by C. L. Riley
I can’t believe we’ve kept the news contained for so long. I’m less certain I will be able to hide my renewed riding ability. Since I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do once Demon finds out, keeping the truth secret for awhile longer makes sense.
Once Demon confirms I managed to ride my new bike, he is going to start in with his demands again. The demands I’ve managed to avoid for this long due to my extended recovery process. My excuse no longer applies. There is no reason for me to stay in Seal’s Cove. I should be back in Eugene, running my club and dealing with the heap of issues, growing in my absence.
Between Demon handling his family problems, problems he can’t ignore, and coming to Seal’s Cove so often, the club has been left in our VP’s hands more often than we ever intended.
It’s true he’s the one who by all rights should be in charge with me gone, but I know what a pushover he is. Adding to his lacking backbone issue, he and I haven’t stayed in contact as often as planned, notably the past several weeks, which leaves me wondering what alliances have formed without my knowledge. With Crusher and Twila up to their old ways, things could be worse than I imagine.
There is no question. I either need to take my place at our table’s head, or figure out a way to detach myself from the Guardians, an action not easily accomplished without consequences, even bloodshed.
I could request nomad status, but it’s not what I want either. What I want is to work alongside Boone to build the Soul Scorchers’ legit businesses. There is a ton potential for major expansion. Most importantly, I want to stay in Seal’s Cove with Trina. But before I can make a move that direction, business with the Seattle doctor has to be taken care of, permanently.
Her uncle deserves a visit too, but it is the fucking brain doctor we need to deal with. As long as he’s alive, my wife is at risk.
My wife...fuck. She blew my mind last night after blowing me into another dimension. I chuckle to myself, ignoring a side glance from the biker on the stool beside me. I must be drunk.
Slamming down the last of my drink, I watch Trina shake her sweet ass and give myself a from-me-to-me wedding gift—the memory of Trina on her knees, breaking the longest standing record in the history of my sex life.
Trina
Prince’s When Dove’s Cry is blasting through the club’s seriously, spectacular speaker system, and I’m in music heaven. The sensuous beat combined with the heat from the women around me, has taken me to a new level of freedom. Knowing Rowdy is watching me, only adds to the feeling of power.
Yes, I’m wasted.
Permission to drink larger quantities of alcohol was graciously granted by Rowdy and Olympia, with the understanding Boone would be our protector. I was already well on my way to loopy from exhaustion before we even arrived.
I didn’t pass out until morning and was jarred from sleep way before I was ready to open my eyes. Even now, I’m not sure where this energy to dance is coming from.
After all, I had sex on a motorcycle, in the desert. Then later at the hotel Rowdy worshiped my body like it was a goddess’ most sacred shrine. And just when he thought I was utterly undone, I turned the table.
Not one to forget a promise, I became the worshipper, bowing before my husband.
Allowing the song’s pulsing beat to continue its musical magic, I let mind wander to the minutes leading to the actual moment I conquered my husband, slaying the biker beast with my mouth and a little help from my tongue and teeth.
“You’re exhausted. How many orgasms was that?” he chuckles, sounding a little too cocky for my liking.
But he’s right, cocky or not. I am ready to dive into dreamland. My body is like putty. I’m pretty sure I’ve melted. My eyelids drift shut and I give in to what I need. Sleep...lots of it.
I’ll break the damn record tomorrow.
After some serious prodding, during one of our cuddle breaks between sex rounds, I’d at last convinced him to share why a blowjob had such meaning.
His answer wasn’t what I expected, not even close.
Apparently, he is more like a fire hose than the garden variety when he climaxes, something I definitely took note of when he exploded inside me multiple times.
He elaborated, and I almost wished I hadn’t pushed. But I did, and he explained that a number of women, I didn’t ask how many, attempted to swallow his entire release and failed. So taking all of Rowdy, down to the last drop, had become a contest of sorts with the club whores, a contest Twila came closest to winning.
