Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (17 page)

Soon, his bag was full. He popped out through the door—Helen still had the guard distracted—and he walked down the hall and into the stairwell, waiting for Helen.

His heart rate had climbed during the robbery. When he saw Helen again, some five minutes later, it doubled and doubled again. Every part of her made him feel alive.

“Sorry,” her eyes were wide and a bit frazzled. “Guy was desperate for a conversation.”

“I’d be desperate to talk to you, too, if I was him.”

She laughed. “Well, it’s done now. Let’s go.”

He was ready for that, but ready for more, too. He pulled her in and kissed her thoroughly, loving the taste of her mouth. Right away she was pliable in his arms, giving in to his strength.

Not part of today's plan, kissing her. But goddamn, it should have been. She felt too good to not plan for.

Eventually he broke the kiss, pulling her along. No one passed them on the stairs. Helen explained that once Beretta was out, she would double-back and enter from the front and start her shift properly.

Once they made it to the first floor, a tall, handsome, skinny man with thick blond hair approached Helen as they passed the coffee stand where visitors congregated. Past this stand, the hallway was empty save for the three of them. Beretta had fallen a little behind trying to adjust the bag on his shoulders so the weight was distributed evenly, so it would have been easy for the newcomer to think that Helen was alone.

“Hello, Helen,” the man said.

Helen drew up, stiffening and drawing her limbs close together.

“Randall.”

Helen clearly knew him—and knew him well. He had nice hair and a friendly smile, but there was something underneath it that made Beretta’s skin crawl. This not even mentioning the way that Helen’s body language changed—suddenly hunched over, arms crossed, protective.

This Randall had hurt Helen. He had
hurt
Helen and Beretta knew without a doubt that he was going to hurt him for it.

“It’s real nice to see you.” He had a calm, easy smile. “You’re looking real pretty.”

His voice carried the easy sort of twang that made a man seem affable even when he wasn’t.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Gosh, do we have to start out like that? I haven’t seen you in, man, six months? You’re looking great.”

“I heard you. And it’s been nine months. They’ve been wonderful. Please, let’s pretend this never happened and make it nine decades, all right?”

She moved to walk past him and he put his hand on her shoulder, spinning her just rough enough. Beretta’s temper flared.

“Hey now,” said Randall. “I’ve been trying to reach you. You don’t just walk away from me—”

Beretta shoved his forearm against Randall’s throat and jammed him hard against the wall. His feet started kicking Beretta’s shins, lifted up as they were a foot off the ground.

“She don’t want to talk to you,” said Beretta. “I’d leave her the fuck alone. Forever.”

“I don’t know...
who
you think you are, pal, but she and I, we have a
history
...”

Again, Beretta shoved him into the wall. This time his head banged hard against the plaster.

“I’m gonna make you history you don’t shut the fuck up right now. You understand me?”

Randall didn’t answer, so Beretta shoved his forearm deeper into his meat, thumping his head back against the wall a third time.

“I said, do you fucking understand me, string cheese? Or do I need to explain things to you the way I explain them to someone
I don’t like
?”

“I g-get you,” Randall choked. “L-leave her alone. I h-hear you.”

“Good.”

He let Randall down and he collapsed to the floor in a heap. The smaller man held his neck, eyes still bulging a bit, his throat red. Coughs and spasms emptied out from him like exhaust from an old car.

That
felt good. There was something that was right; something he had done for Helen alone.

Smirking, Beretta grabbed Helen and kissed her tight, right over the fallen Randall. She resisted at first—surprised—and then his lips melded over hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth. They locked lips for nearly a minute, his hands tight on her curves.

“It's still...we're in public,” she breathed as he relinquished his grip.

Beretta didn't give a damn.

“You’re my property,” he said. “And everybody has to know.”

––––––––

H
elen didn’t want to go back to work with Randall still there, and she had no idea when he would actually clear out. She asked Beretta to drive her around for an hour to let him leave and to help her gather herself in case she needed to face him again.

So they were out on the highway, circling around the city of Stockland and taking in the plain, rustic beauty of the morning as the sun rose up. They passed cacti and cliffs, dirt roads and worn patches of small, rain-starved forest.

She said nothing about Beretta’s intervention; she didn’t know what to feel about it.

On the one hand, she was doing just fine before Beretta came along.
Very
fine, as a matter of fact, on her way up in the hospital’s eyes and maybe looking at a shift manager position sometime soon, with Georgetta’s blessing. She’d gotten away from Randall all on her own and was perfectly happy to kick him in the balls until all future generations of Randalls were as evaporated as rain on hot concrete.

And on the other hand...

Her body grew warm and she clung harder to Beretta’s body, her hand sliding down to his crotch. He was hard and he was
ready
, and Helen moaned at full volume, knowing the motorcycle drowned out the sound and the vibration, both.

She didn’t have to hide any of her feelings, riding with him like this. The wind whipped through her hair. Every second on the bike was more dangerous than the last, and not just because Beretta drove faster and faster.

Touching him was dangerous. Knowing him was dangerous.

So, yes, she could take care of herself when it came to Randall.

On the other hand, watching Beretta take care of Randall for her was pretty fucking
hot
. It was a weird, biological, primal impulse to watch and enjoy the mate she chose—loosely speaking, of course—terrorize the mate she had rejected.

But all the same her heart had thumped, her pulse quickened, her body temperature rose, and her moistness grew as she witnessed Beretta utterly dismantle Randall. It had been hell to resist the urge to slide against him as he did it, to bite his shoulder and slip her hand around his cock, to beg him to maybe give the asshole one or two more shots in the ribs just for her.

It wasn’t just that Beretta cared that turned her on, though that was nice. It was his possessiveness, his
protection
, his alpha-supremacy that didn’t allow any challengers to his right to his woman. That struck right to the core of her.

