grip tightening.

  Her eyes darted to my hand cuffing her arm. “Well, you want something. What is it? Let’s hear it,” she muttered, her chest heaving for air. “Amaze me.”

  “I want to hear you sing. I want to hear you sing just for me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Her eyes flared, lips parted. She was amazed. “You trying to get down my pants now?”

  Her sass had me grinning. Sexy as all hell.

  I pulled her arm down and slid mine around her waist, pulling her flush against me. I wiped a piece of hair from the side of her face, her cheek soft under my touch. She said nothing, only held my gaze, taking me in, gauging me. Tough as nails, but molten underneath the metal.

  I leaned down, my lips brushing her cheek. Her breathing deepened, quickened, like mine. She braced for my kiss. I whispered against her skin, “Sing for me.”

  What the hell had gotten into me? Her body heat against mine made my blood rush, and hearing her sing before … she was for me. I knew this. I didn’t know how, but I knew it deep inside my bones.

  “Sing? Sing what?” Her body remained rigid against mine, the two of us focused on each other’s eyes. Lips. Our breathing synced. I remembered those lips against mine, those kisses. That playful toying of hers, that innocent rush to be satisfied.

  “Patti Smith? Grace Slick? Linda Ronstadt? Janis? You choose.”

  Her body relaxed a few degrees, a grin curving those lips, making her prettiness positively electric in the darkness. She liked my rock goddesses. “Linda,” she said.

  “Linda, it is.”

  Holding my gaze, she launched into an a cappella version of “When Will I Be Loved?”

  The noise and the movement of those around us faded. There were only her glimmering eyes holding mine, her warm, rich voice, vibrating from her body into mine, filling me with her gentle melody, wrapping around the two of us. Hypnotizing us both.

  When Linda sang with a band behind her—it was an all-out demand. Right now, Tramp singing it to me cradled in my arms in the dark … it was a frank admission as well as a gentle plea. No begging. Just straight up acknowledgment of her desire. Her song washed through me, down my throat, my chest, through my veins like warm honey, there was no stopping it. Her voice for me was some kind of force of nature.

  Wasn’t singing a peculiar thing? Earlier she’d blown those pipes for hundreds of people under a spotlight in the dark and made them listen, touched them. And now, here in the black darkness with me, face to face, inches apart and a breath above a whisper, she shared herself with me and touched me. It was intimate, her voice, the look in her eyes. My skin heated. Just as powerful, sexy, beguiling as she was up there tonight, but better.

  She let out the final note and took in a breath, her teeth skating over her lower lip. “Did I sound like Linda?”

  “Linda fucking who?” I breathed.

  She let out a warm laugh, her eyes glinting for a moment.

  “I like the way you sound,” I said, my voice lower. “Your voice is beautiful.” I slid my hand around her warm throat, my thumb rubbing up and down her delicate, soft skin. She let out a low sound, and the urge to touch those lips of hers had my insides tightening. I went in for a kiss.

  “Give me my knife back,” she gritted out against my lips.

  My gaze went to the tiny knife in my hand. A short blade hidden in a fake lipstick case. Her bite of savagery cloaked in feminine beauty. This girl. “No,” I replied.

  “What? Why? Give it back!” Brushing my chest, she stretched to reach it, and a softly sweet scent invaded my nose. My eyes closed for a moment taking it in. Same perfume she’d worn before.

  “Uh-uh. No.” I pulled her in tighter, my hand spanning the curve of her ass, pulling her up against the length of me. Heat rushed through me, knotting between my legs where she squirmed against me.

  She let out a small gasp. Her breathing picked up along with mine, and I crushed my mouth against hers. She resisted, she pushed, she twisted, she relented, her body easing into my angles, her mouth opening to mine and finally, finally inviting me in to dance with her tongue. I licked at her, sucked on her, invaded her mouth, explored.

  “Was that asshole your boyfriend?” I nipped at her lip.

  “He wishes.”

  “Was he your ride?”

  “Why?”

