Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance (4 page)

“Fuck, honey, you comin’ again?” There was a pleased note of pride in his voice and she laughed softly, pulling a gasp from him. “
God
. Do that again, gorgeous. Laugh for me.” When she did he groaned, increasing the pace and she realized he was losing the grip he had held so tightly on his control, now chasing his own needs. The knowledge that she could bring this beautiful man here, give him this, draw this kind of passion from him was enough to bring her even closer. Then his mouth again on her breast pushed her over and she tightened underneath him, tensing and clenching around him. Her own mouth finding his shoulder, muffling her quiet cries and leaving a mark with a sucking kiss as he groaned, thrusting deep and holding there, his body bucking with release and pleasure. Pressing deep, and then withdrawing slightly before plunging hard into her again, he ground out her name with a voice scraped raw, arms tightening around her as he came hard.

They lay like that for several minutes, his hands stroking her sides, her arms curved around his back, palms pressed against his skin. Her knees cradled his hips as their breath slowly came back to normal. “Fuck, baby.” He shifted, withdrawing and as he pulled out she barely clamped her lips shut in time to stop the complaining noise that wanted to give voice to losing the fullness, the sense of connection. She felt his hands moving between them and recognized from the movement that he was ensuring the condom stayed in place. She realized she hadn’t even worried about protection, hadn’t asked him anything before opening her body to him.

He stretched out beside her, hands again moving across her body for long minutes, the touch slow and luxurious. “You need to go to your tent, or can you stay with me?” That single question told her he was back in the prospect headspace. He was likely now nervously considering the politics of what they had just done; no longer caught up in the moment of passion and craving they had shared. His question implied it would be better for her to leave him to sleep and wake alone, giving him plausible deniability if there were harsh questions about fucking the Machos’ princess. Everything was always about the club, which is why she never slept with members.

Fuck
, she fumed.
What was I thinking?
Aloud she quietly said, “I never got my tent set up, but I can sleep in my bag, it’s no big deal.” Glad of the darkness, she tried to still her trembling lips as she sat up, groping for her clothing.

His hands found hers, bringing her search to a halt as he said, “No, honey. Stop thinking so fucking hard. I ain’t kicking you out. I want you to sleep here, with me, but I don’t want you to be embarrassed in the morning.” Lifting her gaze, she saw the shadows shift as he tilted his head, his hair falling to one side as he asked, “Sleep with me, honey?”

He twisted to lie down, his hold on her hands pulled her with him and with a sigh she rested against his side. “Let me be your pillow,” he said, reaching to lift her head and slide his arm underneath it, pulling her tighter against him. Kissing the top of her head, softly he said, “Sleep, gorgeous.” Exhausted from the ride and the tension of avoiding pursuit, those combined with the aftereffects of their shared passion all conspired to pull her under the comforting blanket of oblivion quickly.

She woke disoriented, startled, and heart pounding, she froze in place at the feeling of a large, hot, male body next to her. There was a sudden thrill of fear at the thick arms wrapped around her, one palm cupping her bare ass cheek, and then as the memories of where she was and who was next to her slowly slid into place, her heart rate slowly returned to normal. Hurley had wanted her here, had asked her to stay.

He was sleeping heavily, his breathing deep and even, relaxed and easy in his dreams. She reached out with one hand, using the pad of her thumb to trace his features, dragging his chin down, gently parting his lips. Barely breathing, she whispered, “Was a good night, Hurley.” Carefully extricating herself from his grip, soundlessly she dressed and then eased the door of the van open, pulling it closed just as slowly and quietly as she could, hearing it latch into place with an inevitability that was so poignant she had to blink away sudden tears.

Walking to her bike, she pulled out her phone to see it was early morning, and from the blush of light in the sky, she knew the sun would be peeking over the horizon before long. With a sigh, she looked around and realized everyone else was still sleeping, except for a lone figure seated near the remains of the bonfire. Moving that direction, she recognized DeeDee, resting comfortably in a chair with a quilt drawn around her shoulders, staring at the glowing embers of the banked fire.

Mela sat down on the grass beside her, eyes already fixed on the flickering cinders. “What’s up, buttercup?” DeeDee asked, turning to glance her way before looking back at the fire. “Something about a fire, when it's at this stage, is mesmerizing. The early blaze is full of energy and heat, wild and chaotic. If you let things go far enough, you wind up with this calmness…still hot as hell, just more stable, less riotous. You know the fire burning down to coals like this means it’s nearing the end of its life, but it’s still so beautiful.”

She leaned against DeeDee’s legs and sighed. Without looking away from the fire, she said, “Daddy didn’t want me to come.”

“We know, sweetheart. Estavez called Slate and Mason straightaway when you left, said you were on your way, and he’d have men on you the whole trip.” DeeDee gave her this knowledge without hesitating.

“I’d have been here earlier yesterday, but I ditched them. I didn’t tell Daddy where we were camping, so I thought I could escape the scrutiny for at least a couple of days,” she said and sighed again. “Slate probably told Daddy exactly where this place is, so that was useless. They’ll come roaring in here soon, all pissed off because they got played, and they’re gonna make me leave.”

“No, they won’t.” DeeDee’s voice was clear and firm. “Your father would have preferred that scenario, but Slate talked him down. Told him he’d have his best men in place to keep us all safe.” She pointed toward the van. “Hurley here with us and three men staged along the road. You rode past them to get to us, and if it had been anyone other than you, that person would have never made it a hundred feet up the road.”

