BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books

by Kristina Blake

  "You still refuse to take a cut, huh?" Marcus asks. It's not really a question, and we both know it. "That's awful fucking heroic. Unless the whole point of today was to get you inside the vault." Marcus leans back against the table and raises his gun casually towards the ceiling. The men's belated attempt at counting is delayed yet again as they watch our exchange. They know a pissing contest when they see one. And in this context, they know what's at stake.

  "But I wonder why that would be?" Marcus continues. "I wonder. You hire us to pull off this heist with the promise there's a fortune to be made, but whose fortune are we talkin' about, Lesher? Yours? It's certainly not ours." Marcus redirects his aim, sweeping the muzzle of the gun across the room to indicate the other men. I watch them all tense, and then relax with relief, when the barrel of his firearm passes them by without a misfire. "Because by my calculations, a five-way split ain't exactly a fortune."

  "You knew exactly how much you would be profiting when you took this on," I state coldly. "And at the time of your hiring, you weren't even aware that it wasn't a six-way split, as I recall. What you're coming out with at the end of the day is more than what I promised you, so…"

  As I trail off, I take a step toward Marcus across the dirt floor of the warehouse. I can feel the heat of five pairs of eyes all trained on me. I sense the stale air of the compound stop moving altogether as everyone else forgets to breathe.

  "…what's the fucking problem?" I prompt. I think I have a very clear idea of what Marcus' problem is, but I want to hear him say it himself.

  The man chuckles, and the gun comes home to retire back against his shoulder once more. "Like I said: it ain't a fortune. And I've been thinking."

  "Surprise me." No mirth bleeds into my coaxing. From the corner of my eye, I can see Dent attempt to exchange looks with some of the others in an effort to get a laugh going. No one obliges him.

  "I've been thinking that after all this, I want a raise," Marcus drawls. "But I've also been thinking that I'm willing to take one by way of information. I want to know what it is you stole off that workbench. I want to know what you're keeping in your back pocket."

  There's something else going on here. I can practically smell it in the air, and it's not just mutiny. I hold Marcus' gaze as my hand eases back behind me. He must have been monitoring my movements in the vault on a security camera…viewing me from a feed that I had expressly instructed be interrupted remotely.

  What else had been viewed or recorded without my knowledge?

  "Any other information you require?" I ask Marcus, as my hand bypasses my pocket and delves into my waistband. A nasty grin stretches across his face by degrees, and I have my answer before he's even put in the request.

  "Yeah. Enough with the joking and secrecy. I think we'd all like to know where you're keeping the pretty little lady. Right, gentlemen?" Marcus takes a step out from the table and turns to the room at large, his arms held high and wide. "We'd like to have us an after party, wouldn't we?"

  "So she's pretty now?" I interrupt his bravado with cold curiosity, letting my tone slip its way into the proceedings like a knife between a pair of ribs. "I seem to recall you've been nothing but insulting to our guest since you first laid eyes on her in the vault. Which reminds me, Marcus, who was it you laid eyes on first? It was me, wasn't it?" I begin to draw my hand back out. "Or maybe it wasn't your eyes you turned on me. Maybe it was your gun."

  Marcus turns back to me. But it's already too late. He should have never turned his back on me to begin with.

  I fire my gun, a .45 from my private store, directly into his chest. I had been sure to stop off in my own room after leaving Nancy to arm myself for a confrontation, but I find Marcus' lack of imagination somewhat disappointing. He stalled too long and seemed almost reluctant at the end to commit to the violence he had clearly set out to enact. Then again, maybe the man just didn't know when to shut up.

  Blood sprays in a fine red mist as my bullet embeds itself in his side. Marcus is knocked off his feet—after the thunderous eruption from the end of my gun, his fall by comparison is almost soundless. His legs fold beneath him and he crumples to the floor

  Dent speaks first, and when he does, it's more of a shout.

  "Holy shit! Holy shit!" His voice cracks and he grabs for his head. "Jesus, you killed him! You killed Marcus! Holy shit!"

