Beecher: Wicked Throttle MC #4 Read online

  “Beecher” Wicked Throttle MC #4

  By Esther E. Schmidt

  Copyright © 2020 by Esther E. Schmidt All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, places, characters and other stuff mentioned in this book is the results of the author’s imagination. Beecher is a work of fiction. If there is any resemblance, it is entirely coincidental.

  This content is for mature audiences only. Please do not read if sexual situations, violence and explicit language offends you.

  Cover design by:

  Esther E. Schmidt

  Editor #1:

  Christi Durbin

  Editor #2:

  Virginia Tesi Carey

  Cover Model:

  Michael Tranchina

  Photographer:

  Golden Czermak / FuriousFotog

  Dedication

  To all damaged souls:

  love is still out there, no matter how fragile or out of reach it might seem.

  Table of contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Beecher

  The knife slices through my skin while the woman holding the weapon slides her fingertips though my blood right after leaving a mentally disturbing trail. Repulsion and pain flares hot through my veins. Over my tormentor’s shoulder I let my gaze hit the woman who holds my heart; Valentina.

  She’s tied with duct tape at her wrists, hanging from the ceiling by her arms. Lacerations caused by the very same knife are scattered over her body as well. But she’s fighting. The fire in her eyes is telling me she’s working on a way to free herself.

  She’s the strongest, feistiest woman I’ve met in all my life. Never backing down, never holding back. I wish I could say the same and hold the same strength and the will to fight. But I’m barely able to keep my head up and my eyes open.

  They have bound me to this chair with rope and tape. Not to mention I feel weak as shit from the blood loss. Or maybe they drugged me again. It’s how they kidnapped both Valentina and me. Fucking tranquilizer darts. How the fuck can you fight that?

  It’s all moot now with the both of us bound and open to the torture these two people are inflicting upon us. Two people. One man, one woman. The woman is torturing me while the man watches and then they switch. Then they fucking switch and the man called Logan takes over and tortures Val while the woman called Dana watches.

  Not just watches but her fucking hands stay on me. It’s erotic fucking play for them. And all we can do is take what these two twisted fucks in this room are doing to us. Dana’s knife clatters to the floor. Her fingers slide through my wounds and for the sight of the camera standing in the corner she makes the whole blood play an erotic sight.

  With every muscle in my body I try to fight like hell. I don’t want her fucking touch. I don’t want anyone’s hands on me except the woman I love. Pain flares through me but I need to fight. Need to survive. Need to fucking breathe.

  Surging up, I bellow, “Get off me,” and gasp for my next breath, repulsion burning like acid through my veins.

  The pain of a needle stuck in my hand makes my eyes land there to check for one breath before I scan the rest of my body and the room I’m in. Fear causes my heart to pump faster and does nothing to calm my breathing. I have no damn clue where I am or how I got here.

  A door swings open and the woman entering stares at me with wide eyes and messy hair, wrapped in only a T-shirt. This is the very woman of my dreams, painful memories, and along with it, the nightmares. The very nightmare I was just caught up in, making this whole situation more realistic.

  “You’re awake,” she croaks but stays rooted to the floor.

  I rip out the IV and the pads stuck to my chest. She rushes forward and holds up her hand. “No, no, no, don’t. You need to be monitored.”

  “Fuck that,” I growl, but just ripping out the IV and surging up feels like I’m caught after running a fucking marathon.

  Her fingers almost make contact with my skin and I brace myself, swallowing back the bile rising due to the nightmare that’s still a vivid presence in the back of my head. Thank fuck she pulls her hand back before it connects.

  “Lay back down and give your body time to adjust.” The snap in her voice automatically makes me sag back onto the mattress.

  I might not have any energy left in my body, but it doesn’t mean she can order me the fuck around. “Save your Domme voice for the fuckers who enjoy that shit.”

  Val snorts and turns off the machines that were monitoring my vitals. “Shut up or I’ll start to sing sappy love songs to annoy you.”

  “Fat chance,” I mutter. “The Val I knew loved hard rock and metal. Some hip-hop, maybe. But there’s definitely no softy shit in your repertoire.”

  She swallows hard and I can see emotion sliding off her face as she gives me a blank expression with only a fake smile to light shit up as she says, “The Val you knew loved a lot of things. But you and I both know that Val doesn’t exist anymore.” She turns on her heels and throws over her shoulder, “I’m going to grab my phone and call your brothers, so they’ll know they can come and pick you up. I bet you’d rather be there than here.”

  “Wait,” I snap and she instantly freezes in place.

  “Can you give me a damn minute to catch my breath?” I take a gulp of air and slowly release it while simultaneously rubbing the back of my neck. “Keep me company ‘cause all I remember is getting your text and everything else after that moment is fuzzy.”

  She stalks to a chair on my left and sits down with grace. Her back is ramrod straight and she crosses her legs to set her wrists on top of each other on her knee. Always calm and collected.