I knew I hated her for more than one reason.
Rowdy went on to admit, although the situation was enjoyable as an adult, as a teenager, he’d felt like a freak—the guy who couldn’t quit coming.
For some reason, thinking about his story triggers a sudden surge of competitive adrenaline. Not to mention, I feel bad for the teenage Rowdy. But mostly, I want to make my man, my husband, happy. Besides, sleep is overrated, right?
Resisting the Sandman, I push up on my knees and give him what I hope is a sexy smirk. I’m pretty sure I look sweaty and bedraggled right about now, considering I’ve been fucked senseless for hours, but Rowdy grins anyway and raises a brow.
“What are you up to wifey?” he teases.
“Don’t call me wifey.”
“What should I call you then?”
“How about you don’t talk and lie on your back.” He’s on his side, so I give him a light shove to help him along.
“Um...bossy and brave. I like it.” His eyelids drop, growing hooded, and he stretches his legs out, moving them apart as if knows my intentions.
Forgetting my appearance, a fresh wave of confidence crashes over me, drowning any remaining insecurities. I crawl between his legs, keeping my eyes locked with his. He starts to say something and I put my finger to his lips. He nips at it when I pull away.
“It’s your turn to be still. Move and this is over.” The command sounds threatening, but I wonder if I can enforce it. Somehow I don’t think so.
Taking my time, I lick up his inner thigh, tasting him and savoring his masculine scent.
Sweat, leather, and a heady, woodsy smell, unique to Rowdy, cause me to shudder. I repeat the same, leisurely motion up and then down his other leg, making him shudder this time.
Knowing how I affect him, drives me on, increasing my own desire. Being so tired, I hadn’t expected to respond, not like this, but there is something about being in control I like...a lot.
Without warning, I shove his legs apart and go for his balls, taking the first heavy sac in my mouth, sucking and licking while rolling the other in my hand, eliciting a deep, guttural growl from him I feel all the way to my core. I can’t help but rotate my hips when I finally take his erection in my hand.
From my current position, he seems larger and harder than ever before. There is no doubt I am going to be a choking mess if I want to do this the right way, and I do. I press my tongue against the root of his shaft, lick upward, curling it around the head and sucking hard.
From there, everything seems to happen at warp speed. Pumping my hand, I match my mouth’s downward motions, in a perfect rhythm, working his cock deeper into my throat with each plunge. He’s struggling not to move, and I know he wants to grab my hair and take over.
“Do it,” I sputter around him, not breaking the tempo I’ve set.
In an instance his fingers tunnel through my hair, and he secures a fistful with each hand. I hear myself moan around him. His cock swells more, surprising me.
I’m starting to gag, but I power on, lost in a primitive beat that can’t be broken. I command my throat to relax and remove my hand; it was the final thing keeping me from complete, oral domination. And he knows it.
“Babe,” he hisses, “if you want me to stop, pinch my leg. Cause I’m gonna fuck your beautiful mouth until I come down your throat. Do you understand? Say yes.”
“Yes,” I gurgle, fighting the urge to pinch him now. It’s too much.
“Teeth are good,”
he adds, startling me again.
There are no more words, only thrust after thrust as he buries himself in my mouth, and I let him. Despite the discomfort, my hand has migrated between my legs, and I work my swollen clit, matching the intensity of Rowdy’s rising hips.
“I’m gonna come. Swallow it. All of it,” he orders.
I gag again and gasp but don’t pull away. He tightens his grip on my hair and goes rigid. His cock pulses and my mouth is flooded. I accept everything he gives like it’s the most expensive champagne; to me it is far better than any bubbly I’ve ever tasted.
My husband; I love him and pleasing him is what I want, more than anything.
The pressure between my legs continues to increase with Rowdy’s release. I tighten my mouth and let myself go, erupting in storm of sensations, my channel squeezes, clamping down around my fingers.
