Riding On Fumes: Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance (The Crow's MC Book 2)

by Cassandra Bloom

  “A-are you… alright?” Jace asked, his voice straining around a worried tone as I felt his cock furiously throbbing for him to continue. I could see the strain in control as he held himself. The chords in his arms stood out as he held my hips, holding himself back from moving. The sight undid me and besides, I was already ready for him to begin to move.

  Despite every part of him likely aching to pump inside me, I thought, he’s holding on… for me.

  Then, grinning to myself, I thought, Don’t make him wait any longer, Mia-girl.

  I smirked, bucking back in response, letting his length glide almost all the way out before I slammed him back in, making myself moan as I did. That was all the go ahead he needed. He squeezed my hips tighter and began to thrust inside. I cried out, loving the feel of his cock filling my ass. It had never been this good.

  “Oh fuck,” Jace groaned. “You are so tight!”

  I panted, pushing back against him, not wanting to give him all the control. “Don’t… don’t stop, Jace! It feels so good!”

  “F-fuck! Mia… st-stop!” he pleaded, shivering against me and gripping my hips tightly, “If you… keep moving like that… I won’t be able to hold back much longer!”

  I moaned, whimpered, and struggled to still myself, allowing him to take control—to set the pace—not wanting this to end too early. Then, still gripping me tightly, he began a slow, rhythmic tempo; gliding along at a rate that rested perfectly between “too fast” and “too slow.”

  Nerve endings trembled with desperation, wanting him to reach them faster before becoming suddenly aware of feeling vacant too soon. I was held there, perpetually suspended between two simultaneous desires that were perpetually fulfilled before being left once more in desperate need.

  For a long, agonizing time I felt perched on a high ledge, held—but just barely—above a terrible plummet down a—

  “O-oh fuck!” I whimpered, trembling, suddenly feeling the pull—the fall—fast approaching. “J-Jace… I’m-I’m… I’M GONNA… GONNA CUM!” I cried out.

  “Me too!” he groaned, continuing to pump inside me, his pace beginning to quicken by teasing degrees.

  My back arched so abruptly I worried I might fold myself in half, but Jace and his sturdy bulk was there to catch me as I came. A loud, guttural moan ululated from deep within me, the sound barreling out of my chest like a firing cannon and echoing out again and again as fresh waves rolled out through my entire body. Fireworks erupted throughout my insides, peppering across my skin—drawing gooseflesh in an instant—and the grand finale going off in my lower belly. Jace’s arms wrapped around me, drawing me close against him as he buried himself balls deep into my ass. One arm arched around, crossing to my opposite breast and clinging there, drawing out a wonderful ache, while the other reached down and worked my clit. My empty pussy clenched under this new assault, the muscles thrumming as my ass continued to clench in quickening spasms. Jace’s breath sputtered, grew into a hum, which grew again into a growl. Then he was howling with his own release, his cock pulsing deep within my bowels as he spent himself inside of me.

  We finished out twisted, guttural song as we both rode out our orgasms, trembling and slipping back into the present.

  The bed seemed to come back up to meet me—I was neither sure when I’d left it nor where I’d gone when I had—and I was glad for it. I fell, or so it seemed, face first into the soft, cushiony surface as Jace slipped free. A small, seemingly mocking secondary orgasm came and went as his softening length left me, and I was suddenly very aware of my ass clenching and releasing; a hungry gesture, I thought.

  “W-wow!” I panted as we both came down from our orgasms.

  “Wow… indeed,” he agreed, slipping to his side and working to catch his breath.

  After a sustained moment of thoughtless reflection—a thing that only seemed to follow acts of sex and violence—I dragged myself out of the bed and stumbled on unsteady legs to the bathroom.

  Despite how wonderful that moment had been, there were certain realities that needed tending to.

  Jace followed after and, seeming to understand what I was thinking, asked, “Join me for a shower?”

  “I don’t know if I can handle anymore right now,” I said with a nervous chuckle, remembering what sort of antics typically accompanied an after-sex shower.

  I had a terrifying moment of imagining the cum in my ass making an audible appearance during some sort of play and sullying the moment we’d just had.