  I notice none move to the fallen man's side. I lower my gun and resume my easy, relaxed posture. I open my mouth to deliver my next lesson, when I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye.

  All throughout the encounter, I've kept my composure, kept my pulse even.

  All of that changes the moment my eyes meet Nancy's.

  CHAPTER 7

  NANCY

  I run. It's all I have left in me to do.

  The forest around me is a grasping, pitch-black blur. Without any of the light pollution coming off a nearby city or town—without any trace of civilization at all—the going is difficult, if not impossible. I trip and tear my clothes at every turn; I bring my arms up to protect my face, and to keep myself from smashing headlong into any phantom trees that suddenly rear up from the darkness, seemingly out of nowhere.

  My flight through the nighttime wilderness is completely doomed. I have no idea what direction I'm headed, or even what direction I should be heading—all I know is I have to get as far away from the warehouse as possible, and put as much distance between myself and Lesher.

  He murdered a man. He shot him in cold blood, right in front of me, and didn't bat an eye at the bloodshed until he noticed that I had escaped my prison and borne unwilling witness to his crime.

  He killed him. He killed Marcus. I don't know if anyone else in the warehouse watching the proceedings will face the wrath of Lesher and his gun, and I try not to think about it. I run.

  I hear a rumble in the distance, a low growl that seems to be steadily increasing in volume, and my heart seizes up in my chest. There's no mistaking the noise for thunder, even if what follows in the wake of that terrible sound might be considered the personification of a storm front.

  By now, I am more familiar than most with what that sound means. It's Lesher's bike. He hasn't continued punishing his men after all.

  He's coming after me.

  My breath comes in hard bursts. My eyes water, and my hair and clothes seem to snag on everything in my path. My shoes have only a low heel, but even this makes running nearly impossible—I would lose them if I didn't think the alternative, going barefoot, would slow me down even more. I'm like a hunted animal still running from a trap that's already sprung and ensnared me. Why even bother if I'm already as good as caught?

  I do have one thing working in my favor, though, and that's the very woods that I crash and curse and bleed my way through in an effort to escape. Lesher may have speed, and a familiarity with the backroads, on his side, but I'm not the one confined to paved avenues. I can run through the woods all night if I have to…

  I stumble out from the trees suddenly, and I realize that from the clatter my heels are making, despite my best efforts, I've accidentally found the road.

  I must have the absolute worst luck of anyone alive. At least there is still time to rectify my error…

  I limp across the road toward the yellow midline. A burning bright light flares to life, bathing me in light like I'm locked inside the monstrous, luminous gaze of a beast hell-bent on devouring me. I raise my head in fear, and effectively blind myself in Lesher's high beams—he's close, but he's stalled in the road. I might still have a chance, especially if I can make it back to the cover of the trees. It's not as if this psychopathic biker would leave his pride and joy behind him in the road in an effort to reclaim me, right?

  I sprint to the other side of the road and half-vault, half-fall into the ditch. I roll and regain my footing, teetering slightly; but, not waiting for my full balance to return, I take off running again. My lungs feel shredded and my heart is hammering so fast I'm not even sure what I have coul
d be considered a living pulse anymore. My body might be in danger of giving out completely, I vow not to die until I'm safe from the man who—

  I hear a heavy crash behind me. Moments later, another body comes hurtling out of the darkness and slams into me. I try to scream, but all that escapes my overtaxed lungs is a gasp of despair as I topple to the ground.

  I raise my arms, knifing the air viciously with my elbows and throwing punches as I struggle to get my assailant off me. His hands close on my wrists in an iron grip and force them down over my head; I feel the bite of pine needles digging into my skin like nails.

  "Get off me! Get off me!" I shriek. "Let me go!"

