Sweet Sin: A Wild Hawks MC Romance

by K. S. Ellis

  'Dinner won't be long, sugar,' she says distractedly, not looking up from the dough she's kneading.

  'No problem, sweet thing,' I tease, smirking, crossing my arms over my chest and raising an eyebrow. She gasps as her head flies up, and a shocked look crosses her face.

  'Oh,' and she raises her hand to lay across her heart like she's a fucking fifty-year-old English woman who just found out they're out of fucking tea. 'I didn't realize you were back,' she blushes, which doesn't bring my eyebrow back down. If she didn't know it was me, then who the fuck was she calling "sugar"? 'I thought you were the young one,' she explains. Which isn't as good a fucking explanation as she seems to think it is.

  'Strafe?' I hear the disbelief, and the anger, in my voice. She hears it too, because she cocks her head at me, one eyebrow slowly rising.

  'He's sweet,' she says with a shrug, deliberately fucking misunderstanding my tone. 'He seems a little lost, and when I offered to make dinner, he got so excited. I just,' she shrugs again, a soft look coming over her face, 'couldn't resist.'

  She's a fucking enigma. She has a California accent, but speaks with Southern mannerisms; she's making Louisiana fucking gumbo, while smiling fondly about an outlaw biker, who she just described as "young" and "sweet".

  'Mom usually leaves us something,' I say, but she just shrugs one more time, looking back down at her cornbread.

  'Your momma was in a mighty hurry to get out of here once we got back. I think it had something to do with seeing your sister.'

  'Fuck!' She doesn't jump at my sudden outburst, but her eyes do flicker up at me, before glancing away again. 'I fucking forgot that Nan was working today.' She turns and puts the cornbread in the oven, before washing her hands and reaching for the glass of white wine sitting on the counter, which I hadn't noticed before. Well, this is a little bit fucking domestic, isn't it? I smirk down at my beer before putting it down on the counter and stalking around, coming to a halt before her. Lena's breath catches as I encroach on her personal space, and she places her wine glass down as well.

  Her pupils dilate as I reach up and brush away the flour from her cheek with my fingers, and I have no idea why I fucking do it, but I then curl them around her neck and draw her close, my lips clamping down on hers. She moans softly as my tongue invades her mouth, her hands coming to rest on my hips as my other hand snakes around her waist and tugs her flush to me, squashing her breasts against my chest, grinding my hard cock into her stomach. A groan escapes me, and my hands find their way down to her perky ass, before lifting her up and depositing her on the countertop. Then I move between her legs, forcing her thighs apart.

  This is another reason why I like those fucking prissy dresses of hers. If she was wearing one of them, I could be buried to the fucking hilt in her already. Stupid fucking jeans. Fuck this shit; from now on she should wear those fucking dresses every fucking day. My fingers pop open the button of her jeans and work the zipper down while her hands roam over my shoulders, feeling my muscles. I let her take my shirt off, and I can see her eyes tracing over all my ink. Seizing the opportunity while she's distracted, I tug off her shirt and my breath catches when I get an eyeful of her lacy black bra, with its fucking little diamond stud nestled between her breasts. My mouth captures hers again and my fingers slip into the opening in her jeans. There's lace there too, and I fucking pray to whatever gods are fucking out there that it's a matching fucking set. The universe fucking owes me this one, I feel.

  Pushing aside the scrap of lace that stands between my fingers and their goal, I can feel her wet heat and I groan into her mouth again. My fingers part her wet folds and two slip in as she breaks the kiss, tipping her head back and moaning. My mouth trails down her freckled throat, kissing and suckling as my thumb finds her clit and rolls it around. She's making even fucking sexier sounds now, her eyes still shut, her breath coming out in little bursts while she moans and bucks her hips. I manage to lift her awkwardly while working off her jeans. She helps by kicking her sneakers off, and they fall to the floor with two thuds before they are joined by her jeans. God, my man, is looking out for me today, because her teeny tiny black lace panties do fucking match the sexy bra, and they have fucking little diamantes on them too, I note before they quickly join the jeans and sneakers on the floor.

