Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (12 page)

But the second she was alone with him, everything changed. It was like all the chemistry between them, now trapped in a room, was able to double, triple its potency.

In the kiss, her lips parted easily, her tongue sliding across his. He was strong, and he was tough, and he was everything that was wrong in her life but he was also
right there
, and nothing felt as important as that.

He was nothing but danger, but at the same time, she knew that so long as she was with him, nothing bad would happen.

Hands slipped across her body, sliding down her ass and squeezing hard, lifting her up into his body. He was so strong. With no effort at all, he lifted her up and pushed her against the wall, crushing her breasts against his massive chest. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, wanting him closer, tighter, pulling him into her body with everything she had.

“Yes,” she whispered. She had no idea what she consented to—she just wanted to give it all to him. He could do anything he wanted to her. She wanted to be his property in that moment, wanted to be his old lady, wanted to be owned by him totally. He was so hot, so built, so right, and all she wanted was to melt into him.

For several long minutes, he pressed her against the wall still, kissing her madly, their lips locking and re-locking, both of them breathing hard. Their chests heaving, their hands ripping at each other’s clothes. His erection pushed forward, insistent, and she could feel it as it rubbed against the bottom of her thighs, her rear, her waist.

Everything about him was animalistic. Primal. Bestial. He whipped her down on the bed, eliciting a squeal of half-fear, half-excitement, and all-desire. In seconds, he ripped off her scrubs and threw them to the side. Moments later, her panties followed—ripped into pieces by his grip.

Another time, another place, she might have cared about their cost, about replacing them, but all she could think then was how she wanted him to rip through her soul the same way he ripped apart her clothes.

Her crotch was bare to him now. She was wet there and getting wetter. His eyes grew wide with desire as he noticed this, fingers teasing around her edges and sampling her moistness. He took off his shirt and vest, revealing the incredible expanse of his scarred, inked torso. Everything was dense, chiseled. The dark patterns of ink swarmed around his muscles, forming intricate patterns over his scar tissue.

She could see his erection pushing hard through his jeans. Every part of it was huge. When he pulled off his pants, her heart did back flips.

God, he was just as big as she remembered. If anything, her memory had made him smaller. Seeing it again was like being exposed to food after months of starving—she felt like her brain was drooling.

Nothing sounded better to her, at that moment, than being entered by this musclebound behemoth of a man.

He would, she knew, fuck her until she didn’t know what day it was. Her body writhed on the bed, crotch lurching forward, beckoning him to come to her. To come
into
her.

Closing the distance, though, Beretta sunk his head down and kissed up and down her thighs, soft and wet. His lips circled around her center, coming closer and closer until—

“Oh fuck!” she moaned.

His tongue slid across her clitoris, sending shivers of pleasure through her body. Her hips bucked upwards to meet him, and one hand slid up underneath her ass, gripping her tight as he continued to push his mouth into her.

He licked her so beautifully, so right. Quickly he found a rhythm—a series of fast, gentle licks followed by a few long, slow ones, accenting around her button. Then it would all start again, driving her crazy, pushing her right at the edge.

He'd never licked her before—not in the entire time that they had their too-brief fling. Always they went straight to full fucking, and it wasn't like she had any complaints.

That is, until now. Now that she knew what she had been missing. He was amazing at it, sensational. Every lick took her higher and higher into the stratosphere.

And then she saw what he was doing as he licked her—what his free hand was doing, the one that wasn't imparting his animal strength on her body.

He stroked himself. Stroked his big, long cock, urgent and excited, as he pleasured her with his mouth. Her heart, already beating so fast, felt like it was going to explode.

God, that made it all somehow so much hotter. Spikes of arousal powered through her system, knowing that eating her out turned him on so much that he had to stroke his cock. It wasn't some liability, something he was doing out of obligation. It
turned him on
to do it.

“Oh god,” she moaned. “Oh...oh, god, I'm so close...”

