Puck's Property: A Bad Boy Biker Romance (The Demon Squad MC Book 5)

by Monique Moreau

  “When am I gonna see a jacket on her ass? Or hear wedding bells?” Loki cut into his ruminations loud enough for everyone to hear. That brother had his back, making it plain to Skull who Ava belonged to. Not that Puck was going to thank him for his help.

  Returning to Ava’s side, he looped an arm around her shoulder and replied, “Not everyone is obsessed with weddings like you. Oh, wait, that’s ’cause you can’t lock your woman down.”

  Loki guffawed. “True that. One fuckin’ mistake, and the bitch is giving me a run for my money. No worries, though. I’ll get her to the alter eventually. Specially since she’s carrying my kid.”

  It was a sign of how good things were between Loki and Abby that he could crack a joke like that. The man hadn’t smiled for years after his brother killed himself. Puck relaxed a little. He may have come out of jail, but men like Loki had it harder than he did.

  “You paddle her ass yet?” piped up Cutter. “It ain’t legit until you paddle her ass.”

  “Not every woman’s crazy-ass wild like yours,” drawled Puck. “Some are good girls.” He gave Cutter a wicked grin and a sly wink at Ava, whose eyes had narrowed dangerously. His hand dropped to the bubble of her ass and gave it a long caress. Remembering their session from the other night got him wanting out of there more than ever.

  Skull grabbed Ava’s hand and cajoled, “Come on, Ava, you can’t say you’ve been to a Squad party if you haven’t danced, and it’s a damn fact that Puck doesn’t dance. Ain’t that right, Puck?” Puck grunted. “This ain’t no Renegades party. This is a real biker party. Come on.”

  Ava threw her head back and gave a throaty laugh that got Puck’s cock on the high alert. “It’s true, he’s not big on dancing. Never has been.” Being his good girl, she gazed up at him and asked, “May I?”

  Fuuuck, when she talked all prim and fucking proper with the “please” and the “may,” he turned into a fucking pussy. Without hesitation, he nodded his acquiescence. Skull scooped her out of his grasp and guided her toward the makeshift dance floor.

  Whistle turned toward him and began to talk about the problems at the bar. He’d finished going through the inventory and discovered another theft. At least that got the brothers turning their attention away from Puck. Half listening, his keen eyes skated across the clubhouse floor in search of Ava. Narrowing his eyes, he spotted unusual movement at the edge of the dance floor, near the offices.

  It was Skull, tugging at Ava’s arm. Talking into her ear, he seemed to be half-dragging her toward the darkened hallway.

  Motherfucker. Red suffused Puck’s vision. Everything faded away—the room, the brothers, the noise. Through tunnel vision, he saw his woman being towed away. Roaring at the top of his lungs, Puck shot off and bum-rushed through the writhing masses of dancing figures. Bile rose to his throat. Shouldering through people bumping into him, Puck reached the far end of the dance floor. After a quick side-glance to make sure Ava was unharmed, he tackled Skull like a raging beast. Locked in a destructive embrace, they toppled to the ground.

  Skull landed on his back, Puck on top of him. The biker writhed under him to get away. Jerking his head back, Puck slammed his forehead into the bridge of Skull’s nose. There was the sick crunching sound and blood sprayed into Puck’s eyes, momentarily blinding him.

  The other biker screeched in pain, releasing Puck to grab hold of his broken nose. “What the fuck was that for?” he bellowed out.

  By then, Loki and Kingdom were grabbing at Puck’s shoulders. After a brief struggle, they had him in a choke hold. Doing his best to break their lock, he thundered out, “Lemme at him! Let me get a piece of that motherfucker!”

  “Puck, calm your ass down,” Kingdom barked above him. They’d brought him facedown on the ground, arms cinched behind him. The red rage morphed into something dark and deadly.

  “Let me up, asshole!” he threatened. Kingdom repeated for him to chill out, but the longer he was in a helpless prone state, the more he struggled. Gnashing his teeth, he began to slam his temple against the ground. Thump, thump, thump. Jolts of pain assailed the side of his head. A pressure the size of a boulder squeezed the oxygen out of every tiny air sac in his lungs. Pain circulated over his chest cavity, and his breaths came out short and choppy.

