No Man's Daughter: An MC Biker Romance (2 page)

“What?” she asked him. “Want some help?”

“Nah, I got it. You’re good,” he answered. He and Royce came out with eight small bowls of bean soup. Two customers strolled in. Chrissy and Mike Marsilio.

“Hi!” Lydia stood up.

“They can join us,” Mickey chimed in. “Would you like to join us for dinner? I am buying. Steaks suit you?” Chrissy and Mike’s faces lit up.

“Sure,” they said simultaneously, and they pulled up a chair.

“How about you and I go get those beers now?” He gave Lydia a smoldering look that matched how she felt. As though he had been working there forever, he guided her to the cooler. They were behind the counter when he said, “What is this?”

“What is what?” she asked.

“This.” He looked down.

She looked down as well. “I don’t see anything.” He tugged the bib of her apron and both of them descended into a crouching position. She gazed into his eyes, which were waiting for her.

“There you go. You found it,” he said, and he leaned in to kiss her.

That was all very fast for Lydia. She didn’t have but one speed, and as a result, she had a life that went absolutely nowhere. She was a grown woman. If she wanted to, she should. She wanted to, so she did.

The taste of Mickey’s tongue in her mouth was sweet. It was hot and ice-tea chilled at the same time. It took intoxicating control, sweeping inside of her, licking the walls of her cheek before twining and dancing with her own. She took her turn exploring him, owning him. Lydia was certain she let go of a moan. Working in a place walled in stainless steel, echoes had a way of telling on a person and Lydia was afraid she gave herself away. Mickey laughed at her start.

“You look like a sweet little whitetail that got caught in the headlights.” He tweezed her pebbled nipple. “Ooh, speaking of.”

The pleasured tinge of pain corded to her center, and she was wet. She was consumed by primal need. Mickey guided her to her feet. As she clutched cold, wet bottles of beer the hem of her shirt rose. He reached behind her apron.

“Here, let me,” he said. His fingers intimately grazed the delicate skin of her midriff. It was all Lydia could do to keep from whimpering. Dean and Royce barreled out of the kitchen with two large swivel trays stacked with dinners. “Mm,” Mickey remarked while locking eyes on Lydia. “I am about ravenous. I say let’s eat.”

If it weren’t for his skirting Lydia, she might not have made it to the rest of the diners. It took so much coaxing that everyone was all elbows and clatter, digging into their food, by the time Mickey and Lydia took their place. Lydia wasn’t the least bit interested in food. Mickey gingerly pushed her into a chair and uncapped her beer. He covertly reached beneath the table and gingerly ran his fingers along the smooth skin of her thighs. They regarded each other. It felt so weird and foolish, thought Lydia, like they were already a couple. It really had been way too long for her. She could not imagine that it had been such a long time for him.

Mickey O’Halloran was extraordinarily handsome. Charming. Fleeting images of him, bare to the waist, muscle bulging on his back as he bent over the nebulous frame of some lucky girl, about to give it to her the way Lydia wanted it. No, it was not possible that Mickey had to wait if he did not want to.

“Nice skirt,” he whispered.

Dean lined up the second round of Barn Burners. Mickey made the stop sign for Lydia. “I think she’ll pass,” he said.

“She okay?” Dean arched a brow. “I don’t think I’ve seen her that way… ever.”

“She’s okay,” Chrissy Marsilio giggled.

“She’s gotta be careful there. She’s got to drive tonight. This is her weekend to go home.” Dean was talking, but slurring under the after-effects of the Barn Burner.

“Home?” Mickey inquired with a slight bit of alarm. “Dude, you’re buzzed. What’s in that anyway?”

“I don’t know.
Berna ferments it, whatever it is. It will literally make you see stars. Trails, depending on the mix. Anyway like I was saying, that’s right. Ms. Finch here has a sprawling ranch about thirty miles out. Only she never goes there. She’s doesn’t want to go home. She’s afraid the place is haunted.”

“Haunted?” Mickey teased mildly. “You don’t believe in ghosts.”

A bit drunk, Dean barged in on Lydia’s answer. “Believe in them? She carries them around with her.”

Lydia was more than a little embarrassed. “I sold the place, ghosts and all,” she retorted to Dean.

“Wait a minute, “Mickey said. “You mean that huge spread we passed about 30 miles out?”

“Yes,” Lydia answered.

“You’re not selling,” Dean snorted incredulously. “You’ll hold on to it, waste your life here. Yada yada.”

“I sold it, smarty pants. But yes, I am going to rescind the deal. I made up my mind. I want it back, so yep, Deanster. You are so, so right about me. Why am I saying this in front of a bunch of strangers?” she asks.

Mickey handed her the beer. “So you sold your place but now you’ve changed your mind?” he asked.

“Yeah. We don’t have to talk about that now,” Lydia said shyly.

He reached up and brushed a strand from her face. “Finch, hunh? You know anything about finches?”

“What?” She smiled wryly.

“They appear timid, fragile, but they are among the heartiest of species and about the most adaptable,” he answered

“You polish up on your ornithologist just so you can get lucky, Mr. O’Halloran?

“Did it work?”

At once a sober pall fell upon Lydia as she moved in to kiss him. She was never more serious about anything in her whole life as she committed to give herself to him, if for only a few hours until he showered and rode away. It was as though everything she ever wanted, though never really gave too much
thought
to wanting, was coming true and the entire night was suddenly enough. She had to know what it was like.

