Deep Within Me tp-2 Read online

  It was so odd, she couldn’t help but continue to question it. Before tonight’s battle, he’d made it clear that he wanted Zeke to share her, not even bothering to ask her thoughts in the matter. Those, Liz suspected, Jacob had known from the start. He was a great-looking man, as virile as his brother. However, he wasn’t Zeke.

  She wondered if Zeke saving Jacob’s life tonight might have had something to do with his sudden attitude change, unless there was something more behind it.

  Maybe Jacob didn’t want to challenge his brother’s authority at this point…as Isabel had just tried. Perhaps he was simply being more circumspect in his desires. Or he was still worried about Kele’s jealousy. What she might do next because of it.

  “Please go back to your rooms and see to your loved ones,” Zeke said to his people. “No one followed us here. No one can get inside.”

  “So you want your people to hide here forever?” Isabel asked.

  Liz noted the derisive way the older woman had said your people, as though their vote for Zeke to stay had made them her enemy.

  He sighed. His entire body seemed to wilt with it. “We’ll have a meeting in the morning to discuss our options and whatever else you want.”

  Her expression didn’t soften.

  “We’ll meet now if you’d like,” Zeke said.

  “No,” Ike cut in. “We’re all tired. Tomorrow morning’s fine, right, guys?”

  They mumbled their agreement.

  Ike clamped his hand on Zeke’s shoulder. “We’ll take care of things tonight.”

  Not arguing with his friend, Zeke took Liz’s hand and went down the hall toward the group.

  They stepped back immediately, allowing him and Liz a wide berth. Out of respect or because none of them wanted to touch her?

  Liz could feel Isabel’s glare and had to force herself not to glance over her shoulder at the woman. Once Zeke brought Liz past the last of the crowd, she murmured, “Where are we going?”

  “My room.”

  As he had during her first time in the stronghold, Zeke led Liz past a series of halls, each of them bullet-ridden now and filthy with blood. Earlier, they’d been filled with children playing games, watching TV. Liz’s stomach rolled. If Carreon’s men had harmed one of those innocents tonight…

  At the awful thought, she squeezed Zeke’s hand.

  He looked over. “What?”

  “Were any of your people harmed?”

  “Except for Jacob and Samuel, no.”

  Samuel. He’d been guarding the outside door when Kele and Carreon’s men had arrived. One of those lieutenants had shot both of Samuel’s knees, leaving him in agony. Before Liz had left the stronghold, she’d healed him. Not to the extent that he was whole again. That would have taken time she hadn’t had in her determination to see Carreon dead. The last she’d seen of Samuel, he was sagged against one of the vehicles, shouting at her not to drive away.

  “Wait,” Liz said.

  “Why?” Zeke kept his pace, forcing her to follow.

  “I didn’t heal Samuel fully. I should—”

  “Your father will take care of it.”

  Was he joking? “He’s more tired than I am. He’s old, Zeke. I want him to rest, not tend to your men’s injuries when I can do it.”

  “Samuel will be fine.”

  They’d reached the stairway that led to the stronghold’s second level. Zeke directed Liz up those steps. The first time they’d done this, he’d taken her to his brother’s room where she’d pressed her naked body against Jacob’s, restoring him to full health. Unlike her father’s power that allowed him to heal the gravest injuries with a mere touch, Liz’s gift wasn’t as strong. When a man was near death, all of her nudity had to touch his in order for her to push enough of her healing gift and life force inside.

  It was only when the injury was relatively minor, like her father’s sprained ankle or even Samuel’s bloodied knees, that her touch alone would suffice.

  A touch she hadn’t used since leaving Carreon’s stronghold.

  When she and Zeke reached the landing, Liz asked, “Why don’t you want me to heal anyone?”

  He went in the opposite direction of Jacob’s room, toward the end of the hall and a set of grand double doors. Constructed of a dark wood, possibly mahogany, they bore geometric designs—the same as those on the rugs gracing the walls—and had ornate silver handles. “Did I say that?”

  No. But he kept keeping her from doing it. “I can heal Samuel’s knees without taking off my clothes and crawling all over him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Zeke stopped at the double doors and regarded her, his emotions well concealed. “Good to know.”

  Was he teasing her…or was he worried about something? Liz recalled his weird questions in the Jeep, his unease as he’d studied her as a physician might, looking for signs of what? Sickness? Physical decline? Death?

  She stared at him.

  He ignored her and opened one of the doors. “Go on.”