“I just get so tired of everything,” she muttered, propping her head in her hand. “I can’t do anything just for me.”

“We should have made Eddie come, babies or not,” DeeDee said with a soft laugh, referencing another of the Rebel women, one whose father had also been a club president. “Growing up like she did, she could relate, for sure. But Carmela,” her tone became serious, “you more than most know what happened to Watcher’s daughter at the hands of their enemies. He’s lucky she lived, honey, and she’s never going to be the same. You can’t be angry with your father for fearing it could happen to you. There is unrest in the clubs” –Mela raised her head to say something, but DeeDee pushed on– “I know what you’re going to say and I’ve used the same argument sweetheart, because there is
always
unrest, but this is a level we’ve not seen in decades. Something is building, and our men don’t yet have a handle on exactly what. So, when something like that happens to a powerful man’s family, a president’s daughter, all the men in our lives pay attention. Like it or not, you are your father’s daughter, which means you are a target.”

“What kind of target?” Hurley’s voice came from right behind DeeDee, and Mela jumped, twisting around. “And who is your father?” She stared at him for a minute, seeing how different he seemed in the light cast from the fire’s coals, his hair a dull red and the expression on his face angry, striped with lines of shadow.

Without responding, she stood and walked to her bike, lifted her jacket from the handlebars and unfolded it, turning so the weak light from the fire illuminated the patches on the back. His eyes went wide as he read the club’s information, and her title, and he said, “No shit?”

DeeDee answered him with a soft laugh. “Shit-free, totally.”

“National president’s cousin who’s also a leverage member’s old lady, chapter president’s old lady, member’s old lady, and now another club’s national president’s fucking daughter? Fucking Machos?” He held up four fingers, “DeeDee, Ruby, Kathy…and Mela?”

DeeDee nodded, twisting in her chair to look up at him. “And four of their best friends, who also have a place in your national president’s heart. It’s a stern charge, Hurley. Slate believed you up for the job, but you have only to make a single call to pull in others. Your decision,” she said and turned back so she could look at the fire again. He didn’t respond other than with a nod that DeeDee didn’t see, and then he turned and silently stalked past Mela, moving back toward the van.

Gaze to the ground, she slowly refolded her jacket, draping it back over the handlebars of her bike. Chest tight with the pain and shame of a rejection she had expected, but hurt no less for that. She thought to herself,
Well, that is that, and if you thought it could ever be more than that, you were loco, chica
.

Princess status in her father’s club meant few men were brave enough to be with her, and none had ever wanted her enough to dare wade through the politics and pressure of a relationship. Tonight looked to be no different. A touch on her arm interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up, surprised to see Hurley standing there, his palm sliding down the inside of her wrist, fingers threading through hers. “Come back to bed, honey,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. Then, tugging at their joined hands, he led her back to the van, claiming her, even if their audience was limited to one broadly grinning and overly protective mother figure.

Raised in the south, MariaLisa learned about the magic of books at an early age. Every summer, with the help of a gracious librarian who did not believe in age-restricted stacks, she would spend hours in the local library, devouring books of every genre. Self-described as a book-a-holic, she says “I always loved to read, then I discovered writing, and I adored that, too. For reading … if nothing else is available, I’ve been known to read the back of the cereal box.” She still reads voraciously, and always has a few books going in paperback, hardback, or on devices.

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Halfway There

Jennifer Rose

The incessant pounding in my head, though I hadn’t even opened my eyes, was the first tell-tale sign that I had a killer hangover from the countless shots of cheap tequila I drank last night, on an empty stomach. The air was thick, stinking of sex, cigarette smoke and stale beer as I took a deep breath, attempting to fill my lungs. I knew I need to open my eyes but I was leery, who knows what I might discover. I had no clue where I was. But I was aware of the fact that I was naked and if the gentle snore beside me was any clue, I was not alone. What the fuck did I do?

I cracked one eye open. I was in a motel room. No doubt by the old shit wallpaper and the nicotine stained oil paintings on the walls, it was a fucking pay by the hour dive where the cockroaches and rats are the size of alley cats. I slowly allowed my other eye to open and to my left I discovered my companion. Big fellow, he was facing away so I couldn’t see what he looked like, but by the size of his shoulder and back, I could tell he was built. I didn’t see ink, no visible tattoos on his back either. Sliding my hand slowly over the mattress toward his side of the bed, I cracked a smile when I touched warm bare flesh under the covers.

As nice as it would be to stay around and find out what exactly I missed during my inebriation, it was time to clear out and get my ass back on the road. I was halfway there and not about to let one night of unguarded fun stop me from getting what was rightfully mine. I had six days to get back home and the clock was ticking. Being late was out of the question, I didn’t dare, the consequences would be unimaginable.

I slipped out from under the covers and cringed as my bare feet hit the sticky, crusty shag carpeting. I had been in more dumps during my twenty-six years than I could count, but this one took the cake. I would have given anything for a prescription bottle full of penicillin about now, as I trotted on tiptoe into the washroom. At least there were clean towels hanging on the towel bar and complimentary bottles of shampoo and soap. This dump was beyond raunchy but I had suffered worse than this and survived.

I pulled back the shower curtain, surprised to find no old bathtub ring. But the accumulation of black, slimy mold built up in the corners of the ugly yellow tile was somewhat disturbing. Like I said before, I’ve survived worse.