  “Let me go!” he snarled on repeat.

  Suddenly, Ava’s knees were in his line of sight. Throwing herself over him, she cried out, “Let him go! You’re hurting him. He can’t breathe!”

  The distress in her voice penetrated through the fog of rage. Loki and Kingdom commanded her to get off him. No other man ordered his woman around. Adrenaline pumped through his veins.

  “Leave her alone,” Puck howled around the agony searing his head. Her voice sounded far off and muddled, but abruptly, he was hauled to his feet. Warm liquid, most likely blood, flowed from his temple. Opening his mouth, he hauled in a gulp full of air. He did it again but choked on the next one. His vision got fuzzy and dark. Stumbling, he dropped to his knees.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tender fingers caressed the side of his head as a gentle voice counseled, “Slow down, Puck. Slow down your breaths, or you’re going to hyperventilate.”

  Ava.

  He was being guided with a soft nudge, and his legs were moving him somewhere. Vision still hazy, he followed that touch and voice like a meek child, allowing himself to be led somewhere quiet. Gradually, the dark tunnel receded, and his circle of vision grew until he found himself on the leather couch in Kingdom’s office. Puck heaved in a huge breath of air. The booming bass of music from outside reverberated under his feet, but otherwise, everything was quiet. Near the open door, Whistle hung back, shifting on the balls of his feet.

  Ava’s face hovered in front of him. Lifting a finger in the center of his eyeline, she urged, “Follow my finger, Puck.” She swiped left, back to the center, and then right. Several times she passed her pointer finger in front of him.

  Expelling a sigh of relief, she fell back against the couch, beside him, and said, “I don’t think you have a concussion.”

  His lungs still burned, and a steel band wrapped around his chest, but at least he could breathe. Expanding his chest cavity nice and full, his hand crept along the leather surface of the couch until it found Ava’s. He gripped it, and their fingers tangled together.

  Twisting around to face her, his hand curled over her shoulders, and his mouth crashed down on hers, lips bruising hers in his ravishment. A small whimper vibrated up her throat. He felt it in the kiss and responded with a satisfied rumbling of his own. His anger was dissipating. Either that, or she’d converted the dark energy swirling inside him into white-hot desire. The woman had the power to sway his mood in an instant.

  Fingers slid up his chest, flexing and clenching against the hard planes of his abs and pecs.

  Breaking off, he pressed his nose against the side of her throat, scenting her. Inhaling deeply of her natural perfume seemed to calm his raging pulse. He yearned for more, and he knew where to get it. The source. His hands came down and wrapped around her waist.

  Through the thickness of his throat, he rasped out, “Fuck, baby, I need you.”

  Ava arched into his touch. “Yes,” she replied in simple confirmation. The need for her tenderness clawed at him.

  Without breaking his focus on her, he commanded, “Whistle, leave us.”

  There was the rustling sound of jeans, the scuffing of boot heels on the concrete floor, then the whishing sound of the door closing, and they were alone. Blessed silence. A breath shuddered out of him as he scrunched the hem of the figure-hugging sweater she wore and yanked it up her torso to expose her luscious tits.

  Groaning at the sight, he nipped at the outside curve of her breast. Dragging down the thin mesh and satin of her black bra, her breast popped out. He did the same to the other. His tongue flicked and teased her beaded nipples until Ava squirmed beneath him.

  “Shhh,” he said against her plump, fragrant flesh, cupping her mons o
ver her skirt. “Sit still.”

  By the time he got to addressing her other breast, her breath was coming out in short pants. He got down to business, coaxing the nipple with laves of his tongue, little nips, and long sucks. He pulled back and examined his artistry. There were bite and sucking marks scattered over her neck and tits; no man would doubt who she belonged to now.

  Pulling up her skirt, he commanded, “Lift up.”