  She backed into the room, noting its limestone walls, the same as those in Jacob’s, decorated with similar snake totems in vivid hues. However, this space was three times as large. She regarded the wide bed of a rustic construction, its design matching the nightstands and lamps. What tourists would pay thousands for in order to possess authentic Indian art and craftsmanship.

  “What’s going on?” Liz asked, wanting to know what Zeke was thinking. What worried him about her.

  He closed the door. Its spring lock clicked faintly. The moment he touched the limestone wall, it glowed as it had in Jacob’s bath and room, the rock a soft golden shade, lending a dreamy, cozy feel to this space.

  The setting should have relaxed, then aroused Liz with what was surely coming.

  Zeke’s silence precluded that.

  More questions poured from her. “Why won’t you let me heal anyone? In the Jeep, why did you ask if I’d fallen asleep? Wait.” She interrupted herself even though he hadn’t said anything. Liz shook her head. “You said I’d passed out. Why? And why did my father ask how I was feel—”

  He stopped her with his kisses on each corner of her mouth, surprisingly tender and gentle, his arms wrapped protectively around her.

  Unable to resist, Liz twined her arms around his neck and sagged into him. “Zeke—”

  “No more questions,” he said with a sigh, his mouth on her ear, his body pressed close. “Not now. Just hold me. Please.”

  His weary plea did more than any command. The love Liz heard in those few words touched her soul. Drawing him as close as she could, she nestled her face against his neck and suckled his skin, enjoying its salty flavor.

  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 t
he 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.”

  His face turned a deeper red, his features contorted with rage. He raised his hand to strike her. To prove he still ran the show?

  Didn’t matter. Her response was as quick. In one surprisingly graceful move, she pulled something from the top of her right boot. There was a whoosh and then a click as a blade locked into place.

  “You don’t want to do that,” she warned him.

  He still swung his arm—seemingly unable to stop what he intended in spite of her weapon, as if he needed to prove his manhood.

  As though to dispute it, she easily stepped out of his reach. “That was a mistake.”

  Before he could draw his hand back, she made a slashing movement with her weapon. The switchblade flashed, its metal edge reflecting the light…slicing his palm. Not too deep but not all that shallow either.

  He gasped, then growled.

  “Enough,” Carreon said. Ernez could howl like a banshee, but that didn’t change matters. From the beginning, she’d proved the worthier opponent.

  Carreon’s command had the desired effect. Even with Ernez’s fury and pain, he went quiet and retreated, his steps stiff, forced. Wariness and possibly a grudging respect for her shone in his dark eyes, along with deep loathing as he pulled out his handkerchief and struggled to wrap it around the wound.

  To her, Carreon murmured, “Come here.”

  She regarded Ernez’s misery, her head cocked to one side as she listened to his rough panting and watched how his hands shook. Carreon wasn’t certain if she merely needed to savor her victory over Ernez, or if she wanted to confirm to everyone in this room that she meant what she’d said. No one told her what to do.
>
  We’ll see.

  Patience wasn’t one of Carreon’s virtues. However, he waited without comment until she deigned to come to him, her slender fingers still fisted around her weapon. A bit of Ernez’s blood clung tenaciously to the blade.

  Carreon settled his hand on her warm, silky mound, studying her to see what reaction she’d give.

  She didn’t slice him with her knife. Neither did she betray any desire.

  He wondered what she’d do if he punished her. Beg for more, enjoying the mixture of pain and pleasure? Possibly.

  Fascinated, he ran his fingers down the length of her cleft, then back up, finding and stroking her clit.

  She inhaled a bit more quickly than she had before, though it didn’t come close to the lusty moan Carreon wanted to hear. To test her true reaction—what was really going on inside her head—he slid his fingers to her opening.

  She was decidedly wet.

  Interesting. And arousing.

  It appeared she wasn’t made of stone any more than he was. Carreon’s already stiffened cock thickened even more. His balls were beginning to ache, wanting release.

  In time.

  For now, he stroked her delicate folds, harboring no delusion that his touch alone stirred her. She seemed to crave danger, just as he did. As long as someone other than him got hurt.

  “Please put the knife away,” he requested, his manner nice, just as she preferred.

  Her expression didn’t change as she closed the blade. Carreon noted that she kept the weapon in her palm.

  To reward her for being partially obedient—full submission would come later—he again ran his thumb over her nub. A bit harder and faster this time.

  She pushed to her toes, then came back down, not making any sound, not giving him the satisfaction of knowing she liked what he was doing. With her face raised to the ceiling, he couldn’t see her expression.

  “What’s your name?” he asked while his fingers explored her sex.

  “Trinidad,” she murmured, then shivered slightly. At what he was doing? Perhaps. “But you already know that,” she added.