Biker Chicks: Volume 3

by A. J. Downey

  “Sorry,” Prescott mumbled into my ear. “Forgot to turn it off.”

  I opened my eyes in near-darkness and thought about going back to sleep. Then I registered that the mattress seemed weird because I lay on Prescott’s bare skin. He held me so my casts rested at a good angle and my butt didn’t lean too hard on anything, with the stuffed animal propped under my leg and a blanket over us both. How the hell did he do that without waking me or moving in his sleep?

  Never mind. I didn’t know what to say or do. He stayed and took care of me. No one does that for someone they don’t give a shit about.

  “Hold your hand up,” he murmured. When I did, he dropped a pill into it. “Painkiller.”

  I popped it into my mouth and took the cup he handed me next. While he held me up enough to do it, I gulped the pill down with water. Pity I couldn’t down it with vodka. Still not sure how to handle this situation, I handed the cup back and waited.

  He kissed my neck. His breath slid down my shoulder.

  The silence bugged me. So did the uncertainty. “Don’t you have to go to work?”

  “Called in sick last night.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my girlfriend crashed her bike yesterday and got hurt.”

  I froze and my throat tightened. He kissed my shoulder. His hand slid down my leg, and he pressed his rock-hard cock against my ass.

  “Your girlfriend?” My voice wavered.

  “Yeah. She had a rough day.” He brushed his fingertips up my thigh again, then rubbed his hand across my belly. “Some asshole got her all tied up in a knot. Then her bike failed her. After that, she had a fight with her dad. I just wanted her to know I’m not going anywhere without her.”

  Shifting until I could look him in the eyes, I wished I could stop my own from watering. Maybe an eyelash fell into one or something.

  “Say that last thing again?” I whispered.

  He brushed his lips over mine, reminding me about the million cuts and scrapes all over my body, including my mouth. But his touch, so gentle and careful, made me shiver anyway.

  “I asked you to go park your bike yesterday because every time I see you, I want you. Every time I breathe you in, I want you. Just hearing your voice... I needed a few minutes to think with my head clear, and the only way I could imagine getting that is without you there. So once you left, I thought about it.

  “I feel like I was living inside a dark room, following instructions so I didn’t bang into anything. You waltzed into the room and ripped down the curtain blocking the window, letting the sunshine in. Suddenly, I could see everything in the room. No one needed to tell me where to go because I could avoid tripping on my own. The instructions I’d been getting took me on a well-worn path and avoided so many things. Fun things, as it turned out. Good things.”

  As he spoke, his hand slipped up to caress my breast, then down to my thigh again, leaving a tingling trail of heat in his wake.

  “As soon as I realized that, I ran up the path with your helmet, thinking I’d catch you on your way back down. But I didn’t, and you were gone by the time I reached the lot. I asked a jogger sitting nearby after her run, and she said—” He smirked and lifted my right leg, the good one, to drape it over his hip so my legs were splayed apart. “She said some choice things about almost getting run over, but also that you left.”

  His hand ran up and down the inside of my thigh. “I thought about letting you go. There are other garages. Someone else could come pick up my car and fix it for me. Sitting on a park bench, holding your helmet, I considered all my options. Crawl back home. Get a new job in some other city and move away. Stand up to my parents. Every idea seemed empty except one—find you and beg you to listen while I plead my case.

  “I called a cab. We passed a horrifying crash and I recognized your bike. I made the driver stop and a cop still at the scene told me someone matching your description was taken away in an ambulance. He didn’t know anything else, not even which hospital you went to. Without a way to identify you for sure, I took a short walk. That’s when I found your wallet.

  “It seemed like a sign. I jumped back into the cab and came to the garage to make sure your family knew you’d crashed. For that half hour, I imagined you lying on a table, fighting for your life, thinking you were alone and had nothing to live for. Then the cab got here, and your dad shouted at me for five minutes about having my head up my ass and nearly getting his little girl killed. Combo almost decked me, but I ducked and he hit a wall instead. We went out together to pick you up. I think we’re friends now, but I’m not sure.”