His rhythm picked up now—the same pattern, fast and slow licks, but their frequency increased. Her orgasm was arriving soon. Seeing Beretta, muscles so ripped, body so thick and huge, overcome with lust just from tasting her made her overwhelmed in turn. The thought of that centered in her brain, filling up her every last sensation with hot blinding light.

She thought of those brilliant abs of his flexing and re-flexing as he bucked his hips, fucking his hand while he licked her even faster.

“Yes,” she cried, releasing. “Yes!”

Pleasure shot through her body and she bucked beneath Beretta's body. Her entire form was taken with bliss, hot and sweet, unraveling like a whirlwind from her core out to her toes. She clutched at Beretta and gasped with sweet surprise as his hot seed sprayed against her skin. It landed on her thighs, her belly, coating her in his warmth. It felt so good to feel his masculine product like that, dripping down her flesh. Marking her.

Making her his property. Claiming her.

He was nothing but danger.

But right then, she didn't care.

Trembling, quivering still, she wrapped herself around him and let herself, just this once, feel totally and completely safe.

––––––––

A
fterward, she wrapped herself around his body. Like a boa constrictor, getting tighter and tighter by the second. It didn’t bother him. She wasn’t strong enough to start actually constricting his movement, his breath. And Beretta understood why she held him so tight, besides. It wasn’t just affection—though he knew there was plenty of that.

The biggest part of it, he suspected, was that he was the only ship in the storm, and the storm was getting bigger all the time.

“I thought you were going to fuck me,” she whispered in his ear.

Certainly the thought had crossed his mind, and certainly he goddamn wanted to. If he really put in the effort, he could be hard again in just a matter of minutes. He'd done it before—getting hard only minutes after coming.

But then that would make this coupling even more real than it was, and it was already more real than it should be.

He didn't want her to think that this was permanent, that it was anything more than a way to let off some stress. If he fucked her, though, there was no way she would think he wasn't serious because there was no way he wouldn't
be
serious.

And he couldn't be serious. Not about her. She wasn't part of the plan.

He searched around the bed for a moment, grabbing the bag of candy she had given him earlier. Taking one of the little bars, he broke it half and slid on piece into her mouth. Watching her gorgeous lips slide over the chocolate—and then the hot little moan that followed—was worth not having a full bar for himself.

“Time enough for that later.”

Her fingers danced across the hardness of his chest. “You could have.”

“I know,” he said. “I’ll do anything I like to you, girl. You’re my property.”

Before, she might have slapped him for saying that. Now she drew into him deeper. He’d made her come, and she wasn’t soon to forget it. Beretta liked having that power over her. He liked it too much, and it scared him.

“Besides,” he said. “It excites me plenty just to eat you out.”

“Well then I’ll take advantage,” she said. “As much as you can take.”

“We’ll see who taps out first,” he said.

They were quiet for a long while, both of them dozing. But deep in the night, Helen began to stir. He could tell that she wanted to say something to him; he just didn’t know what it might be.

It was dumb, doing this. All he’d wanted was a quick tug on the release valve, a way to ease the pressure. He didn’t want anymore than that. And he hoped to god she didn’t either. This was a relief, for both of them. But to think that they could ever have anything more was insane.

And he wouldn’t let himself be hurt like that again.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice a bit on edge.

“I thought you were awake,” she said.

She sat up on the bed, slapping his chest lightly, then admiring it, running her hand down its hard surface again. Car lights from the highway outside shimmered through the curtain, casting strange shadows in the room.

“Listen,” she said. “I know that our fates are pretty much intertwined at this point. And I
get
the danger I’m in—from...everyone.” He could tell she wanted to be diplomatic and avoid saying
you bastards
. “But I’ve missed two days of work now and I disappeared in the middle of my shift. If I go back now, I might be able to explain it. But much longer and I won’t have a job. I won’t be able to
get
a job. And last I checked, you lot live a dangerous enough life to need someone in a hospital ready to help you out. I know that there's this deadline with the Cartel and everything, but I just...I want to feel useful. Everything you need to do now is like...criminal stuff. I don't know how to do any of that, but I know how to be a nurse.”