  She's gripping my shoulders now, her head thrown back in abandon as she chases her release, and she's fucking close. I can feel it as her pussy starts to contract around my fingers. With my spare hand I manage to undo my jeans, get them and my boxers around my ankles, and roll on a condom. Just as she shatters around my fingers, I pull them out and thrust my cock in hard, stilling, buried to the hilt, riding her orgasm as the walls of her pussy clench my cock. She screams at the sudden change from my fingers to my cock and the kitchen door bursts open as Killer, Conrad, and Bruiser burst in to investigate the sound.

  All three of them stand there, staring, fucking grinning, until Bruiser snorts and leaves, and Killer chokes back a laugh while dragging a wide-eyed Conrad away with him. Too busy riding the crest of her orgasm, Lena doesn't even fucking notice. Once the squeezing on my cock lessens somewhat, I begin to move, withdrawing and then thrusting back in, hard. Her eyes are still closed and she's panting, with her hands still gripping my shoulders, and I can feel her climax building up again. This time they better not fucking come in here, or they're fucking dead men, all three of them. Right as I come, slamming into her sweet pussy and holding there, Lena loses it again, screaming my name as she shatters.

  Her head falls forward and rests against my chest as she struggles to catch her breath, and I stand there, unable to wipe the fucking grin off my face. Finally, I pull out of her and turn to dispose of the condom and dress myself, looking down and picking at the flour now clinging to my black shirt, transferred from hers. When I turn back to the counter, Lena has hopped down and is tugging on her jeans, buttoning them up and pulling on her shirt. Yeah, she's definitely wearing those dresses from now on. She blushes when she looks up at me.

  'Dinner will be done in about ten minutes,' she tells me, and I smirk at how rough and gravelly her voice sounds, after all that screaming she's just done.

  No one fucking looks at Lena when they come in to collect their dinner, except Strafe, who looks like a fucking puppy who has just discovered its mother. The other three keep their eyes locked on the overflowing plates she hands them, sitting themselves down at the breakfast bar, and then Conrad looks up and smirks at her.

  'Messy work isn't it,' he drawls, 'cooking, I mean?' Lena looks confused, but she blushes, as though she understands his meaning, and Killer smacks Conrad upside the head before I can throw my knife at his fucking face.

  'This is really good, thanks Lena,' Strafe grins, unintentionally breaking the tension in the room. 'Gumbo, that's Southern, right?'

  'My momma's from Louisiana, sugar,' she smiles at him, clearly grateful, though I can see that she's not entirely sure why she should be. 'This is her recipe.'

  'Pie's good,' Bruiser grunts, not looking up from where he is already digging into his pecan pie dessert.

  'That's my grandmomma's recipe,' she beams, clearly proud. It's so fucking cute.

  Chapter 10

  LENA

  Aric disappears again in the morning, and I take my time getting ready before heading downstairs. Tammy-Lynn is nowhere to be seen, but I see Bruiser lounging on one of the sofas, twirling a knife around his fingers, his head nodding along slightly to some rock song playing from the jukebox. He smirks as he glances over at me, his eyes running down my navy tea dress with white polka dots, before his gaze fixes on my brown leather ankle boots, and then he grins when he hears my request.

  'I'm not taking you on the back of my rig when you're dressed like that,' he smirks, his eyes meeting mine, and I feel the sudden urge to run far, far away from him. He has the creepiest, coldest blue eyes I have ever seen. Looking into his eyes, I feel like I can feel all the pain he has inflicted on others. Probably with that knife he's
twirling around like a cheerleader’s baton. Then he jerks his head towards the auto garage outside the clubhouse doors.

  'They'll point you in the direction of a car you can take.' Okay, conversation over apparently. He's looking back at the middle distance again, as though I'm not still standing here. Sighing, I put on my sunglasses against the bright California sunshine, and make my way over to the auto garage. Strafe is working on the engine of a BMW, and he grins across at me when I come to a halt out the front of the garage.

  'Bruiser said that you guys can hook me up with a car?' I ask. Strafe smiles and moves towards a board with numerous keys hanging off it, when an older man frowns at me, folding his arms in front of him.

  'And just where do you think you're going, girly?' he asks in a gruff voice.

  'Fangs,' Strafe's fingers freeze holding the keys he was fetching for me, 'Aric will be fine with it.'

