by Madison Faye
“Oh fuuuuck,” I gasp, panting as I claw at his muscled, inked back. “Fuck, you are so big.”
“Or it’s just that you’re so fucking tight,” he groans. He crushes his lips to mine, kissing me possessively.
He slides out, one hand gripping my hip and the other cupping my jaw. I look down between us, my mouth hanging open in lust as I watch his thick shaft slowly slide from inside of me, glistening in the moonlight with my arousal. He lets it sit there with just the head throbbing inside of me before he rocks his hips forward again with a groan. I gasp, moaning as he fills me to the brim again with one thrust.
And fuck does he feel good. He’s freaking huge, and there’s no damn way this would work at all without me being as turned on as I am. Oh, but I am, and when he starts to really and truly fuck me, pleasure I’ve never known washes over me. It’s like he’s claiming me or taking me. It’s like I’m doing this for the very first time—like I’m a virgin and he’s plucking that innocence from me as I moan for more.
He thrusts into me, his mouth crashing into mine to swallow my moans of pleasure. His muscles clench and ripple against me, and I gasp as my thighs clench even tighter around his grooved waist. My nails dig into him, raking down his back and over his ink as his shoulders bunch and clench.
He growls like a beast into my mouth and then drops his lips to my neck again, biting and sucking on the delicate skin there before moving to my collar bone. I cry out and then bury my mouth in his neck, biting down like he did to me. He hisses and thrusts his hips even harder, making me moan wildly as he starts to plunge into me harder and faster.
He grips me tight, holding me in place as he drives into me over and over, sinking that huge, gorgeous cock into me again and again until I swear I’m seeing double. My whole body trembles, my head spins, and my pulse races like an engine as we drive harder and harder towards that sweet release.
This isn’t a hookup; this is the cosmos aligning. This isn’t insanity, it’s clarity. And this isn’t sex, this is religion.
I cling to him, utterly losing myself and completely letting myself go as we crash together again and again. My arms are around his neck, my legs tight around his waist, and his big hands holding me and cupping me like something claimed and something treasured at the same time.
He plunges deep, and as I start to let go and fall, I can feel him swelling so big inside. I crush my lips to his, and with my final breath, I scream my release into his mouth. No warning, no “I’m almost there,” because I know he already knows. Somehow, I know he can tell without me saying a word. And when I come, it’s like he’s timed it exactly.
“Come for me,” he purrs in that thick accent right in my ear just as I crest over the edge. And with a cry, my entire body spasms and clenches tight to him, and I explode.
He roars and sinks his huge cock to the hilt inside of me, and suddenly, I moan as I feel him following me over. He groans, his hands so tight on me that I know he’ll leave marks, but I don’t care. This is release, and freedom, and letting go, and I want it all. He kisses me fiercely as his cock pulses inside, pumping rope after rope of hot cum deep into me. I cling to him, like I’m holding on for dear life while the climax thunders through me, until I realize we’re still, and panting.
He doesn’t let go. He doesn’t pull away. He just holds me—tightly, possessively, and like I belong to him. And in this moment, I do. Whatever comes after, right now, I’m his.
I sink against him, burying my face in his neck. My eyes open, and I look past him at the wall behind the counter.
My heart skips.
Oh fuck.
The race—Bryce’s stupid fucking race, and he’ll lose it if I’m not there as his perfect little prop.
“Fuck, shit,” I gasp, pulling back.
My stranger arches a brow.
“Not exactly the feedback I was looking for, but okay.”
I giggle, biting my lip.
“No, sorry, I just…” I swallow and look at him. “That was really good.”
“I happen to agree.”
“No, I mean, that was…” I blush. “That was fucking really good.”
He grins that roguish smile at me that gets my pulse racing and my body suddenly aching for more. But, I’m already late, and making Bryce Barnes wait is usually a really, really terrible idea.
“It’s just that I have to be somewhere.”
I realize it’s quiet, and I look outside and realize that it’s stopped raining, and the storm has passed. The stranger frowns.