  I cradled her face. “Stay with me. We ride out in the morning.” My thumb brushed over her swollen lip.

  “Where you headed?” she whispered.

  “Does it matter?”

  She held my gaze, her features coming alive. “No.”

  “No?”

  She dug her hand in the back of my hair. “No, it doesn’t matter.” She kissed me, her tongue diving into my mouth, dueling with mine.

  Yes, yes, yes.

  My hands slid around her face. “What the hell is your name, Ms. Dillon?”

  “Does it matter?” she said hoarsely against my lips and took my mouth again.

  “It matters. Because when I stroke your naked body with my hands, when I lick your every curve, taste what’s between your legs, when I’m finally inside you, I want you to hear my need for you, to know it as well as feel it.

  Stunned silence, but her fingernails scraped my neck. “Isadora,” she breathed.

  “Goddamn, Isadora,” I pulled her to me. My tongue found hers, my hold tightening around her, and lifting her up, I took her to my bike where everyone was sprawled out, tripping, drinking, getting it on. I pitched my big sleeping bag to the side of my Harley by a grouping of low bushes and stretched out my hand to her, and she took it.

  My pulse beat a wild rhythm like it never had before, my blood a wild mountain river. In the tent, settling on her knees between my legs, she licked at the cut she’d made on my chest. My head fell back, and my entire being was focused on her every lick, her every touch.

  She undid herself from her clothing as I ripped mine off my body. I was all heat, all electricity, and she was naked on me, silky softness pressed into my flesh.

  “Beautiful, you’re so beautiful.” I caressed a soft tit and brought it to my mouth and sucked. Her long sigh as she arched her neck back had goosebumps flaring over my skin. I wanted to suck on all of her. Taste what and who she was. Her fingers spanned my shoulders, my arm muscles. I slid my fingers into her heat between her legs and was rewarded with a loud groan and velvety wetness. Fuck yes. I stroked and slid in her desire, I stoked her fire, my hand gripping a thigh.

  She kissed me, and this time, her kiss was full of need and demand. I lifted her up and laid her back and explored her body with my mouth, her soft curvy flesh that trembled slightly under my rough touch. I didn’t want to be rough, though. I wanted to savor her, this.

  I’d never wanted to “savor” before. Sex was always a desperate grab for release, relief. Be it during the war or with Josie, and any other girls that came my way, there was an urgency to do, to have, to forget. This, with Isadora, wasn’t that. And I knew it wasn’t that, and I liked it.

  I liked her.

  I’d liked her from the first, and now I finally had her. And I wanted to please her. Make her feel good. I wanted to enjoy it from beginning to amazing end. I wanted an experience with her, not a lay.

  My tongue rasped over a nipple. “You good, Isadora?”

  “So good, oh my God, so good…”

  I headed south, sliding my tongue over her nub and licked and licked and pulled and tugged, and she cried out, fingernails scratching over my flesh, making my need more ferocious, more dire. Lifting myself up, I grabbed a rubber from my pocket.

  She p
ushed it away. “It’s okay, I’m on the pill.”

  I took my aching, hard cock in hand, and slid into her snugness. Her legs locked over my hips, and she ground into me deep, inviting me in fully.

  “Isadora.” My voice was rough.

  “Wreck…” She let out a low moan.

  I burrowed deeper, thrust hard. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. My tongue lashed over her lips, and she bit on the side of my mouth, and I moved harder and faster inside her. She sucked in air, her fingers going between us. She rubbed herself, she found my balls. We both clung to each other.

  “Oh, oh man…” she said through fierce breaths. We both flew over the edge. My vision blurred, and I sank on top of her, her hands digging into my ass.

  “That was…that was so good. I’ve never … dammit.”

  “You’ve never what?” I said against the damp skin of her throat.

  “Never come like that. Never had a guy…”

  “Don’t fucking talk about other guys with my dick in you.”

  We laughed, and she gained control of her breathing. “Was it my knife?”

  “Yeah. Must have magic powers. Went straight to my cock.” My hips rocked inside her again, and she groaned. A plea.