  Still smiling, he shook his head. “Nothing like that, Mia,” he said, and I suddenly realized he understood not only why I’d come in here but why I might be nervous. “I’m sure you want to, you know, wash up… or, rather, wash out. I just figured you’d like some company. Don’t worry. This will be just a shower, and I won’t laugh at any noises you make if you don’t mind me making the same.”

  I giggled, and then burst out laughing. “Jace,” I sputtered around cackles, “did you just make a fart joke after anal sex?”

  He smirked at me and gave me a playful, childish shrug. “What better time to make one?”

  I laughed some more, shook my head, and challenged, “Just a shower?”

  He gave me a look that was hard to read and said, “Of course.”

  I smirked at that, wondering if I could truly trust that kind of promise when he was involved. If nothing else, I worried if I’d be able to be strong enough to fight my own desire once we showered. The night was going so perfectly and I hadn’t wanted it to end, plus I really did love showering with Jace.

  “How you feeling? You okay?” he asked, helping me to the bathroom.

  “I’m fine, really,” I smirked. “You really were incredible.”

  “Get to know me,” he laughed.

  He started the shower, carefully set the temperature, and then leaded me in. True to his word, he didn’t try anything; he helped me to wash, giving me little kisses here-and-there to stave off the potentially awkward moments and letting silly moments pass with giggles that I felt comfortable to share in with him. As wonderful as the act itself had been, the aftermath—what could have been embarrassing or awkward or outright unpleasant—became a moment that was simultaneously touching and humorous.

  Knowing that laughter and comfort could replace loneliness and shame offered a new sense of freedom and happiness that I’d never thought possible.

  And Jace gave that to me; gave me that and so much more.

  He really was too perfect.

  We finished washing soon after—too soon, we wordlessly agreed—and we lingered there, in his giant, wonderful “fucking” shower, and just seemed to meditate on each other’s company. He leaned forward, capturing my lips in his. The kiss demanded nothing; there was no need to turn it into anything more and no reason to let it stop. And so we just stood there, under multiple streams of serene warmth, and kissed. He wrapped his arms around me, and I relaxed against him, returning the kiss.

  This kiss seemed to hold something completely new in it and a part of me was enthralled at the feeling. This kiss felt like a promise of something more.

  The promise of a future.

  SIX

  ~JACE~

  To say I was riding on cloud nine would have been an understatement to end all understatements. I was alive—no small wonder given what I’d gone through—and, save for what would likely pass as a few really bad sunburns before the month ran up, looking none the worse for wear. I was flush with cash, and for the first time in my life that fact actually seemed to bring me some sense of happiness. This, no doubt, had everything to do with the next point that, admittedly, had me riding higher than any of the others: I had the love of a good woman. No, scratch that, a great woman. We’d gone to hell and back—Almost literally! I thought, recalling my recurring dream from the hospital—wound up saving each other’s lives in the process, and come out of it an absolute powerhouse couple (if I did say so, myself). That we’d dealt a crippling blow to our mutual enemies with the Carrion Crew
by wiping out both their drug and sex businesses in laying waste to an absolute shit-stain of a parasitic fuck honestly felt like frosting on the cake of life. I still couldn’t figure out which felt better, finally raining hot, furious death on T-Built or knowing that the cycling war between the Crows and the Carrion Crew was beginning to lean in our favor. Revenge felt good, I couldn’t bring myself to deny that much, and I loved knowing that the man who’d made Mia’s life a living hell for so long was finally worm food, but, though the Carrion Crew was far from dead, we’d made things undeniably better for the city and everyone in it by taking hard drugs and violent sex trade out of the equation. Furthermore, the sheer volume of lost revenue was likely hitting the Carrions like a leg being swept out from under an Olympic runner. Were they still in the race? Sure, and one would still be taking a risk in placing any bets just yet. But it would be a struggle, and a tolling one at that, for them to bring themselves neck-and-neck with the Crows. I grinned at my own metaphor, deciding that, so long as we—the proverbial runner with their feet still under them in this case—used this edge to put as much ground behind us as possible, the likelihood that they’d ever catch up was—

  A horn blared as I rocketed through a light that had only just gone red. I cursed inwardly, chastising myself for risking the yellow—or, as my old man would’ve called it, “A solid orange!”—and swerved to avoid becoming a gored hood ornament on a neon green convertible. The car was, admittedly, vintage, shiny, and looking like the owner had put a good deal of time and money into making it look so good. It would’ve been a shame to ding up a beauty like that. Only thing that remotely compared to such an awful turn of events would’ve been me getting shredded under such a gorgeous ride and getting myself dead so soon after celebrating just how good life could be. Then, remembering Mia from the night before, I caught myself smirking even in the midst of the mayhem.

