Captive Ride (The Motorcycle Clubs)

by Ella Goode

  She lies there, chest heaving, eyes glittering, as I spread my hand across her belly and rub that seed deep into her body.

  “You’re mine now, Amy. Don’t you forget it.”

  She stares me straight in the eyes. “I belong to nobody.”

  To someone who didn’t know her like I did, that statement would sound like a declaration of defiance. But it’s more of a plea to me—one that says she’s tired of being alone but afraid of what it might mean to share her life with someone.

  She’s skittish like a newborn foal but set in her ways like an old mare. I’ve got to negotiate that tricky path to keep her. Without removing my leathers, I climb onto the bed. Now’s not the time to challenge her.

  I’ll show her what I mean and how I intend to go on soon enough.

  For now, though, I rest my head against her chest, letting her think I’m a docile pup brought to heel.

  “What are you doing here, Flint?” Her fingers comb through my hair. Beneath my ear, her steady heartbeat is a reassuring drum.

  “Helping you take a vacation, Amy.”

  “Having sex is a vacation?”

  “If you’re doing it right,” I smirk, and dart my tongue out to lick the tip of one pert breast.

  She tastes delicious. A little salty from her sweat, a little tart from her sassiness, and a little sweet from just being Amy. I lick it some more, watching it pucker and harden with each small lash.

  Her fingers tighten, and I can almost hear the grinding of the wheels in her head as she forces herself to act calm and relaxed, even though she’s getting worked up again.

  Chemistry like what we’ve got cooking between us can’t be snuffed out. It’s been crackling for a while and would have blown up into an ugly mess had I not acted on it when I did. Her arousal can’t be faked or hidden either. Her body betrays her in a thousand different ways.

  Goose bumps pebble her skin when I blow a hot gust of air across a patch of it. She becomes flushed as the blood rises to the surface, as her body yearns for my touch. Her lips, both sets, get swollen and heavy with want. And her pussy starts dripping with her need.

  She can say she doesn’t want it. She can pretend like she’s unaffected, but I’m learning every secret she has. Every tell. Every sign.

  She can’t hide from me.

  I don’t want her to.

  I want all of her. Her passion. Her fear. Her desire. Her need. Her wants. Her love. I want it all, and if she’s too chickenshit to give it to me, I’m going to take it.

  “We’re just getting started here,” I warn her. And there’s no time like the present to show her exactly what I mean. I sit up and roll off the bed and pick up the bag I tucked in the corner.

  Amy blinks sleepily from the bed, looking like a well-fed kitten. “Where are you going?”

  And that note of uncertainty in her voice, the little-girl-lost feeling that she tries to pretend doesn’t exist, is like a stake in the heart. I hate that she’s felt that way, but no more. Not while I’m here.

  “We’re going for a ride,” I correct her. There’s no me or her. Just us.

  She looks at the alarm clock on the nightstand. “It’s late, Flint, and I’m worn out.” She huffs out a small laugh.

  “Don’t really care that it’s late, Amy.” I pull out the gear I had made for her. A pair of leather pants, a cut, and a tight-fitting t-shirt.

  She looks at the gear with confused eyes. Amy’s idea of dressing down is slacks and a silk blouse sans the little coats she seems to wear everywhere even when it’s a blistering hundred degrees in the shade during those hot July days.

  “What’s all this?”

  “I told you,” I reply patiently. “We’re going for a ride. The leathers will ward off the chill and help protect you if, God forbid, I have to lay down my bike because some dumbshit motorist doesn’t know the rules of the road.”

  “It’s so late, though, and I have work in the morning.” Her heart’s not in her protest.

  “I’m pretty sure your calendar is clear.”

  This statement gets her ass in gear, or at least out of the bed. She yanks a filmy wisp of a thing from her dresser and pulls it on. The silky garment does little to conceal her ripe body.

  She watches me move around the room with narrowed eyes. “Did you collude with my secretary to clear my calendar?”