I want to scream his name, but I am relentless, refusing to stop sucking until I’ve swallowed everything. I ride out my own orgasm as his slows. I persist until he pulls away and drags me up his body, now slick with sweat. Between the two of us we’re soaking and panting.
But it doesn’t matter. I can’t move. He kisses the top of my head, and I’m pretty sure I purr. My brain and body have reached their limit, and I’m asleep before I can celebrate my victory.
Dr. Martin
Cheryl Cunningham has already proven to be an outstanding distraction.
She is strong and has a sassy mouth; a mouth I’ve yet to fuck, which is a testament to her sway over me.
I’ve convinced her Trina’s life depends upon her ability to follow my rules. She in no uncertain terms informed me, if I hurt her precious best friend, she’ll find a way to destroy me.
Courage or stupidity, I’m not sure which, but regardless, Miss Cunningham is certified a spitfire. She is aware of my murderous tendencies yet refuses to cower.
Her threats do something unexpected, they intrigue me. So much so, I’ve decided to leave her sober, no medications. I want to engage with her on an almost equal level.
Of course, being equal to me is just an illusion for her, but I’ve given her a voice, a chance to argue and manipulate me. Though the truth remains, she is under my control. There is no escape from my mansion and no amount of manipulation will convince me to release her. There are passages and rooms she has no idea exist, including my personal chamber of delights.
I will introduce her to the chamber, my personal playroom, when the time is right. For now, I’m enjoying our verbal exchanges, toying with her is actually fun. And I haven’t had fun like this since I commanded Trina’s body.
“Are you going to stare at me all night? Or can we eat?” Cheryl snips. “If I’m going to die, I’d like to be fed first.” Her eyes shoot daggers of disgust from across the table.
I feel the need to remind her of our agreement before she tries anything physical...again.
When I’d untied her this morning, she’d appeared to be barely breathing. With my medical expertise, I was positive my hand and the falling lamp had done more damage than I’d initially suspected. Usually, my strikes are well-placed, but I’d been both tired and overly excited last night when she’d forced me to retaliate.
Surprisingly, I felt bad for my overreaction and was planning to hold off on my more physical plans until she’d recovered. But the moment her hands were free, she attacked. With a flurry of fists she attempted to pummel my handsome face. She got in a scratch or two before I subdued her, pressing her against bed.
I’d made it very clear, any further attempts to hurt me, and both she and Trina would be dead.
No exceptions.
I also promised she’d spend the time leading to her painful demise, accommodating any man interested in using her body.
When she asked me to define “use,” I painted a picture that silenced her and had her hanging her head in submission.
Considering her current expression, a reminder is already overdue. “Cheryl, my dear guest, I encourage verbal sparring, but I feel the need to remind you any attempt to―”
“To physically harm you,” she interjects, “will be met with equal force and a trip to a cell, where multiple men will have their way with me, and then, at a time you believe my punishment to be sufficient, you will not only kill me, but also make sure to murder Trina.” She raises a brow and purses her already pouty lips, making me almost regret my resolution to wait on anything sexual.
“Bravo,” I deadpan, fighting to keep my excitement from showing. “In that case, dinner is ready.”
On cue, my butler, another man who appreciates a brutalized body, appears pushing a tray loaded with Thai food. He can prepare any cuisine I request, and prepare it perfectly.
He also knows how to make bodies disappear when I’m too lazy or tired to do it myself.
His skills have made him nearly indispensible, but I am under no illusion he can live forever, not that anyone can. But his time is limited. My trust only extends so far, and in his case, it has reached the final stretch.
Dex has been with me for almost five years. I’ve never employed anyone on a personal level for this long. If he’s lucky, he’ll make it to year six.
“Thank you, Dex. That will be all.”
Cheryl makes a noise that sounds like a combined scoff and snort. “Seriously. You are too much, doctor. It’s like you’re living in an alternate reality. I’m not sure how Trina ever found you attractive. I will assume you acted differently at work. Because if she saw how you talk to your help, she’d be disgusted. As am I.”