  Least I could die happy, I thought, nearly tipping the chopper underneath me.

  Through raw sill and sheer luck I managed to pull the roaring machine back into place beneath me. My right knee felt the hiss of passing pavement, and I figured if I hadn’t just lost a few scraps of denim from the pantleg of my jeans it was only just barely. The blap of a classic car horn crowed on, punctuated by a few other, newer horns singing behind it as well as a few startled shouts from people watching from the sidewalks. I caught sight of a few onlookers following my crazy stunt with the empty, vacant eyes of their cell phones. Confident that I’d survived the truly tolling portion of the event, I made a face at one cluster of amateur filmmakers—trying for something goofy and playful but, accompanied by the strain of still wrestling to keep the bike on the road, likely looking more like I was in the middle of a rectal-destroying fart—and worked the throttle like a lover.

  “Come on, baby,” I whispered to the chopper, actually reaching out as I passed and grazing the classic beauty’s passenger-side headlamp with my fingertips as I cleared it with inches to spare, “don’t dump me in front of all these people.”

  The full implication of the words only came to me after I spoke them, and as I slipped out of the warzone of an intersection and back into traffic I began to cackle. Imagining what I must have looked like at that moment—a roaring V8 chopper with smoldering flame decals against a navy blue body like something out of a B-movie demon flick, a death-defying traffic violation, and a laughing rider without a helmet casually fondling a would-be collision as he passed—and my laughter only doubled over.

  I could almost see the YouTube headline on that footage when it found itself online:

  “SUICIDAL BIKER LOSES HIS DAMN MIND!”

  Coming out of it all with a smile on my face and a casual wave of apology to the driver behind me, it occurred to me again just how different my outlook on life was.

  Cloud nine? Hell, you could go so far as to say I was riding on clouds one-through-nine and aiming for the rest ‘til I reached a hundred.

  I was all clouds, sunshine, and, while I was at it, the whole damn sky!

  It was almost enough to make me forget why I was out there in the first place. Okay, so I had, on more than one occasion since leaving my condo, actually gone so far as to forget why I was out and about.

  I paused at that realization, actually glancing to one side to catch my reflection in the sun-warped window of a storefront as I passed. The view was skewed and too brief to offer any sort of insightful observation, but I had good reason to assume that there was nothing revealing on the surface to see. I could’ve stood in front of my own bathroom mirror for an entire day and likely seen nothing telling for even a second of that time. But if I had an opportunity to peel back a few layers, carve away some bone, and maybe take a gander at the gray matter thrumming beneath my skull…

  Maybe.

  Just maybe.

  But, sweet fucking hell, why?

  Because my girlfriend offered up her asshole? Could that truly be it? Part of me felt like it wasn’t such a farfetched reason, but most of me was more than a little confused by this. It wasn’t like the previous night had been my first time taking the back-door option with a girl. It was a rarer event, sure, and while I wouldn’t be crass and say something cliché like “it only happened on special occasions”—a few of my own past experiences with prostitutes and some of the kinkier one-night stands knocked that tired line out of play—it was definitely infrequent enough that I’d come to stop considering it for the most part. And, on any of those other occasions, I hadn’t come out of it the next day a beaming like an idiot or throwing myself into oncoming traffic or using old phrases that my grandfather might have tossed around like “on cloud nine.” Anal was just… well, anal—no more euphoric than the normally tried-and-true; different, sure, and certainly carrying a sizably different tone for the overall experience. But I never would have thought that it would have turned me into this. The love factor occurred to me then, reminding me that past hookers and bar skanks were hardly a sound comparison—and what was the scientific method invented for if not this very sort of dilemma?—and, yes, this felt like a reasonable hypothesis. I’d never felt anything for the other girls who’d been up for a little “exit polin,’” as Danny often called it when detailing his own exploits, so it was only reasonable that this occasion would resound as something different.