  She immediately complied, making the corners of his lips quirk against her silky skin. He scraped the bristles of his five o’clock shadow against the underside of her breast, inciting a sharp breath. The little noises she made were porn-worthy. Those tiny moans and whimpers, interspersed with little grunts, turned him into a beast ready to fuck.

  His hand rooted inside her panties until he found the hot, tight hole he was seeking. Soaked, just the way he liked it. His fingers inched in, deeper and deeper. Moving them in and out, they set off more slickness. Curling his fingers inward, he hit a spot that almost triggered an orgasm, but he pulled away at the last moment.

  There was a ripping sound, and he glanced down to find he’d torn her panties off her in his eagerness. No matter. Kneeling on the ground, his shoulders shrugged a few times to prompt her thighs to open, and then his tongue replaced his fingers. The hit of her taste on his tongue triggered a heady buzz.

  He didn’t coax or play with her. Not tonight. There was no cajoling or teasing in his movements. He fucked her pussy, the thick muscle of his tongue brutally commanding surrender. Her fingers twined in the longer locks of his hair, tugging and yanking, sometimes clawing and tearing, depending on what his tongue was doing to her. Like Morse code, those fingers of hers divulged how close she was. And by the way they were snatching at his hair, she was skating on the razor’s edge.

  “Puck, Puck, Puck.” She chanted his name like a mantra. He fucking loved listening to her breathy voice when she was so damn close to losing control. It brought him back to his core—to the calm, steely crux of his soul. Fucking finally, after the debacle outside, he felt whole again. How he had called himself alive in the years they were apart, he had no idea. He couldn’t imagine living another day without her, much less a month or a year. She was like the air in his lungs, the light that hit his pupils, the sweetness lacing his taste buds.

  His mouth moved to suckle her clit, and she arched off the couch. A scream rang out, hair twisting between her clasping fingers. Her cream flowed, dripping down his chin as she came over his face. He licked and lapped at her, staying with her as little aftershocks shuddered through her body in tiny waves.

  There was nothing in the world like bringing this woman to completion. It had become his obsession. She bared her soul in the way she turned herself over to his ministrations and directives.

  Bright multi-colored eyes cracked open and focused on him. An auburn sheen danced across the long mahogany tresses falling across her face. Her lips spread into a glorious smile, and he swore it was like the roof had cracked open and rays of sunlight fell on him through a tar-pitch blackened sky.

  “I can tell you’re doing good, my dirty little angel.”

  “Can you? Hmm,” she murmured as the back of her hand tested the temperature of her cheeks. “I suppose my skin is flushed. Everyone’s going to know what happened in here when we walk back out there.”

  “Good. I want them to know,” he growled. A frown creased his forehead, remembering the fight.

  Her fingertips lightly touched his temple and caressed down the outline of his cheekbone. Concern darkened her irises to a whiskey color. “You were bleeding. What happened, Puck?”

  “He was going to take you somewhere. Hurt you. He was dragging you toward the offices.”

  Puck was still positioned between her open legs, her juices slathered along the lower half of his face. Her discarded skirt was somewhere on the floor of the office, and her destroyed panties were caught under the toe of his boot.

  Her knuckles softly followed the line of his jaw. “There were dozens of people around us. He was joking, messing with me to follow him. I wasn’t in any danger.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” he snapped. “He could’ve forced you into an empty office and hurt you.”

  “A Squad brother? I highly doubt that. If there’s one thing I’ve learned is that bikers live by a code. I may not have been wearing a jacket with your name on it, but he knew I was with you. He was just playing around. You misread the situation.”

  Puck’s gaze flicked away. Had he? From his position, it had looked like Skull was yanking at her arm. “Didn’t look like a joke to me,” he grumbled.

  She continued with her caresses, keeping him calm under her touch. “You know what else?” she asked, a bit too casually.

  His gaze swung back to her suspiciously. “Why do I feel like that’s a trick question?”

  “You had night terrors last night.” Her fingers paused. Then she simply added, “Bad ones.”

  Puck pulled back from her and broke off their connection. “The fuck?”

  “You were fighting in them. Shouting that you’re going to kill some motherfucker.”