  I still didn’t know what to say or do. Tears rolled down my face, and my stomach churned like I needed to puke. At least the pain had faded. Whatever he gave me, it worked.

  After several long moments with his story finished and me unable to speak, his hand slid to my mound. He kissed my neck again.

  “Say something,” he murmured, his breath hot on my ear.

  Telling him to fuck me already felt too crude for this moment, though I had no idea why. “I need you,” I heard myself whisper. Three little words fell from my lips as a concrete truth I had no other way to explain. All day yesterday, I’d clashed with this thing in the pit of my belly until it almost killed me. Why did something so simple have to cost so much to accept and understand?

  His fingers pressed in until he found my clit and stroked it. “I need you too.”

  I moaned in the back of my throat. Something else wanted to come out of my mouth, but I couldn’t let it go.

  He nibbled on my ear while his fingers worked. “I’m so grateful my car broke down. Otherwise, I never would have met you. You’re amazing, Angelfish.”

  Heat built between my legs. My pulse quickened. I gasped for air.

  “Can I call you Sophia?”

  Sonofabitch had seen my driver’s license. But I didn’t care, and I liked the way it sounded when he said it. His voice shivered down my spine. Even better, it pushed me closer to the edge. “Say it again.”

  His fingers ground against me. “Sophia,” he whispered into my ear.

  I groaned as I fell off a cliff, then again as he pressed his cock inside me. Slow and gentle, he filled me up. We’d had enough sex in enough positions to choke a cow since we met, but this time was different. He held me close from not-quite-beneath me and rocked his hips gently enough to avoid hurting me. And his fingers kept stroking the whole time.

  He cared. I already knew that, but he reinforced it with every stroke in and out, with every breath slipping down my shoulder, with every whisper of my name. No one had ever cared before, not like this.

  I reached back with my one good hand and raked my fingernails across his scalp. He turned his head and kissed my wrist. That simple gesture, something he had no need to do, made me want to cry again.

  As his thrusts grew more urgent, he held me tighter. I could barely breathe. Even though I thought I might pass out, I wanted him to squeeze harder, to grow an extra pair of arms and hold me more.

  “Come for me, Sophia,” he gasped.

  As good as this was, I hadn’t felt a second wave building until he said that. Suddenly, my body wanted to explode. Something trapped inside me rattled the cage, then roared and burst the bars. I screamed, unable to contain anything anymore.

  He groaned into my ear as he thrusted faster and faster. Somehow, even as he shuddered and came, he kept me safely in place so my leg didn’t even twinge.

  I’d had better and longer sex before, but I’d never felt so cared for, so cherished and...

  “I love you, Sophia,” he panted as he eased his grip on me.

  ...Loved. I felt loved. No wonder it confused the fuck out of me. I’d only ever felt that from my mom and dad before. And, I suppose, Combo, in a way. The rest of our extended family liked and protected me. Boys, on the other hand, always came and went, so to speak.

  He kept his arm around me as he shifted and settled. “Why does everyone call you Angelfish?”

&n
bsp; The subject change took me off-guard, but I didn’t let that stop me from answering. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “Take as long as you need.” Lacing his fingers with mine, he sighed with what sounded like contentment. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  My eyes dumped out tears, the bastards. “You sure about that?”

  “Never been more sure of anything.”

  “What about all the stuff we don’t have in common?”

  He kissed my neck. “I think I might need to loosen up a little. Try new things. Maybe you can meet me partway?”

  Safe, warm, and happier than I’d ever been, I sniffled and nodded. “Yeah, I think I can manage that.” Then, realizing I needed to say something else, I added, “I love you.”

  Emma Lee is a native Californian wanderer currently experiencing the wonder of rain in the Pacific Northwest. She loves to garden even though she’s lousy at it, and often finds herself staring blankly while her son discusses Minecraft. An avid reader and prolific writer all her life, she’s recently turned to sharing the kinky, crazy stories in her head instead of hiding them in the closet.