  “Yup.” I wander into her bathroom. “Now you should come in here and tell me what bottles I should stick in my bag because I don’t know one cream from the other. It all smells good, though. You can spread that shit on my dick after the ride and jack me off,” I comment, to tweak her nose.

  I know I’ve hit the right note when she stomps inside the bathroom and rips the little glass pot out of my hand. She sets it on the counter a little harder than necessary.

  “What’s going on? How long have you two been working on this? Tell me now, and don’t leave anything out.” Her voice rings with authority, which turns me on.

  “Jesus, you’re hot. That mouth of yours is making me horny.” I plant a hand on her ass and pull her hard against me. “I could take you again, right here in the bathroom. I’d bend you over that sink, and you could watch your tits bounce in the mirror as I pound into you from behind.”

  Color paints her high cheekbones. Amy might look all buttoned up, but she’s got a dark side—one she hasn’t allowed out, but that’s going to change.

  Now that she’s free from any bindings and wearing her ridiculous garment, I can see that she’s feeling more confident. I like a sure Amy, but to carry out my plan, it’s better that she be off balance.

  Fortunately, I know just what to do.

  I whip her around in one practiced move and kick her feet apart. She cries out in surprise and braces her hands on the sink’s edge.

  “Let me up, Flint,” she demands.

  Yeah, she needs a reminder of who’s in charge in the bedroom here. I grab the collar of the robe she just donned and jerk it down her arms. A twist and tie later, her hands are bound behind her back.

  “You look real pretty all tied up.”

  She jiggles her bound wrists. “You had your fun, Flint. Now it’s time to call it a night. No matter what it says on my schedule, I still have work to do tomorrow.”

  I reach down and cup her. “I’d believe you if you weren’t soaking my hand right now.” I keep my palm on her cunt and use a careful but rough hand to swing her stubborn chin around. “I’ll never get why you deny yourself, Amy. You’ve got toys. Naughty books. You want to be tied up, spanked, and fucked dirty. That’s not a bad thing.”

  “You don’t know anything.” She jerks her chin away.

  I tuck that reaction away. There’s a story here that she’s not told me and that I haven’t discovered through my own investigation. I don’t press because she doesn’t trust me yet. She might believe I’m good for a few things—protection, standing up for my brothers, and good in bed—but she’s not convinced that I’m looking for anything more than a few nights of good dicking.

  So for now, I’ll give her the physical until she realizes that I’m not going anywhere.

  Hand between her shoulder blades, I press her forward so that her pert ass is sticking up. I use my legs and torso to hold her in place while I roll down a rubber.

  Her cunt is swollen from her recent orgasm, and the fit is tight. She gasps as I push inside.

  “What do you want, Amy? Lady’s choice. Fast and hard or slow and easy?”

  She rises on her tiptoes and pushes back. “Fast and hard.”

  I bend my knees and surge upward, nearly lifting her off her feet. “Like this?”

  “Yes, God, yes, fuck me, Flint!”

  The unexpected coarse words from my prim Amy cause me to nearly burst before I can bring her off. I pull out abruptly and turn her around, lifting her to sit on the edge of the sink.

  In this position and with her hands tied behind her back, she has no balance. I press her thighs apart, displaying her dripping, flushed cunt
.

  “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’re going to feel me in your throat,” I growl. One thrust and I’m inside her. Her head snaps back against the mirror. I think her hands must be braced against the faucet, but she is helpless under my assault.

  I bury myself inside her until my balls are slapping the underside of her ass. Her cunt walls begin to ripple around me—her need is just that fucking strong. She’s almost coming and I’ve only stroked my cock inside her once.

  “You don’t come until I tell you to,” I order.

  “No. I can’t wait,” she pants.

  “You will or I’ll pull out,” I warn.

  She narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

  I pull back, just a fraction. Because she can’t grab me with her hands, she does one better. She squeezes her cunt muscles so tight, I swear my eyes cross.

  I let out a helpless laugh. “Fuck, Amy. You don’t fight fair.”