“What time is it?”
“Just after ten.”
He swears. “Fuck, same here. Gotta be somewhere.”
He kisses me slowly and then eases out, making me gasp as his size leaves me. He helps me down from the counter, and I blush as I grab a napkin to clean up with. He grins, handing me my panties from the floor which is somehow both a chivalrous and totally filthy move all at the same time.
“Thanks,” I say quickly, yanking my underwear and uniform back on. My other clothes are in my truck—I’ll change when I get to the track.
“Fuck,” I hiss again, glancing at the clock again. He’s gonna kill me.
“Hang the fuck on, who’s going to kill you?”
Oh, lovely, I said it out loud. Great. I cringe and clear my throat, turning back to him. “I—no one, I just have to get to this thing.”
He frowns deeply.
“You married?”
I glance up sharply from putting my shoes back on. “No,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “No, God no.”
His gorgeous blue eyes narrow. “I don’t play games like that, darlin’.”
“I’m not married,” I hiss again, holding my very ring-less hand up before I turn to collect my purse and things from under the counter.
“But you belong to someone.”
I whirl back on him with fury in my eyes and in my voice that surprises even me. “I don’t belong to fucking anyone.”
He grins. “Just tell me straight.”
“That’s the straight. Not that it’s any of your business—”
“Well, it is.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, I’m not married, and I’m not anyone’s.”
But, I am. I am owned, in a sense, and I hate it.
“Anyways, you should get going.”
His look hardens. “It’s like that, huh?”
No, I want you to stay and fuck me another hundred times. Then I want to drag you to my bed, just you and me, and keep kissing you. Also, marry me?
But instead of saying all of that like a crazy person, I just frown, my mouth tight.
“Yeah, it’s like that.”
It has to be like that, because if I’m late like this, it’s not outside of Barnes’s style to either send someone or come himself to the diner to “check on me” without a head’s up. He’s done it before, and if it happens to happen tonight, well, that would be very not good.
If Barnes were to catch the two of us here together alone, it’d be trouble for me. But it’d be worse for my stranger. He’s a huge, built guy, but it’s not like Barnes would fight fair. He’s a pussy and a sadist, and he’d probably have six of his guys jump the Englishman.
My stranger locks eyes with me and just nods as he pulls his jeans up. He tugs his shirt and hoodie back on and shrugs.
“Well, thanks for the coffee.” He frowns. “Why do I feel like tipping right now would be fucked up?”
I grin. “I think you already did.”
I blush at my own dirty joke, but he just levels that hard, smoldering gaze at me.
“You okay?”
I blink. “Um, yeah?”
“No, really.”
“Y—yeah,” I force a smile, trying not to think about the prick I have to play nice with now.
“Aren’t waitresses supposed to wear name tags?” his lips pull into that roguish grin again. “I don’t know your name,” he growls.
I bite my lips, my eyes holding his.
�
�You’re right,” I say softly, smiling.
He grins thinly. “Nice to meet you, stranger.”
“You too,” I whisper.
Please don’t go. Please don’t let this night ever end.
But of course, it has to, and it does. He looks at me once more, grabs his jacket, turns, and walks across the diner to the door. He half turns at the door, but if he was about to say something else, he stops himself. And with a nod and a ring of the bell over the door, he’s gone.
His bike roars to life outside, and I watch from the window as he thunders off into the night.
…Holding a piece of my heart with him.
Chapter Four
Oliver
In the shadow of the old, not-quite-finished racetrack complex, Lucile comes to a rumbling, growling stop in front of the storage units. Apparently, this place went up maybe a decade ago, when the then-mayor of Dark Water Falls got an “inside scoop” from a guy high up in the car racing world that they were looking for a new place to televise races. Every crook, conman, mobster, grifter, and lowlife with two quid to rub to together for about hundred miles came in on it, and up went Dark Water Falls Racing Pavilion.
For a shit-heel town of about six thousand people where the major industry is bars and illegal narcotics, you can see how daft an idea this was.