  'I'm just running into town,' I tell him, before smiling at Strafe and holding out my hand for the keys.

  'You went into town yesterday with Tammy-Lynn.' Fangs sounds like he's accusing me of something and my eyes narrow as I glare at him.

  'Yes, she took me around when she ran her errands, now I want to run my own errands.' I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant.

  'You couldn't ask Aric's Mom to take you where you wanted to go yesterday?' What, does he think that I'm going to meet up with a secret boyfriend or something? Sorry I didn't ask the momma of the man I'm sleeping with to take me to a salon to get my lady bits waxed. Holy hell, this guy needs to chill.

  'She seemed a little bit eager to get home after we ran into Hannah,' I say, taking a shot in the dark. Annnnnd bull’s-eye. Fangs just nods and steps back so that Strafe can hand me the keys to a silver Chevy. I shoot him a genuine smile, before smirking in Fangs' direction and I saunter over to the truck and drive away.

  The salon has no affiliations with the club; I checked when I called to book in an appointment. Call me squeamish, but I couldn't stomach having a woman who has slept with Aric waxing my vagina.

  Three hours later, I'm heading back to the clubhouse feeling like a new woman. I've had a trim and style of my hair, a facial, a bone melting massage that fixes all the little pains that have accumulated from sleeping on that damn uncomfortable sofa, as well as a mani pedi, and of course, my bikini wax. I also stopped off and bought a different pillow. Probably won't help me from needing to blow all my savings on weekly massages, but it might help a little.

  As I'm walking back into the clubhouse, my shopping bag in hand, a bunch of the men are walking out of the "forbidden" door. Aric isn't among them, so I just ignore them and head upstairs. I barely have time to set up my new pillow when there's a knock on the door. Killer is lounging on the other side, and he looks me over quickly and smirks at me before walking away, beckoning that I follow.

  'Aric was looking for you earlier.' Oops. I probably should have told him that I was planning on heading out, but he had disappeared by the time I had gotten up. As I trail Killer through the bar, all the men have dispersed and there's no one there to stare or object as he leads me through the forbidden doorway and into a corridor that is lined with photographs of men and their motorcycles. My eyes trail across the black and white photographs until they spot the one of Aric. He's lounging on his motorcycle, a wrist resting on the handlebars, the other laying on his thigh and he's frowning off into the distance, not looking at the camera.

  Killer has reached double doors at the other end of the corridor, and he looks around for me, since I'm not right behind him anymore. I hurry towards him and he jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the double doors.

  'He's in the chapel here,' he says, before striding away and back out to the bar, leaving me alone in the quiet corridor. I crack open the doors and peek through them. Aric's the only one in the room, and he's sitting at one end of the table, next to a chair that is slightly larger than the rest. His legs are stretched out on the floor in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and his elbows are resting on the arms of his chair as he steeples his fingers and taps them against his chin. He's staring at the framed painting at the other end of the table, which is of two hawks, diving towards each other. He looks over in surprise when the doors click shut behind me, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline.

  'Killer said that you were looking for me?' I say, smoothing down my skirt in an action I know is a nervous tic. His eyes follow my hands, and they light up when they take in my outfit. The room is not what I expected from Killer's words. There's a large wooden table, which is ringed by the chairs. Apart from the painting Aric had been staring at when I came in, there's really no other decor to speak of. I study the painting for a moment too, wondering why it looks so familiar. Then I realize where I've seen it before, and a faint blush creeps across my cheeks. Aric has the same image tattooed large across his shoulder blades. It covers the entire top half of his back. I saw it when he was getting dressed again in the kitchen.

  'This doesn't really look like a chapel,' I say in surprise, trying to break the awkwardness, and the silence. It works, because Aric also looks around, almost surprised, and then chuckles. It's a low, rumbling sound that I swear I can feel in my vagina.

  'Not that kind of chapel,' he smirks, his eyes darkening as they sweep over me again. I shiver, and I can feel my heartbeat picking up. When he looks at me like that, like I'm a delicious meal and he's a starving man, his dark eyes turn almost black. But not a cold black, like a burning hot black. He still hasn't moved; still sitting in his chair, still has his ankles crossed. The only difference is that his fingers are no longer steepled; rather, his arms are just resting on the chair armrests, his hands dangling towards his lap. Then he lifts a hand and beckons me over. I can feel my feet moving to comply with his request, though I'm pretty sure my brain is taking a nap.