  Being with her is going to be a constant battle, but I knew that and I love it.

  There’s no chance of me drawing this out, not when she’s working her pussy against me like she’s competing to win the Kegel Olympics. Next time, I’m going to fuck her for hours.

  For now, I’m going to hammer this cunt until she’s screaming so loud her throat aches.

  “Look at your pretty cunt sucking up my cock,” I tell her, drawing her eyes down. I pull out slowly so she can appreciate how fucking hot it is. My cock is engorged and wet with her lube. She looks like she’s devouring me.

  “It’s…you’re so big,” she says in amazement. “I don’t know how you fit inside me.”

  Her unintentionally filthy words make my head spin, and I’m two seconds from blowing my load.

  “Viewing time is over, Amy.”

  I withdraw and flip her around again and take her hard against the sink. She grunts with each thrust of my hips against her, but it only takes three strokes and she’s off, flying. Her head falls forward and her body loses its ability to hold itself upright. I clamp an arm around her waist and thrust that last stroke in before jumping over that cliff with her.

  She slumps against me, all the fight out of her. Two hard orgasms will do that to a person. I carefully untie her wrists, wipe a warm washcloth over her tits, torso, and cunt, and carry her sleepy head to the bed.

  In the bathroom, I say, “Fuck it,” and sweep every last bottle, jar, and tube into the carryall. She can sort it out later.

  Chapter 5

  Amy

  I wake up to a hand over my mouth.

  “Shh.” Flint’s whisper is nearly voiceless. “You’ve got visitors. I’m going to get up, and when I leave the room, you roll out of bed. Don’t stand. Roll. Got it? Nod your head if you get me.”

  I nod. People in my house?

  “Good girl.” He presses his lips against my cheek. “Go to the bathroom. Get a can of hairspray, and wait.”

  He rises soundlessly from the bed and pads to the door. He pauses, and it’s at that point I see the wicked gun in his right hand. I strain to hear the intruders, but the only sound is the whirring of my old furnace, chugging along on its last breath.

  He slips out, down the hall, and I beat back the urge to run after him. I do as I’m told because if there’s anyone capable of fighting off an intruder, it’s Flint. And it’s not the big bruising body I’m putting my faith in, but the cold killer that lurks inside.

  I know what the Death Lords is—a club that skirts around the edges of the law. The President called on me to bail out his son who’d killed a skinhead in a skirmish outside a bar. They’d given me enough information to help deal the son’s case down to an involuntary manslaughter charge, and he served only three years.

  Only. At the age of nineteen, he was already a felon. But having a record was true for many of the Death Lords—most of the charges were related to violent assaults. None against women. I would have walked away and said damn the consequences if I’d found out that they were mistreating women. That’s my hard line. You can rip off the taxman, you can kill a racist, but do not hurt a woman.

  My priorities are messed up. Sometimes I wonder what I might have become if I’d worn the white hat in the courtroom and not the black one. But my path was set the moment my uncle died in prison, serving a life sentence for a crime he didn’t commit. Too poor to have decent representation, he took the fall for some rich guy with enough money to hire a raft of lawyers when my Uncle Dale couldn’t afford even one. He had to make do with a wet-behind-the-ears public defender whose law degree was so fresh you could still smell the ink on it when you walked into his shabby cubicle of an office.

  I huddle in the bathroom, bottle of hairspray in hand. The stupid thing isn’t one of those big aerosol cans everyone used to use before aerosol was deemed to be dangerous for our ozone layer. My hairspray is a pump-action thing with a fine mist that probably can’t shoot a spray farther than a few inches.

  But I can imagine what Flint would say if he came in here and I didn’t have something in my hand. “Amy, goddammit I told you to grab a bottle of hairspray. You think this is a game? Maybe you need a spanking to remind you who’s in charge.”

  Just thinking about his commanding voice sends a shiver of need down my back. A scuffling noise from downstairs reminds me that my thoughts are completely inappropriate, but then I’m sore, sticky, and draped in a blanket while there’s at least one armed man running around my house.