And, surprise, the racing circuit picked someplace less dirty, depressed, and all around grim than Dark Water Falls. Also, a place people could actually point to a bloody map. The mayor got run out of town on a rail, the criminal investors slunk away to lick their wounds, and the place sat derelict and falling the fuck apart for almost nine years.
Then, along comes Bryce bloody Barnes—a local geezer whose made his mark being the only muscle in town and then making sure he was the only one selling coke and Oxy. The twat runs around like he’s bloody Scarface or like a prohibition gangster in Chicago. But really, he’s just a small-town thug with a chip on his shoulder.
I grew up with a dozen of these cunts. Every street corner in East London had one or two of these blokes who’d watched too many Guy Ritchie movies or watched Goodfellas a time too many and thought they were some kind of criminal Czar in training. And Barnes is the same damn thing, but small-town American, with all the fake cowboy swagger bullshit that comes with it.
Now, there should be fuck all reason for me to be involved with a cunt like Barnes. He smells like trouble, and you can sniff it out from three towns over. But what can I say, every man has a weakness, and mine’s things that go fast.
…Things that go fast, and gambling on things that go fast.
When I first came to Blackthorn with my best mate Shepherd, and when we decided to put down roots and start our new club, the Lost Devils, it wasn’t long before I heard about Barnes’s races out here in Dark Water Falls, about a two hour haul from Blackthorn. Shepherd’s just as much a gearhead as I am, but the guy doesn’t bet like me. Maybe it’s cause he’s saved my arse more than a few times when a bet went south.
Maybe I should’ve learned my lesson years ago, but what can I say? Maybe I’m thick-headed. Maybe I just can’t stay away from the raw thrill of watching things with rumblings motors go as fast as they can, like a junky. Maybe I’m just bad at following the rules and doing what I should.
The short of it is, I found Barnes’s races, bet fast and loose, and got in deep. Real deep, if we’re being honest. That’s when I went from spectator to participate. Shit, I’ve been racing since I was old enough to bloody walk. And if my winnings go straight to Barnes to settle our debt? So be it. I don’t even want the money, I’m just in love with the thrill of the race, and the rush of death blasting under my two wheels at one-hundred-fifty-miles or more an hour.
I guess the small little detail worth mentioning is that my club, the Lost Devils, don’t know about this. I guess part of it is embarrassment, but it’s mostly that I know I need to fix my own shit myself. This is my mess, and I’m not going to go crying to my brothers to fight any battles for me.
I unlock the storage unit door and roll it up before I wheel Lucile inside. I flick on the dim overhead light, and I grin at my other girl—my side piece, I like to joke to myself. Lucile’s my main lady, but The Duchess?
I grin.
Well, The Duchess just does things to a man that Lucile can’t.
The Duchess is a gleaming red and black custom Ducati Panigale V4 916. She’s pure speed, power, and fucking sex appeal on two wheels. She’s also one of the reasons I’m in so deep with Barnes. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love my club, and I love my new life up by Blackthorn doing what we do. But what can I say, I like shiny things that go bloody fast, and it’s not like the Devils are rolling in cashflow right now.
I shrug my club cut off and hang it on a hook on the wall. I’m not worried or scared about people knowing I’m with the Lost Devils, but I also don’t exactly need to advertise it. I’m here to race, not start shit. So I swap it out for the plain jacket I keep in here with the Ducati. For a second, I look into the dingy, cracked mirror hanging on a hook next to where I hang the spare jacket. I frown and step closer, and then I chuckle at what I’m looking at.
Fuck, she did a number on my neck. My mind wanders back to the diner, and to her. But it doesn’t take much wandering, because she’s been at the front of my mind ever since I walked out the door. I mean how could she not be? I mean bloody fucking hell, she’s perfect—that melodic voice, those haunting eyes, those full, soft lips and the way they moaned so sweetly for me.