  Lesher—because of course that's who would crash his bike, chase me down, and pin me to the ground all in one fell swoop—drives his knees into my thighs to keep me from kicking him. I buck my hips as I try to unseat him, but I'm ashamed to say he rides me as well as his bike. My face burns in outrage, which is helpful in ignoring the terrible chill that simultaneously races down my spine when I stare up into his face. The moonlight through the trees above us illuminates his tensed countenance, making every dominant feature of his face leap into prominence: his lean cheeks, the tense and perfectly symmetrical muscles and bones of his face, and the shadows beneath his eyes that only seem to deepen the dominating power of his gaze. I feel as helpless to look away from him as I am to escape out from beneath him.

  His eyes drag down my own face, as if taking quick stock of every shallow scratch and bruise I've suffered while running from him…but I'm certain I'm mistaken. There's no way Lesher could possibly care about whether or not I've injured myself. His compelling blue eyes alight on my lips and fix themselves there. I know what he's thinking—I can see it clearly on his too-angelic face.

  Lucifer was an angel too, I remind myself. I can feel my heart galloping against my ribcage as if wishing to be nearer to him, even though it's the force of his body that pins me to the ground.

  "Get control of yourself, Nancy," Lesher murmurs. "You're lucky I found you before anyone else did."

  "You murdered him!" I exclaim. "Do you deny it? Lesher, I saw you! You shot a man pointblank, and let's not forget you kidnapped me after robbing a bank. So excuse me for feeling out of control!"

  "He wanted to kill you." The words send another chill down my spine to accompany the first. I don't know what to be more afraid of: Marcus' intentions for me, or Lesher's. "And worse. I heard him talking to the other men about you. I needed to make an example of him."

  "Enough!" I almost sob the word. The threat of tears is there for both of us to hear, but so far I haven't given myself over to crying—not yet. In fact, I refuse to. The games Lesher plays use power as their currency, and I'm not going to let this horrible night divest any more dignity from me. "Just stop!"

  If Lesher doesn't heed my command, then at least he seems willing to change the subject away from thoughts of what his men wanted to do to me. "You were right about what you saw in that vault," he says. "Marcus would have pulled the trigger on me then and there if you hadn't intervened."

  "I know. You're welcome."

  "I didn't say thank you," he growls.

  "Well, you're welcome anyway." My eyes roll wildly in my head, my brain grasping for a plan, or at least quick access to something within my reach that I can use as a weapon. I scarcely recognize the sound of my own voice, or the seamless way that I have returned to our developing back-and-forth. It seems completely inappropriate given the circumstances that I should be retorting in any way.

  I watch as Lesher's mouth flexes in response, although I wouldn't call the expression I see there amusement. It's more like some sort of jaded offshoot of the emotion that normal, well-rounded people might feel. His eyes continue to linger on my lips.

  "There are other ways to thank people," he says. "Want me to show you?"

  "No." I panic. "No. I don't want to be kissed by a murderer."

  "Presumptuous," he says. "Who said I was going to kiss you?"

  He continues to stare at my lips ponderously, and I want to scream that the expression on his face is threatening that exact action. Maybe he has no idea what expression he wears.

  "Nancy, I didn't murder Marcus," Lesher says quietly. "I'm not a killer."

  I buck my hips again, and feel the muscles in Lesher's inner thighs tighten as he forces me back down. A helpless whimper escapes me, but I fight it back down staunchly as he lowers his face another inch closer. I turn my head away.

  "Nancy," he cajoles me.

  "No," I whisper. I shut my eyes tightly.

  "I'm not going to kiss you against your will." The promise seems ludicrous given how close his face is to mine.

  "You shouldn't want to kiss me at all!" I exclaim as I turn my head again. "You have me pinned in the middle of the woods! You kidnapped me! And I certainly don't want to kiss you!"

  Lesher smiles sardonically at me in the darkness. "I thought we had agreed to be honest with one another."

  Then the master criminal—who may or may not be a murderer—swoops in, just as I attempt to turn my head away a third time, and captures my protesting lips beneath.

  The only problem is… I'm not protesting the truth of his claim. I want to protest his methods and, yes, lying seems very agreeable to me at this moment. By all accounts I should not want anything to do with this man, and yet I find myself pulled to him again and again. He is a demon from the underworld, and he is mesmerizing. Whenever he comes near me, I feel possessed—not by him, but by my uncontrollable desire for him.