  “I should have never sent you that text. It led you to handle everything yourself instead of waiting for me or asking others for help. You stole the evidence—an envelope containing it—from Hoffa Nerrs’ safe. You managed to make it to your warehouse and light a fire pit before he chased you down. Hoffa shot you when you threw the envelope into the fire. You survived three bullets but your body needed the time to heal. You lost a lot of blood and almost died three times. You slipped into a coma—” Her eyes close for a breath or two, the blank mask gone for the blink of a second as her throat bobs. She swallows back her emotions. “They were ready to pull the plug. We wouldn’t let them.”

  Envelope. Hoffa Nerrs. I remember that fucker extorting people. Forcing them into taking deals to give himself a fat profit; find all the dirt on a person to force him or her into selling property for a fragment of its worth.

  He had something on Val. Something only the two of us know and it can never come out into the open. I didn’t think there was any evidence but somehow Hoffa had it. Even if it was all smoke, I couldn’t take the risk because it would not only rip Val apart…it would land her ass in prison for life. I prevented him from using it when I stole it from his safe and made sure any dirt he might have on her was all burned.

  “What’s done is done,” I simply say. “Mind getting me a drink? My throat is killing me.”

  She glides over the floor. No strolling, walking or stalking; this woman glides with the smoothest of moves. Her ass is magnificent and might be too big for some but the way the T-shirt accents her perfect curves
captivates me. And that’s just her ass since this woman has legs for miles and tits to die for. Not to mention the brains she’s packing. And that’s just it, she’s the complete package you only meet one fucking time in your life.

  My gaze travels over every single curve, allowing myself the sweet pleasure of living in the moment. Damn those cute fucking toes. Purple nail polish all shiny and glittery. I might be twisted and just woke up from a damn coma but I want to lick this woman all over and start with those cute toes and lazily work my way up to her pussy until I can bury my cock deep as I give her mouth a scorching kiss.

  “Did you develop a foot fetish while you took the longest of naps?” Laughter flows through those words, but the snap in her voice returns when she says, “Eyes here, Shaw.”

  My eyes lazily slide up, taking full advantage of the way my gaze travels over her body one more time. From her delicate lily of the valley ink highlighting her ankle, to her stunning hazel eyes.

  “Every inch of the female body needs to be worshipped. And I go by Beecher now.”

  “So, I’ve heard,” she sneers and I’m pretty damn sure it’s not about my name.

  I take the glass of water she offers me and I hate the way my hand is shaking and how weak I feel.

  It makes me lash out with the words, “Don’t you dare throw judgement at me. You’ve been the same way with tying men up to satisfy their needs. And it was you who thought it was better to leave. Breaking us apart while we were already broken and fucking needed each other if we ever had a chance at becoming whole again.”

  “You agreed,” she snaps.

  “You fucking sided with your parents and fucking left me. What the fuck else could I say when you voiced those fucking words? Force you into staying? Beg you not to leave me? Two people make a relationship and the commitment you work for to spend the rest of your life together. If one thinks about throwing the towel down…what else is there to do?”

  We both glare at each other and I hate the way we’re standing on opposite sides. Just like we were facing each other all those years back. Throwing fighting words at each other and not knowing how to deal or move on. This time there’s one difference. I’m in a fucking bed feeling less than myself and have no breath to fight. We’re in her house by the looks of it, and why the fuck is that? Better question, why am I being an asshole?

  I rip my eyes away and yet I can’t get myself to apologize for my behavior.

  I take a few sips and let the water slide down my throat before I hand her back the glass with a muttered, “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Need anything else?” She rubs her arm and I can see the goose bumps spreading on her arms.

  Her arms, covered with faded scars. Another reminder of what we went through. Most of my scars are on the inside of my legs and lower stomach. Fucking erotic play. But hers cover more parts of her body including her forearms. She has the softest skin and the warmth her body holds was always soothing something inside me when I held her in my arms.

  A longing to hold her starts to burn and it’s foreign. When she walked out of my life, I couldn’t touch another woman, let alone have them put a finger on me. All it does is trigger repulsion. Except now. Except her.

  “You in bed with me?” I mindlessly reply, and I fucking hate the bouncing around between love and hate.

  I clear my throat and before she can spew some hateful words at me, I tell her, “You’re cold and I need to talk to you some more. It might take a while since I feel like shit and don’t want to be alone. Can we put the past between us on hold for a bit?”

  She shoots me a glare as she rounds the bed. “Keep your clumps of ice on your side of the bed. Got it?”

  A laugh rips from my throat but my body is still sore and it kills my laughter but not the mood she lightened.

  “I’m hurt, you’re not allowed to make me laugh,” I tell her and try to hold the blanket up so she can slide into bed, but even that’s too fucking much for my body.

  She snuggles underneath the blanket and I’m about to warn her about hogging the damn thing but she prevents me from doing so.

  “You and your cold feet, me and my rolling up into the blanket. We both have to deal. Besides, be thankful you’re hurting, it means you’re alive to feel.”