I think of the way she tasted, and my cock instantly thickens in my jeans. I groan, and I can’t even help but reach down to cup my bulge when I remember the way her legs wrapped tight around my hips. What that was back there… well, that was something else. That wasn’t just sex. Sex is good. Sex is fun. “Sex” doesn’t shake you to your fucking core and shatter everything you think you know. “Sex” doesn’t feel like your heart is crawling out of your fucking chest to be closer to hers. “Sex” doesn’t feel like coming home when you first slide into her.
At least, no sex I’ve ever known did. Nowhere bloody close.
Whatever that was back there, it’s something I’ve never known. Fuck me, just walking in there and laying eyes on her, it was like I never wanted to look away. It was like I never wanted to not have her in my arms, and I didn’t even know her. Bloody hell, I still don’t know her—not her name, where she’s from, what she does when she’s not working at a diner. She’s a mystery, and I’m left holding the threads to a cold case.
I lock eyes with myself in the mirror, and then glance down again at the marks from her lips and her pleasure on my neck. I growl savagely. Fuck, I want her again, right now. Always. Forever. I hiss, my lips pulling back in a snarl. I don’t even know her fucking name, and I want her unlike I’ve ever wanted anything before, and that includes racing and bikes.
But then I think once again to the way we parted, and the little voice in my head growls to life again. She said she wasn’t married. She said she wasn’t with anyone. But, something’s amiss. That might be her story, but it’s not the full story, and I damn well know it. Yeah, maybe it’s that I’m a stranger, and it’s not like screwing like bloody rabbits on a diner counter is grounds for the sort of intimacy where you share your life story and all your baggage.
But still, the voice in my head might be half-cocked and crazy, but I’ve managed to stay alive for twenty-seven years and through some shit I probably shouldn’t have by listening to it now and again.
With a scowl, I push the Ducati out of the storage unit and lock it back up. I pull on the racing helmet and lower the visor before I swing a leg over The Duchess and crank her on.
“Purr for me, baby,” I grunt as she rumbles to life like a bloody rocket ship. The vibrations claw their way through me, and I try and shake my diner stranger out of my head as I gun the engine and roar off to the race starting point.
There’re a few faces I recognize by now, but none I need to get close with. I’m no
t here to make bloody friends, I’m here to win and settle my debt with Barnes. A few other riders nod at me from behind masks, since they definitely recognize The Duchess. I check the sheets, and I’m in the second match-up tonight—ten riders, one track, one winner.
I get to the side of the track with the rabble and watch as the first heat of racers lines up. I turn and glance up at the stands, and my eyes fall on the little makeshift plywood “VIP box” set up a little ways up into the stands. And there, surrounded by some of his crew, is Barnes.
Up until a week ago, Barnes and his merry band of cunts would hang out in one of the not-quite-finished actual box seats way up at the top of the stands. He’d sit up there pretending to be a king or some shit and watch his races play out. But last week right after the last race, him or one of his dumb mates flicked a cigarette away or did something equally stupid, and the whole sodding VIP box went up like a tinderbox.
Hence, the plywood “boxed seats” a few rows up from the track. Unfortunately, Barnes and all of his crew managed to walk away from that fire unharmed, and here they are again, snorting coke, smoking cigarettes, and swigging liquor from bottles as if they’re in a bloody music video.
“Twats,” I mutter to myself.
The announcer with the megaphone steps forward to get the first race going. The ten bikes thunder to life, the man raises the flag, and when it drops, they’re off. My heart pounds, and I’m only barely aware that I’m grinning like a maniac as I watch them go blasting around the track. Fuck do I love racing.
The first heat ends—two spin out and crash before they can finish, and some guy on a Kawasaki I don’t know wins. But now, it’s my turn. My blood roars like an engine as rev the throttle at the starting line and feel The Duchess purr between my legs. I glance at the blokes on either side of me, noting the types of bikes and the size of the riders. They’re still clearing the two poor sods who crashed off the track, so I glance around and aimlessly let my gaze wander up to Barnes and his crew.