  Never Settle

  MariaLisa deMora

  Fran sat in her car for a moment, listening to the squeak and squeal of the garage door springs as the overhead moved down, slowly closing behind her. She had worked what amounted to a double at the diner today, called in for the end of the redeye shift, then working through breakfast when one of the girls called in sick. The manager had let her go halfway through her usual evening shift, but by that point she had been on her feet nearly fourteen hours, and it felt as if every muscle was complaining, her calves and shoulders yelling the loudest.

  She let her head fall backwards onto the headrest, rolling it side-to-side as she took in a deep breath, letting a small smile play across her face. Reaching up, she tucked her hair behind her ear, thinking of Pete, waiting inside. She knew supper wouldn’t be ready, dishes still unwashed, but he would take her to bed, flip her to her stomach so he could straddle her hips and listen to her talk while he rubbed her shoulders. That massage drifting naturally into petting, and then probably sex. Decent sex that they had on a regular basis. So what if it wasn’t fireworks every time? He was a nice guy, and they got on well together.

  Smile more firmly fixed in place, she reached across and gathered her apron, shoving it into her purse before opening the car door. Climbing out, she jolted when the overhead light went out. She had sat there long enough the timer had run its course, and she snorted. “Zoned out again, Francine?” Her voice echoed through the open space as she moved towards the door, not needing the light to traverse the familiar space.

  Out of the garage and onto the short walk that crossed the back of Pete’s house, she frowned, because all the house lights were off. Gosh, I hope he’s okay, she thought, then saw flickering shadows moving through the windows of the master bedroom. Maybe the power’s out. As the walkway climbed the small incline behind the house, each step took her upward, bringing her level with the room. Two steps later she halted in place, gaze glued to the windows.

  The small amount of light in the room was from five or six candles, lit and sitting on the shelves and dresser along the edges of the room. Candles she had bought several weeks ago and only used once because Pete said they gave him a headache. Candles she liked but didn’t use, because she didn’t want to give Pete a headache. She loved Pete or thought she did. She wanted to, and was sure she liked him. Had feelings for him, she knew that for a fact. Pete, who she now saw was sprawled on his back on the bed, legs spread wide to accommodate the form kneeling between them.

  Fran’s hand rose, tucking her short, dark hair behind her ear again as she looked at the long, blonde hair of the woman whose mouth was on Pete’s cock. Unconsciously, her other hand shifted the strap of her bag higher on her aching shoulder, the back of her hand pressing against a breast which was so much smaller than the ones on the woman on the bed with Pete’s cock in her mouth. Without realizing what she was doing, she took a step closer to the window, then another, until her face was nearly pressed against the glass pane separating her from the couple.

  Now she could hear Pete, who was never vocal in bed, talking in a steady stream of words to the woman with big breasts and long blonde hair who had her mouth on his cock. His coarse words encouraging her, complimenting her, groaning for her. Pete, who was nearly silent in bed, was not silent now. Then she heard them, his words which severed the invisible, unknown strings holding the three of them together, words that brought the head of the woman up out of his crotch, mouth leaving his cock but hanging open. “So good, Frannie.” His voice sounding low and passionate, saying words she wanted to hear months ago. Words she had never heard him say, and now he said them to another woman.

  When the blonde’s head came up, she screeched, “My name ain’t Frannie, asshole.” Then screeched again, shoving herself backwards on the bed, yelling, “Oh my God, there’s someone at the window.”

  Fran realized the candlelight from inside couldn’t be strong enough to illuminate her face, and the streetlights from behind must have left her in silhouette because even Pete didn’t recognize her. Pete, who she had been with for nearly a year, who called her name in bed for the first time to a woman who wasn’t her, yelled, “Fucking freak, get the fuck away from the window.”

  With a jerk, she stepped back and the light from outside must have fallen across her features because she then heard her name from that bed again, this time low and angry instead of low and passionate. “Frannie, what the fuck.”