  Her fingers brushed my lips, and I caught them and sucked on her flesh. “Then it went straight to your tongue, your fingers…”

  I chuckled low.

  “You want to do it again?” she asked.

  “You fucking tramp.” I bit the soft flesh of her fingertip.

  She let out a loud, rich laugh. “And you are one wild gentleman.”

  She pushed me over onto my back, and pulled off and went down on me, taking all of me in her hot, slick mouth. The intensity of her sucks and tugs whirled in my veins and surged in my dick. Her gleaming eyes in the dim light, her low moans were all innocence and determined demanding woman all in one. I was ready to blow, and I pulled her off me.

  “Want to come inside you, woman.” I pinned her down on all fours, my hands gripping her hips, and drove inside her from behind. She jostled with the force of my movement, my lust. I needed more, more of her.

  “Shit,” I grunted. I brought her down on the sleeping bag, lying behind her, the fresh scent of her hair filling my lungs, I parted her legs and, holding one of her silky thighs open, plunged inside her again. She pressed her head back against me, her moans inspiring every thrust. Her body twisting and writhing against mine.

  “So. Fucking. Good,” she said over and over.

  The sounds and groans of others fucking around us only made our need fiercer, wilder. A warm hand curved around my neck, her other hand clutched her tit. My teeth nipped at her shoulder.

  Oh yeah, we did it again. And again. The two of us twisted in each other.

  At sunrise, I woke up, the pink, yellow rays of sun a harsh interruption of good, deep sleep. My skin was cold, and I stretched out, turned over. Cinderella was gone again.

  She was gone, but our raw tangle was still vibrating over my flesh and all my senses. My fingers trailed down my sweaty chest to my cock. Damn. I could still see her knowing smile, her determination to say no, her determination to have a good time as she rode me.

  Once me and the boys got ourselves organized, we got on our bikes. “You’re smiling like a goof, man,” said Willy tossing his cigarette and one of his rich barrel laughs my way.

  “I know.” I settled in my saddle, and we took off.

  As the smooth blacktop and the drone and shudder of my engine mesmerized me, the words to one of the songs she’d sung at the party riffled through my brain over and over. Yeah, the night had belonged to lust, to lovers. The night had belonged to us. We’d touched as we’d spun past each other, and I could still feel it. I wanted more of it.

  My fingers brushed over my jacket pocket where I’d slid her lipstick knife. I wanted more of Isadora Dillon. A hell of a lot more.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It had been three weeks since I’d seen Isadora. Since we’d had the best, most intense, sensual sex of my life. I don’t think I ever would’ve used that word to describe fucking until her, until that night.

  I let it ride.

  She’d taken off, but I was going to lob the ball in her court. I didn’t want to pressure her, I wanted her to come to me on her own. I wanted her to give in to her want for me. Because for me, this wasn’t some flirty game. I wanted to be with her again, and I wanted her to choose to be with me. That seemed really important to her, and that was a good thing. I liked that. I liked that she knew her own mind.

  I’d found out that every Sunday she helped her cousin Georgia whose husband’s family ran Drake’s Cafe with their Sunday breakfast and lunch crowd. Every Sunday, I made it a point to be there for breakfast. Every Sunday she’d glare at me from behind the counter, at the register, and ignore me around the cafe as she’d refill coffee cups.

  Bright and early I made my way down the street to Drake’s for my cheese eggs and bacon on an English muffin and a large coffee before I headed out to Pine Needle to a few garage sales I’d heard about. I was always looking for parts.

  I grabbed a newspaper by the front door and sat at a table. Georgia immediately came over. “Morning, Wreck. Usual for you?”

  “Hey, Georgia. Yes, please.” A big white mug of coffee and a heavy plate laden with my breakfast were set onto the table. “Thanks, Georgia,” I murmured, sliding the newspaper to the side.

  “You’re welcome.”

  My eyes shot up. It wasn’t Georgia.

  It was Isadora.

  I took a gulp of the strong black coffee. “You work here, too? I thought that was you. Wasn’t sure.”