She pulled back. What he asked. “I got to know,” she said. “Is that true about the finches?”

“Lydia, I don’t know a thing about finches, but I aim to find out.”

Out of nowhere, a crash slammed the table top and icy liquid rushed Lydia’s lap. “Sorry,” Dean replied lethargically.
How could a man get so intoxicated so fast
, Lydia thought. As he mopped up the liquid in and around the table setting, he tipped her dinner. In an instant, Lydia’s sweet crisp clothing was destroyed. Lydia’a apron would never ever be white again. “Oops,” Dean muttered. Lydia fired daggers, glaring at him. She would ring his neck if she could. “What? Just go upstairs and change. It’s no big. I said I was sorry.”

“What’s upstairs?” Mickey asked calmly, helping her brush off.

“That’s where she lives,” Dean chimed in.

This time Mickey was annoyed. “Thank you,” he said curtly. “I asked her.”

“I actually have the suite above the kitchen,” Lydia replied wanly. “And as it stands right at this moment, I do just wanna go up." She stopped and added. "You’re an incurable flirt Mr. O’Halloran."

“You’re an irresistible target, Ms. Finch.”

“So where do you live?” she decided to ask.

“My philosophy is home is where you are. I am all over the place,” he answered. Lydia didn’t like it. It was the first disappointing thing about him all night. He knew a lot about her in a short period of time, but she knew so little of him. But that was the way dreams went sometimes. Lydia figured she would ride this one out.

Mike Marsilio dropped coins in Ollie’s juke box and music filled the eatery. He and Chrissy got up from their places and danced. Mickey eyeballed them. “You tempted?” He moved in for a kiss, just barely brushing her lips with the tenderest contact.

“You know what, Mickey O’Halloran? I just might be. Will you take me upstairs?” she whispered. Before he could answer, she took their beers and led him past the counter, into the kitchen, and up the back to the stairs to the apartment.

At last they were alone, finally in the security of the stairs, Mickey’s hands found her hips. They trailed up and between her bare thighs, caressing her skin there. Lydia opened the unlocked entrance, flipping the latch behind them. In unison, in total synchronicity, as she shed her apron, they came together for an intense kiss.

In their own dance, Mickey helped her peel her soiled clothing as their mouths searched each other. She was down to her bra and panties; she guided him back to a love seat in the living room section of the apartment, and straddled him.

“Goodness, you might be a tiger, not a finch,” he murmured, and clasped her hips to intensify the contact. Lydia grinded against him, feeling his emerging hardness with the soft center of her body.

In a move, Mickey freed the wire-and-lace-cased flesh of a delicate breast and captured it with the moist heat of his mouth. His knowing tongue flicked her pert nipple causing Lydia to buck and jerk atop him. Her reaction to him was new and intense. This was what it was like to be with a real man. He had already taken her to greater heights. A surge of wetness streamed from her. She reached between them and pressed her fingers to his hard length wrapped mercilessly in denim. Lydia plied his mouth feverishly with hers, feeding her love-starved soul with the taste and texture of him.

“I’ve got to,” she announced fragmentedly and worked the buttons of his pants. She backed off his lap as he did the honors himself.

Mickey O’Halloran was magnificent in every sense of the word. Lydia instinctively poised on tip toes, arching and lowering to receive his generous member. The feel of him as she impaled herself on him—the way he filled her—was exquisite. She let him bear the weight of her as she sank to take him within her entirely. “You feel so amazing,” she gasped.

“So do you, beautiful,” he replied.

Lydia grabbed hold of the back of the couch and rocked steady. Mickey dragged his tongue delicately on the sensitive curve of her neck. She tried to wriggle free—the sensation was more than she could stand--but he held her and made her withstand it. Lydia had no choice but to pleasure herself, to bring to culmination what her body and mind were screaming for. Mickey pulled back and through half-hooded lashes beheld the spectacle with pleasure.

Without warning, he boisterously lifted her lithe body up and down for more dramatic movement upon him. The friction was too much and impelled her to the place she wanted to be. Lydia was on that sweet edge of erotic bliss and, with just a few more strokes, Mickey pushed her over. Sensual spasms rocketed through her flesh as she encased him. The combination of his steely hardness with her pleasured paroxysm was an ecstasy she could not have imagined. Lydia was wailing Mickey’s name. Calling him. Begging him. Praying.

“Sh-shh,” he assured her. “I am right here.”

Lydia was limp with the sweet battery of orgasmic waves. Mickey easily turned her around so she was cozily cushioned on the sofa, and he on his knees behind her. Without mercy he pistoned into her. Within seconds, his unrelenting hammering rekindled her pleasure and she was coming again. This time her climax was unbelievably hard. “Oh my goodness, how did you–” She could not finish her sentence. Lydia was in an altered state on an erotic plane, her body convulsing with pure ecstasy. Mickey was on his own erotic high, his cries now thundering the ceiling as his body powerfully exploded within her.

He collapsed, carefully, atop her. Lydia could have drifted to sleep this way, he was so comfortable spooning with her. As their climaxes waned, they moved to Lydia’s bedroom. They napped and had sex off and on until dawn.

Lydia awoke to the smell of fresh, hot coffee.
Mickey had gone down to the eatery and made them some. The last person who made coffee for her in the morning was her mother. Lydia found it very touching. She sipped. “Pretty good. So, you hang with Royce who is a mean cook, and you do wonders with coffee. You know your way around a kitchen. Do you work in a place like this?”