  “Fran,” she whispered. “I hate the name Frannie. Sounds like fanny, and I don’t like being called an ass.” She knew he couldn’t hear her, but it was something she had wanted to say for a while, and even in this extreme situation, she found it felt good to finally say it. She took another step backwards, then another, finding herself back on the sidewalk, her trip to the house interrupted by a bare minute or two, now forever derailed.

  “Frannie,” he called, less angry now as she watched him scramble for the edge of the bed. “Baby,” she heard and hated it. He used endearments as throwaway words, so him calling her that meant less than her name from his mouth. Even less than her name aimed at another woman who had his cock in her mouth at the time.

  Stumbling, she turned and ran, feet slapping the firm surface of the sidewalk, hand reaching for and turning the knob on the door leading into the garage. Other hand hitting the switch inside the door that raised the overhead, then that first hand reaching for the handle on the door of her car, tugging as she heard his voice come louder from the direction of the house. Knowing he was now outside gave her greater urgency and she folded into the car, slamming the door behind her and fumbling for the locks.

  Her now trembling hand pulled the keys from her purse, then shoved them into the ignition switch, twisting them viciously, hearing the starter take hold then the grinding whine that was her holding it too long, making her hand jerk and let go of the key. The squeaking and squealing stopped and she knew the overhead had slotted into space above her, so she pulled the floor-mounted gearshift down and right one spot, slinging the car from neutral into reverse as she released the handbrake.

  Pete’s voice came from beside her window, but her head was turned the other way, looking over her shoulder and out the open garage door, making sure she didn’t back into the neighbor’s building across the alley. A dull knocking against the window made her jump, but she didn’t turn. Didn’t want to see his face. She couldn’t block out his voice, though. “Frannie, baby. Wait.”

  Into the alley, then she faced forward, hand reaching for the gearshift again, bringing it up into first, slowly releasing the clutch and rolling the car forwards. “Frannie.” From the corner of her eye, she saw him moving beside the car, one hand holding to the car’s frame where it held the windshield, one hand gripping the handle, that arm moving as he impotently tugged the locked door. “Let me explain.” She stopped the car and sat f
or a moment, foot on the brake, feeling her breathing catch painfully in her chest, aware for the first time she was crying. “Come inside, baby. Let me explain.” Her fingers were wrapped around the steering wheel, ten and two, just like her granddad had taught her in the old farm truck, the one he let her drive across the fields when she was barely tall enough to reach the pedals.

  Granddad loved Grandma, she thought. Loved her so much, he would have never brought another woman to their bed. Her fingers tightened on the wheel, knuckles going white with the strain. “Frannie, baby,” Pete called, his voice now low and sweet, what she got from him sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. Her Grandma got that from Granddad all the time. Low and sweet, low and passionate, low and loving, the last two of which she had never gotten from Pete. Don’t settle, Francine, she heard her Grandma’s voice in her head, and she knew…she knew her Grandma was right. Being with Pete was settling. “Frannie.”

  “My name’s not Frannie,” she said, and just before she landed her foot on the gas pedal, she heard him ask, “What the fuck?”

  ***

  We gravitate towards the familiar, she thought, picking up her coffee cup and staring into the mocha-colored liquid. That’s what she told herself, why she was back at the diner where she spent so much of her time. Turning things over and over in her head, she had been here for nearly two hours. Studiously ignoring the near steady vibrations of her phone from where it sat, stuffed far down in her purse.

  The last time her waitress, Twyla, had been by the table, she had dropped off a glass of milk and a carafe of coffee, telling Fran, “Just let me know if you need anything, hon,” in a low and sweet, sympathetic voice. I even get low and sweet from Twyla, she thought, lifting the cup of coffee to her lips for a sip.

  Making a face at the cold coffee, she still didn’t make a move to refresh or warm it up, just sat staring into the swirling, shifting liquid. “What do I do now?”