Before I can think of an appropriate comeback, she digs into her Pad Thai, ignoring me.
Dex gives me a curious look, places the remaining dishes on the table and makes a quick exit. He appears as unsure of our first houseguest as I am.
I pick at my food, another first, and watch Cheryl enjoy hers. I’ve never sat across the dinner table from a woman without thinking about her as a plaything. I need to be very careful here. I’m in uncharted waters and cannot lose sight of my goal.
Cheryl Cunningham is nothing but a tool. A means to an end. My way of luring the ultimate prize home, where she belongs.
Rowdy
We stumble out the clubhouse door, arm in arm, laughing. Trina is still half dancing as we make our way to the limo we’ve been using as post-wedding transportation. I’d never get on my Harley or behind a wheel in this condition.
Boone and a group of his Vegas’ brothers spill out behind us, their laughter mingling with ours. A couple guys taunt me over the limo service. I just shake my head, still grinning.
For not wanting to come tonight, I am pleasantly surprised. Cutting loose and getting smashed once in awhile is good medicine, at least with the right people watching your back. Trina seemed to agree. She was willing to stay even longer; her body on what I guessed was autopilot.
Man my wife can dance her ass off.
As if reading my mind, she shimmies over to the limo’s open door, giving our driver a bump with her hip. Just as she ducks to enter, a hail of gunfire erupts from outside the compound. I catch a glimpse of shadowy figures and idling vans just beyond the entrance. The gates are open wide in order to allow our limo through and several departing guests out.
I shove Trina inside the limo. “Get down!” I roar, suddenly sober and reaching for my own weapon.
One of Boone’s brethren collapses to my left, gripping his shoulder. The rest are firing back at the intruders. It feels like the battle goes on for hours, but it’s only a few minutes before the enemy vanishes back into the night.
A black van streaks by, its front window down. I recognize the passenger’s profile.
Crusher.
The fucker somehow found out we were in Las Vegas.
Before I can stop her, Trina is out of the limo, chasing the injured Soul Scorcher back into the clubhouse, ready to put her medical skills to use.
The massive front gate is already resecured and a line of men guard the entrance. I know they will deal w
ith the cops. I have no doubt the club has paid off someone inside the Vegas PD for times like this.
There is no way in hell this drive-by was club-sanctioned. It’s not the Guardians’ style, at least it wasn’t when I was in charge. Maybe a few dissatisfied members were involved, but I suspect Crusher used a local crew to carry out his plan.
Killing the president requires a unanimous vote. I’m not that hated, not yet anyway.
Reaching for my phone, I send a quick, coded text to Demon. It is time for me to step up and take care of business. Hiding behind the big Russian is no longer an option. I had hoped to deal with Trina’s doctor before my club shit, but apparently, handling club business can no longer wait.
So much for an extended honeymoon...Crusher will pay for the interruption and all the trouble he’s caused―with his life.
Trina
It’s been almost three weeks since our honeymoon was cut short by the man I’d held hands with on the beach.
Since our return, things have been quiet, maybe too quiet. And an underlying tension has crept into our lives, becoming the norm and making everyone snappy.
Even Olympia is on edge. And despite the fact I’m older by a good two years, my new best friend is acting like a doting but controlling mom. I miss Cheryl more than ever. The temptation to call her is becoming difficult to deny.
Between Olympia and Rowdy, I feel like a rebellious teenager, searching for a way to escape my overprotective parents.
Walking on the beach without armed escorts is no longer possible. Riding with Rowdy on his new bike, requires a tail. I’m surprised we can even have sex without an audience. In all honesty, I am surprised we have sex at all, considering the stress level.
“You okay?” Rowdy looks across the table, pushing his laptop aside. The skin under his eyes is dark. He’s developing half moons.
I nod and continue to pick at my eggs, ignoring the impulse to play nurse and scold him about not getting enough sleep.