“That’s fine by me,” said Beretta. “I trust you. I’ll talk to Ace and we’ll make it happen.”

Just like that—it was easy to say it, easy to mean it. He really did think of her as one of his own.

How about that.

After a few moments, she seemed to doze. He looked down at her, wondering how asleep she was. He had to bite his tongue to keep from speaking.

Why did you leave me, girl? What wasn't I giving you?

––––––––

T
he two outlaws were on a roof of a small, abandoned department store at the edge of the city. The sky was clear, wide, and blue. This deep in West Texas, the horizon could stretch on for days, and the joke was you could watch your dog run away for a week.

About a half-mile away was the steelworks. Men with guns patrolled on the catwalks and checked in on radios attached their chests. They wore bullet proof vests and had heavy packs of ammo attached to belts around their waists.

“The Nurse,” said Locke, laughing. “I still can’t get over that shit. She was stone cold, man.”

He held a pair of binoculars in his hands, a small camera set up on a tripod next to him.

“Wasn’t hurting nothing,” said Tank. “Smart lady.”

Tank was laying down beneath the tripod, keeping his eyes on the steelworks. Locke got his eyes on specifics, and Tank kept his view on the picture as a whole. They worked well as a team.

His history with Locke was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Up until meeting Locke, his life had been a straight line of violence.

Tank had been in debt deep to the Furnace in Marlowe. They put him in the Pit Fights and essentially made a prisoner out of him. He wasn't allowed to leave or do anything else for more than two years except fight. They clothed him, fed him, and served him up women, like a gladiator in Roman times...but being a prisoner was still being a prisoner.

Then, Locke—as a new pledge to the Black Flags MC trying to make a name for himself—did his honest best to kick the Furnace out of Marlowe. With the other Black Flags at his back, he took out their bar and their Pit Fights...and that freed Tank from their grip.

Right after that, the Wrecking Crew swooped in and broke up the Furnace in Marlowe. The Furnace was still alive and well in other places like Stockland, having expanded into several cities just like the Wrecking Crew wanted to expand now. But, an MC lived and died on its reputation in a given city, and Locke and the Black Flags had destroyed the Furnace MC's rep in Marlowe.

It was a dog-eat-dog-eat dog sort of world when you were in a Motorcycle Club, and you stuck with the strongest men around to protect yourself. The Wrecking Crew took Tank in—glad for a fighter—and it was a strange inversion that they mostly viewed him as the veteran when he had less time than Locke as an actual MC pledge.

But, with as much time as he had fighting, they figured he was owed a little bit of special status. Truth was, they were all scared of him, and if he was being real honest, he knew they should be. Tank had a whole lot of violence left in him, even if he didn't want to let it out. He wasn't sure what to do about that, but it felt permanent.

Tank owed a great deal to the Wrecking Crew, and a great deal specifically to Locke. He was happy to fight for them, and more than happy to ride with them.

But this shit now in Stockland was a hard spot he'd found himself in and, though he'd never run, he could not help but wonder who he had pissed off to be in this situation.

He owed his whole life to the Wrecking Crew. When he had been in the Pit Fights in Marlowe, essentially owned by the Furnace, his existence had been nothing but one fight after another. He'd never lost. He'd built a reputation.

He had been miserable. Alone. They gave him books to read, sometimes. Pulpy stuff. He identified with zombies, because that's how he felt. The living dead.

Now, he was under the gun one more time. But he was grateful that at least he was fighting with the men he called his brothers. It was just too bad that he was the only one who seemed to get along with everyone.

Ace and Beretta hated each other, and Locke—who had never much liked Beretta, even when they were Black Flags together—seemed to still be mad that Beretta had gotten him shot. He had been complaining all day about the stiffness in his shoulder. An understandable grudge. Meanwhile, Ace treated Locke too much like a military subordinate and not enough like a second among equals.