  Except that Mia wasn’t an exception in this case.

  In life, Anne had been something of a “good girl” in everyone’s eyes, my own included. It wasn’t entirely true—my experience had taught me that it rarely was—but there was an undeniable purity to her. When the mood for the kinkier stuff was upon her, Anne was always more suggestive than anything else. She’d make subtle gestures, hardly ever asking for something and never outright demanding it, that, when all was said and done, could have just as easily been dismissed. She’d start to lean a certain way so that her posture alone insisted a desired position. She’d roll her hips a certain way when I was reaching to touch her so that my hand landed somewhere that it might not have otherwise. She’d moan a little louder than usual if I dared to stray a bit farther than usual. And if I dared to mention that I’d caught on to her little tricks afterwards, she was likely to give me a confused look and confess that she had no idea what I was talking about; that I’d simply taken control, steered things in a dirtier direction, and she was only guilty of going along for the ride. Even then, unlike with prostitutes or random get-togethers, love had a way of still influencing the process. Where I wouldn’t worry so much about the unemotional hookups—certain that, if I went too fast or too hard, they’d tell me so—I was, like I had been the night before with Mia, very careful from start-to-finish. And while Anne was never one to complain on those occasions, a part of me was always nervous. I’d see her body tense or hear her breath catch from time-to-time and feel my own body tense and my own breath catch until I was certain I hadn’t hurt her. With Anne, anal sex was always like getting a chance to play with some precious, fragile toy: an exciting and exhilarating event that was
hindered by the unnerving certainty that to truly enjoy it was to risk damaging something of great value. I’d approached Mia the night before with the same care and caution, but she’d proven to be far from fragile. If nothing else, I was certain that I’d come out of the act looking breakable and nervous.

  Up until last night, anal sex with somebody I cared about was not unlike handling glass. With Mia, however, I’d felt like a potter handling a supple and eager bit of clay, a firm and responsive subject that was quick to take shape around my touch.

  The way she’d thrust herself against me as I…

  I hit the brakes and came to a screeching stop in time to avoid running another (orange) red light.

  I rolled my eyes at myself and thought, Fucking shit, Jason, get a grip!

  Speaking of grip! another part of my mind instantly replied.

  I rolled my eyes at myself again. Then, remembering that I’d once again lost track of why I was out in the first place, I committed the gesture a third time.

  My eyes were going to roll right out of their sockets at this rate.

  I was a mess. One could go so far as to say I was a hot mess. Funny enough, this was not an unusual description that anyone who knew me might have used on any other day. Any member of the Crows, new or old, would probably utter some version of that line or another if asked to describe me (provided, of course, I wasn’t around to hear them say it). Now, however, I was a mess, hot or not, for a completely different reason. Before Mia, I’d been so laser-focused on a routine that something as insubstantial as a busted stereo was cause enough for an all-out meltdown. Sex, anal or otherwise, had felt like a punishment then; Danny had often “prescribed” an evening with a hooker as though it were medicine, and, like a whiny child, I’d carried on and protested as though it were medicine. The Crow’s business was a self-inflicted punishment that I carried on like a raging dictator solely for the purpose of reminding myself that I’d never be able to do it as well as my father or my brother. It was difficult to admit that I was suicidal, because every waking moment that I spent romanticizing my own death was equally spent romanticizing T-Built’s death; one couldn’t accuse me of being suicidal without just as directly accusing me of being homicidal. To be fair, though, while one couldn’t accuse me of one without accusing me of the other, one wouldn’t be wrong to accuse me of either. Yes, I had been a terrible mess before Mia and now I was a goofy, giggling mess that was practically farting rainbows and skipping gayly through the middle of the highway, throwing flower petals and blowing kisses along the way. I’d gone from being a hot, stinking pile of garbage heaped atop a time bomb that was set to go off at any moment to being an oven full of melting Valentine’s Day chocolates and scorched Hallmark cards. Two polar-opposite forms of “hot mess,” both just as much at risk of burning themselves up as the other.