  His hands release my wrists to clutch my face, my neck. I should take advantage of his confidence in my consent to throw him off me, but I can't; I feel as if I'm being consumed by a burning inferno. I reach for him as if he can drag me out of it, but he's the arsonist, the man who struck the match to begin with. I'm looking to my nemesis for salvation.

  His lips press and mold my own, massaging with relentless, hypnotic rhythm until I open for him with a gasp. He slips his tongue inside me and sweeps my depths, his passion arousing a moan of helplessness from me. Being kissed by someone, by Lesher, like this, feels better than being taken to bed by a lesser man. I have had plenty—well, not plenty—of encounters in the bedroom, at least enough to know who is or isn't adept at what they're doing.

  Lesher knows what he's doing.

  I moan into him again, and he returns my moan in kind, although his is much deeper. It's a base, guttural noise that I feel reverberate in my own chest as he presses every hard inch of himself down against me; the soft earth beneath us is more likely to give first at this point than he is. As his tongue tangles with my own, his lips, his teeth, clash with mine. I hazily recall how I had likened him to a thunderstorm, a force of nature, only moments ago when I was running from him; now, I'm not doing any kind of running.

  There is nothing gentle about our kiss, but there is nothing painful either—the pressure feels right, so right it's devastating. I feel how much he wants to possess me with every shift and slide, with every resettling of his weight, with—

  "Ah!" The startled noise of surprise and pleasure feels unearned, but he rips it from me all the same. He grabs hold of my naked thigh and lifts it, shoving his waist between my legs in the same move. I latch onto his coat; I have nothing else to cling to. I feel the poor abused fabric of my favorite skirt bunch and climb, until I might as well not be wearing a skirt at all. I feel even more acutely the press of my captor's body as he grinds his need against me. "Lesher—"

  "I'll take you right here and no one will stop me," he whispers into my neck. He trails his words down the curve of my throat, planting them along my collarbone and just above my heaving breast. "You won't stop me. You always let me take what I want, don't you, Nancy?"

  He's playing with me. I know the words should sting after my colossal failure back at the bank, but I yearn to give in. There's strength inside me yet that refuses to let any agreement escape past my lips, but I feel those reserves quickly depleting. Besi
des, is it really strength to hide behind denial?

  I want Lesher. I need him desperately. I know it's fucked up. I know that, had our situations been different—had we met under normal circumstances—I would crave him just as strongly as I do now. His dangerous personality and domineering presence excite every molecule of my makeup, and he wants me just as badly.

  I watch his self-control crumple as he thrusts himself against me again. I feel his erection bulging beneath the front of his pants, and gasp wildly as it catches momentarily against my tight slit. He pushes harder, encouraging the sweet friction, and fireworks erupt behind my eyes. The stars spin in the sky above the black canopy overhead. There is still clothing between us but it feels as if he is almost penetrating me. Maybe sex has all to do with intent, I realize. I'm not sure if that makes sense, but it feels right.

  And this feels good. Too good. Lesher yanks my leg again and hooks it on the lean angle of his hipbone. "You're wet," he murmurs into the valley between my breasts. I shudder. What would have normally been a semi-embarrassing notion sounds so forbidden when he says it with such relish.

  The collar of my undone blouse has fallen over my shoulder—either that or Lesher's hand aided in its descent when I was distracted. He reaches up suddenly, grabs hold of either side of my blouse, and wrenches my shirt open. I cry out at his animalistic display, but not in protest—I just never imagined I would be pinned beneath someone who had no qualms about literally ripping my clothes off. The blouse falls open, revealing my chest, my ribs, and my navel. A rush of cold air hits me, before I feel his body aligned with mine once more.

  He forces another kiss as I grope blindly for something to cling to. My fingers find the waistband of his pants and accidentally tug them downward a few inches. Then, deliberately, I hook my fingertips in his pants.