  She let out a breath on a smirk. “Georgia’s my cousin. Her husband’s family owns the Cafe, so sometimes I come help her out with the morning rush on Sundays. She comes to the five and dime and helps me when she can.”

  “Nothing like family,” I said taking a bite of my egg sandwich.

  “That’s right,” she said, passing me a couple of napkins.

  I continued eating. She watched me. “I want my knife back.”

  I met her serious gaze, and in that guarded look, I saw the fortress wall holding back a mighty flood of memories of our night together.

  I wiped at my mouth with the napkins. “You’ll have to come get it.”

  “Come on, Wreck.”

  “Why did you take off? You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I did, actually,” she said.

  “That bad?”

  “That good.”

  I clamped my jaw to keep my cool. “It was damn good. That’s why I don’t get why you’re staying away.”

  “You can’t handle that it was a one-night thing? Geez, what kind of macho guy are you?”

  “I’m a man who knows what he wants. Every night since, I’ve been thinking about you. Every morning I wake up, I think about you, Is. Tell me you don’t think about me.”

  “I’ve got to go.” She rose up from the chair.

  I cuffed her wrist, stopping her. “Like every night, tonight is going to be hard without you.” I brought her hand to my mouth and brushed it with my lips. “You know where to find me.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “There you go.” I handed the man cash.

  I’d left Dillon’s and headed to Pine Needle, the next town over to a big garage sale that I’d heard about. A down on his luck farmer was trying to make as much fast cash as he could. The pained expressions on his wife’s face as I went through his piles of stuff clutched at my chest. Others were trying to bargain with him. For each piece I wanted, I gave him his asking price. I found all sorts of road signs and banners, a couple old American flags. Perfect for the walls of our clubhouse.

  “I know you,” he said, shaking a finger at me. “You’re Earl’s boy, aren’t you?”

  “You knew my dad?”

  “Oh, yeah. He’d helped me on the side of the road once, right outside of Meager when my truck broke down. Then I got him to come out here
and look at my tractor. Even tried to get him to take my sister on a date, but he was stuck on your ma. They were getting married.”

  “Dad was a one-woman man.”

  “He was. Some of us are built that way.” He stretched out his hand to me. “My name’s Jed.”

  “I’m Wreck.” We shook. “Good to meet you.”

  “When I was up in Rapid, I’d stop by his place and see him sometimes. He’d told me how much he loved riding with his boy.”

  “Did he?”

  “Oh, yes.” His grin lit a fuse of warmth in my chest. “You ride?”

  “Actually, I got my dad’s old bike up and running, I’m using it now. I’ve been using his tools and parts to fix bikes to make a buck.”

  “Well, good for you,” he murmured, rubbing his fingers down his face. “Hey, you got a minute? I’d like to show you something.”

  “Sure.” We heaved the signs into my pickup.

  “I got something that he always wanted, but I’d always told him no ‘cause it had sentimental value for me.” He sniffed in air. “But now, I need to—”

  “What is it?” I cut him off to spare him the emotional toll.

  “Come on back and see.”

  He led me into a shed where the remains of a Ford Model T stood. Old tractor wheels, car wheels. Massive wooden cart wheels with spokes.

  “Over here.” He scurried behind the Ford. “It’s wedged back here.”

  “Let me help you—”

  “I got her. Here she is.” Huffing, he lifted a rusted bike frame from the dark corner. I grabbed onto it and pulled it into the sunlight filtering in through the open door of the musty barn.

  A motorcycle frame. Rusted, a skeleton. A beauty. A bike built up around her in my imagination.

  “She’s an—”

  “An Indian,” I said.

  He grinned. “That’s right, son. A Chief from the fifties. My dad had her, wanted to rebuild her one day, but he got sick, never got better.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you. So I wanted to rebuild her. But with the farm and all, then my mom got sick. Never got around to it. I’ll confess, riding wasn’t my thing anyway, but I held onto her. I showed this to your dad, and he got all excited.”