  “Any chance we can snuggle without biting each other’s head off? You know, for the whole ‘alive to feel’ and being thankful about it thing.” My voice is strained and it’s from the fact I feel torn while my heart is working on overdrive.

  I want her touch, and yet I don’t. There’s always the repulsion of a woman’s touch forced on me and it’s always connected with pain. Fucking trauma from the past. Trauma this woman witnessed and also lived through. There’s a war raging inside my body, yanking on every emotion and memory. It’s a battle I’m not sure I will survive or be strong enough to have a damn chance on winning.

  Being in her bed—in close proximity with Val—brings back things I’ve wanted and yet managed to bury deep. I’m absolutely torn. There are wounds as deep as a damn ocean the both of us have suffered. We might have had years to let them heal and yet they are barely scabbed over and never intend to heal.

  “The whole tying people up part for me is the ‘no touching me’ element. I need to be the one in control.” Her voice is a soft whisper, and to me it seems like we both landed into the same thoughts and dilemma we’re wrapped in. “I’ve heard stories from the people in your life. It seems we both share the same issues.”

  I feel her hand slide over the mattress and the heat of her skin next to mine is killing me.

  I take a deep breath and carefully place my pinky over hers. “Remember when I walked into your company when we first saw each other after years of being apart? You were the first woman who put her hands on me in a long damn time. I always freak the fuck out if something happens by accident and for sure as shit feel raw and ripped open now with just my pinky lying over yours, but fuck...can we just...be?”

  She links her pinky with mine and gives it a squeeze. “We can. Though I have to call your buddies. They have to know you’re back to the land of the living.”

  “If only,” I grumble. “We should. But I need a moment.”

  “Shut up, Shaw,” she says with her deep and dominant voice. I’m about to remind her it’s Beecher now, but she slides her hand over mine and wraps her fingers around my wrist. “I’m not using Beecher. Never have, never will. You’re Shaw to me and no one will ever change or take that away from me, not even you.”

  There’s a lump in my throat and I realize I don’t want her to call me Beecher either. And her touch isn’t scalding like it normally is, and neither is it triggering bad memories or repulsion whatsoever.

  “Fine,” I tell her and though I take her touch as a personal win, I don’t want to lose it or have it tainted if I do freak out. Thinking fast I also use a dominant voice when I demand, “Go get your phone. I’ll call my Pres so he can let the others know.”

  Her thumb lazily slides over the back of my hand as if she needs to make a point that it’s her choice to keep hold or let go. And right when I’m about to rip my hand away, she lets go and slides off the bed.

  I watch her ass sway out of the room and let my gaze roam around when she’s out of sight. Floor to ceiling dark red curtains, same color fluffy as fuck looking carpet, and there’s not much else in this room. A TV on the wall, a door on the right that looks like it leads to a bathroom, and that’s it. Well, besides the bed I’m lying on and the machines on my left that were monitoring my vitals.

  Val strolls inside with her phone in one hand and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other.

  “Where did you get the coffee from?” I wonder out loud.

  She hands me the phone. “Pierre always brings me my coffee at six. He’s ten minutes early.”

  I swing my legs off the mattress and flash up. A wave of dizziness hits me and I fight like hell to get the black spots to fade as I growl, “You opened the fucking door wearing just
a damn T-shirt?”

  She puts her hand on her hip and it makes said T-shirt ride up, showing me a little more of the smooth skin on her thigh.

  “Pierre has seen more of me since I’ve played with him a few times.” Her eyes narrow as she takes a sip of her coffee, keeping me under her gaze to see what my next move is.

  And if I wasn’t feeling so damn weak my next move would be to tie her to the bed, spank her ass, and show her exactly who she belongs to.

  Fuck.

  Not me. She’s not mine.

  She used to be, but that ship has sailed—sunk—and went down the drain somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. That twisted and that fucking unrepairable.

  A sigh rips from her and she places one finger on my shoulder to nudge me back down. It’s a combination of touch and the gentle move that makes me sag into the mattress.

  “Pierre is in an open relationship with Donald. I sometimes do the both of them a favor and prep Pierre for Donald. Pierre likes more than a bite of pain and when I get in a mood I need to—”

  Her hand turns into a fist, knuckles white and it’s then I realize, “You use the whole BDSM, ‘Domme deal’ to get it all out of your system and get back in control.”

  Her throat bobs and she gives me a tight nod.

  “Do you feel good or dirty afterwards? Because I for sure as fuck throw up each and every time I get off.” The moment those words fall out of my way too loose lips, I instantly regret them.

  Why the hell would I share something I’ve never told another soul?

  But instead of being repulsed, shocked, or horrified by my admittance, she merely shakes her head and says, “I never get off. But I have to take a scalding hot shower afterwards.”

  She shifts closer to the bed and sits down next to me. Again, she links our pinkies together, gives a little squeeze and says, “Our past sure did screw up our lives if we can’t even have sex or any affection the way normal people do.”