  I come to a halt beside his chair, and he has tipped his head back so that he can see my face. His hand reaches out and curls around my knee, before sliding up my inner thigh, until his fingers brush my slightly damp panties. I blush, but I can't break the eye contact. Then he smirks and pulls his hand away and I sigh. His eyes drop down, away from my face, and he raises the hand that had been touching me so intimately. Lifting my skirt to peek at my panties, he grins like a boy who’s been left alone in a candy store. Dropping my skirt, he jerks me so that I'm straddling him, my crotch coming down hard on his, and I can feel that he's erect. His fingers find the hem of my dress and suddenly it's over my head, off and floating to the floor beside the chair, and now I'm straddling him in this weird non-chapel "chapel" in just my matching navy lace bra and panties and my brown, block heeled ankle boots.

  His breath hitches and his eyes roam all over me, as dark as steaming tar pools. Then his hands brush over the lace at my breasts before tracing down my stomach and fingering the black ribbon at the waist of my panties. My hands are on his shoulders, which I'm thankful for when he suddenly surges out of the chair, picking me up with him, and deposits me on the shiny wooden table; before he tugs off his shirt and undoes his jeans. He casts a quick look over at the double doors, which remain closed, before tugging off my panties, careful not to rip them when he gets them over my boots. My boots which he smirks at as he leaves them on. Then he rolls on a condom, pushing me down with a large hand on my stomach so that I can feel the cool wood of the table at my bare back, as he thrusts into me with a guttural groan.

  He stills then, his eyes trailing over my body, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips when he glances at the table I'm lying on, before his fingers curl around my hips and he starts to thrust. Aric sets a punishing pace that would have me squirming if my body wasn't so distracted by the building pleasure I can feel. His fingers leave my waist, and I'm vaguely aware that he hooks his hands underneath my knees, lifting up my legs for a deeper angle. The slight change in position is enough to topple me over the edge of my orgasm and a scream rips through my throat. He follows my crest after a few more pumps and then drops my knees, but
stays standing between my legs, buried deep inside of me. His eyes are closed, and he’s leaning over me, his hands resting on the table on either side of my stomach as he gets his breathing in check. I lie there panting, still shuddering with the aftershocks of my orgasm and perversely, I have to fight a smile. My voice is going to be permanently husky if he keeps this up, with all the screaming he's making me do.

  Chapter 11

  ARIC

  Holy. Fucking. Shit. I owe Killer. Big time. When Lena first crept in here, I was pissed, not gonna lie. Women don't come into the chapel. Ever. Not even my mother. And when she said Killer had told her to come in here, I was sure that he was stirring shit. But then I got carried away because she was back to her prissy little dresses, and I knew that she had been running around town in it. Strafe admitted it when I went out to the garage looking for her, and I'm pretty sure Fangs was annoyed because he wanted to be the one to tell me. Fucking grown men tattling like little girls. This is why I have never gotten seriously fucking involved with a woman before. Turns hard men into fucking pussies.

  When she came to stand next to me and I could feel the lace at her crotch, and could tell that she was already wet for me, then I knew I had to fuck her in here. Of course, I couldn't resist a peek under her skirt and yep, God's still got my back, fucking bro that he is, because it's another lacy one, and again, it's fucking color matched to her dress. Fuck heaven, I have to never die so that I can stay right fucking here. Never knew it was my fantasy to fuck a woman on the table we take church at, facing the painting of the club's fucking insignia, but apparently it was. Or rather, it was my fantasy to fuck Lena here, because I can't get excited about picturing one of the club groupies in her place.

  I pull out of her and tug off the used condom, swiping her clothes from the floor and handing them to her. Unlike last night, I watch her as she gets dressed while she’s still perched on the edge of the table as I tidy myself up and tug my shirt back on. I chuck the condom in the trashcan by the door. Whichever club hang-around comes to clean this room, they can make of that what they fucking will. She's watching me; I realize when I turn back to her. But when she catches my glance, she quickly looks away, studying the room again, as she did when she first came in here.