Randall had tried to be possessive with her—still tried, now that she thought about it. But his always came from a place of desperation, a place of insecurity and a need for validation.

The contrast was remarkable. Randall would have seen someone talking to her like
he
had just tried to do, and would have berated
her
and degraded
her
all the way home in the car. He would have waited, blaming
her
for the problem, reminding Helen that she was
supposed
to be
his
.

With Beretta...it was different. He wasn’t insecure. He just didn’t like the asshole talking to his woman. The asshole had to know right away—and if he wanted to fight about it? Go the fuck ahead.

See what happens.

Her body squeezed tighter against Beretta’s, her hand grasping more firmly on his ever-growing cock. She didn’t think it had a limit to how hard it could get; or if it did, she hadn’t seen it.

There was nothing she wanted more in that moment than to feel him inside her.

Beretta pulled over into a rest stop off the highway. It was the kind with the gondolas and picnic tables and a stout, round brown building full of restrooms and road maps. An outcropping of rocks piled high next to one of the gondolas. Her heart began to skip wildly. Was he needing it to? Was their passion that much in sync? Stepping off the bike, Beretta pulled her behind the outcropping so they were out of the view of the road.

She waited for him to speak—needing to hear him say it first, not trusting herself to proposition just yet.

And he did speak first. More than that. He took her by the throat and kissed her hard, crushing her body against his.

“I need to fuck you, ” he said simply. “Now.”

Any resistance she might have felt had long since melted. Today, Beretta was everything that made her think he was terrific—making a plan, easy with his decisions, organizing their movements. And now all that was operating on her—planning his way out here to the middle of nowhere, deciding he would simply take her and that was that. No worries about consequences, no second-guessing—just doing and damn it all.

She nodded. “Yes. Please.”

The strength left her knees. Her breaths came quicker, hotter, even though there were less of them with his hand on her throat. She felt dizzy and needy, both, and her lips fell into his. Arms wrapped tight around his thick neck and she let out a long, shuddering moan, her body pushing urgently into him and kissing him.

She didn’t want him to have any doubt about how badly she wanted—
needed
—to fuck him too.

He kissed her harder, rougher, than she could ever recall him doing it before. Slowly, it occurred to her that recent events instigated this need for her. The crime had turned him on. Not to mention the roughing up of Randall.

That was fine by her. It had turned her on too. He was her fucking
man
, and it felt
good
to belong to baddest motherfucker in the city.

Beneath them was a patch of grass, soft and still a little wet from the morning. Very soon he had her pants down, her body turned over on the grass so that she was on her hands and knees on the grass. She could feel the moist, warm shaft of his manhood sliding up the back of her legs. He took his time, his hands crawling over her body. So warm and strong. She moaned at every touch. She was wet, and she was ready.

And then he was inside her.

Her entire being buckled and then melted, clenching against him. He felt so good. Better than she ever remembered.

How had she stopped this? How had she quit on
this
? This fucking joining that made everything make sense, that brought it all together, that connected every last dot in the coloring book.

Only a portion of him could enter at first. It was all she could stand. With as bad as she needed him, everything clenched tight, aching for more, desperate for him to never leave. And then he backed out, doubling her pleasure as he did, and then he was pushing in again, deeper this time.

She laughed and groaned in pleasure at the same time, a deep throaty sound that seemed to excite him. This was the kind of life she had always wanted for herself.

A biker's old lady. His road woman. Taking her off the side of the road to fuck her because he simply couldn't contain himself any longer. Even as she stayed in the moment, her thoughts drifted, wondering how much hotter it would all be if he had some big bag of cash with him from a robbery. Or if they were splayed out together on the cash themselves...

He was nothing but danger, and god help her, but she wanted to live that danger for the rest of her life.

It took more than two minutes for his entirety to get inside her, and that was with her growing wetter and wetter as he worked and thrust into her center. He was so
big
inside of her. She had never felt so full in her life, even when he had fucked her before.

“God,” he said softly, groaning as he pushed deeper inside her. “You’re so beautiful.”

All she could do in response was bite her lips. She was afraid if she did much more than she would be crying out loud enough for the highway traffic to hear. Squeezing him harder, tighter, she began to push in time with his thrusts. They were slow, together, finding their rhythm, finding what worked.

It took several more minutes of experimenting, all of them immensely pleasurable, full of him biting her shoulder and his fingers raking down her back, before they found that perfect rhythm.

He would buck forward and she slid back, the two of them joining in the middle. Then they would both withdraw, and then push back into each other again. Pleasure filled Helen, a perfect white ball, spinning and growing, floating underneath every moan, every cry, every thrust, and every shiver.

“Don't stop,” she moaned, needing to feel him inside of her. “Don't stop. Don't...don't!”

“Mine,” he growled as he pumped into her faster. “All mine. You're all mine. You're
my
property.”

She was. She wanted to be, heart and soul. And as that realization hit her, so did the first incredible waves of her rapture. His cockhead surged against her in all the right places, unlocking an orgasm that had been building for minutes and minutes. Bliss shook through her body and she trembled beneath him as he fucked her harder than ever, his own incumbent orgasm instigating a series of piston-like thrusts that were harder than anything he'd ever delivered to her before.

When he could take no more, he pulled out, sliding his shaft on her rear to finish himself with her body still. His seed, hot and urgent, spilled on her backside. For several seconds he massaged his shaft between the cheeks of her ass, and she welcomed the feeling, coaxing every last bit of his hot essence out of him.

Together, they let out long, hot breaths, realizing for the first time how actually exposed they were out there on the highway.

“Let’s do that again sometime.” She turned to him, grinning.

He smiled back—and she
knew
the sex had been fantastic—but there was something in his eyes that gave her pause.