  I don’t know what the protocol is for this particular situation.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Flint’s voice rises through the grate in the bathroom floor.

  There’s a muffled response and then the sound of flesh hitting flesh. I wince, hoping Flint isn’t on the receiving end of that punch.

  “Nice patch there. You think that’s going to protect you? Think again because I don’t give a fuck who your president is. If you’re acting on his orders, then you just went to war with the Death Lords.”

  “You Death Lords are pussies,” the intruder spits back.

  “And you’re dumb as shit because I’m the one with the gun at your temple, and you’re the one kneeling at my feet with your hands taped behind your back. Your little friend is out cold. I think he fell on his own knife.”

  There’s another sound, a violent one, followed by a grunt of pain.

  “I’m only asking one more time,” Flint says. “Who are you?”

  “Go…to…hell,” the other man chokes out.

  “Amy, I can hear you breathing through the vent,” Flint calls up to me. “Go on and put those clothes on I left at the end of the bed. When you’re done dressing, come down with the bag. It’s by the door.”

  I do as he says because I want to live. On the floor, near the foot of the bed, is a pile of leather and cotton. The items must have fallen off the bed while we were having sex. I pull on the leather pants, marveling at how comfortable they are and how well they fit. I’ve never even thought about leather in pants before. That seemed to be a material better suited to purses, shoes, and jackets. It’s as I’m pulling the t-shirt over my head that I hear it—a sharp, muffled, but unmistakable boom.

  Moments later I hear footsteps on the stairs. “Just me, Amy,” Flint announces as he climbs the stairs. I hurriedly dress, throwing on the jacket I find on the floor without even looking at it.

  Flint stops in the doorway. “You’re a picture, sweetheart. A real picture.” He stalks forward and circles me, taking in the tight fit of the pants, the nipped-in waist of the leather jacket, and the way that the cotton t-shirt hugs my nearly non-existent curves.

  “Beautiful,” he says. His hand cups my jaw, and the smell of gunpowder is unmistakable.

  “Is there a mess downstairs?” I ask, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice. Now’s not the time for me to break down.

  “Yeah, but someone will be here to clean it up,” Flint replies absently and with zero concern that he’s left at least two dead men in my kitchen. “You have a pair of boots?” He looks ar
ound.

  “Downstairs by the back door.”

  He strides to the corner of the room where the case holding my things and who knows what else is rests. He flings it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  My bare feet don’t move. I’m not sure what I’m getting into, and I need to know. I need to have a lot more information than the few crumbs he’s dropping.

  “Is my house secure?” I ask.

  “It is for the next couple of hours but after that, no, which is why you and I are taking a ride to Fortune for the night. I’ll bring you back to the cities tomorrow so you can pack up anything else you need, and then we’re taking a vacation. You been to Wyoming, Amy?” He tilts his head to the side, wearing a curious and bland expression.

  That doesn’t fly with me. Yes, Flint can wring the most exquisite orgasms from my body. Yes, I have had mad lust for him for years, ever since I started representing the Death Lords member on that murder charge. Yes, having him boss me around in the bedroom was the most exciting sexual experience I ever had, but I’m a grown woman with a successful legal practice, and I’ve lived on my own for over a decade. I’ve been taking care of myself for even longer.

  I’m my own person, and if Flint wants to be part of my life, he’s going to have to accept that.

  “No. I haven’t been to Wyoming, but I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on, starting with why you showed up at the restaurant today and ending with why I need a clean-up team at my house.”

  Flint scratches under his chin thoughtfully. “Those assholes downstairs didn’t come for me. They came for you.”

  “Me?” I can’t stop the shocked squeak that comes out. “I thought they were from a rival MC. Isn’t that why you’ve been watching me all these years?”

  Flint frowns. “The MC we’re keeping our eyes on is a skinhead group out west. We’re looking out for you because you did us a solid representing Wrecker, not because we thought you’d be the target of some other club.”