  Horror struck his chest. “Why didn’t you wake me up? Fuck, if I’m cursing and shouting in bed you need to wake me up.”

  “From what I’ve read, it’s not a good idea to wake someone up when they’re having a night terror. It’s disorientating. Don’t worry about me. I wasn’t in any danger. More importantly, what you need to understand is that it’s a common sign of PTSD or, in your case, PIS.” Sympathy poured from her eyes, but he was already shaking his head in denial. “Post-Incarceration Syndrome.”

  Icy-cold tendrils wrapped around his heart. There was no way he could be crazy. That was weak, and he didn’t do weak. He was always, and he meant always, the strong one. It’s what he’d always been, especially after his mom died. Despite his tendency to joke around, he prided himself on his stability. The woman he was crazy about would look at him like he was a fucking rabid dog.

  “What are you sayin’? Spit it out. You think the pen made me crazy? You think I’m a fucking psycho because I was locked up?”

  “I don’t think anything of the sort,” she replied with a calmness that made him want to punch a wall. “It’s a common phenomenon, especially for people who’ve been in solitary like you were.”

  “It wasn’t even a full week. Hell, there are guys who’ve lived in solitary for months. Years.”

  “That’s true, but that doesn’t take away from the probability that you have it. In Duchess County, you got into a fight, but even if you hadn’t experienced violence or the deprivation of solitary, being incarcerated has a set of built-in stressors. The lack of activities, the rules, the correction officers, the physical restraint of being in a cell for seventeen or more hours a day. It’s a strain on the strongest of people, both men and women. It’s quite normal,” she concluded.

  Puck tagged the knitted wool skirt off the dirty floor and handed it to her. The mood was broken and the tranquility that had fallen over him, gone. Ava stood up and got herself dressed. Sitting back down on the couch, she tucked her legs beneath her as he paced the small office from wall to wall in an unending circle. Hands folded tidily on her lap, she waited him out. Puck stalked the length of the room a few more times. A riot of emotions exploded like shrapnel in his chest. His throat clogged with the urge to scream out his frustration and beat his chest. Besides feeling vexed, he was struck with fear. The dread that she’d reject him. Even if she didn’t do it outright, she might still look at him as damaged and pathetic. He couldn’t stand it if she felt sorry for him. He’d always been the strong one in his family, the reliable one in the club. No way he could be anything less in her eyes. His gaze flicked up to hers. There was no outright pity in her expression. Only understanding.

  “You’re not broken, you know?” she said, finally breaking the silence. “I bet you think you’re messed up. You’re not. It’s simply the body and mind’s response to a select numb
er of unique stress factors.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, almost scientific.

  He gave a noncommittal grunt, but his lungs stretched and took in a long breath that eased the tightness in his chest by a fraction.

  “It’s true,” she said, her tone turning vehement as she leaned forward. Then she released her suddenly clenched hands and leaned back. Cool once again, she continued, “You’re one of the strongest, most demanding men I know. This isn’t about who you are at your core. It’s about your body and mind reacting to a specific set of circumstances that have created temporary triggers.” She raised her hands in a so-what gesture. “Eventually, it’ll pass. Just out of curiosity, how was the noise level for you out there?”

  His eyes were drawn to the office door. Booming music filtered in from down the long hallway and through the thick wooden door. The bounce of the heavy bass shook under his boots.

  His gaze returned to hers.

  “Not good,” he admitted.

  Although he’d been at the bar with music playing or the TVs on, he’d worked during the day. Tonight was the first time he was in a place with a seriously high-decibel sound level.

  “The crowds? Did it bother you being around so many people?”

  “Yeah,” he conceded grudgingly.

  “And did you have trouble breathing at any point?”

  “You know it,” he replied with a baleful look.

  “I don’t know anything for certain. These are common symptoms, but everyone is different and there’s a range of triggers.”

  “So you think I’m fucked in the head?” The muscles of his shoulders tensed as he waited out her answer.

  “Absolutely not. Why are you being so harsh with yourself?”

  “You said it was temporary. If that’s the case, then it’ll go away on its own.”