BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books

by Kristina Blake

  "So I know you, Officer Elizabeth Lane. Also, I have a radio in my helmet that lets me eavesdrop on everything you guys are transmitting between your cars."

  "You bastard!" I punch him in the shoulder without thinking, and Wolf half winces, half grins mischievously at my reaction

  "I thought we established already that I'm not," he reminds me.

  "Not a Devil’s Bastard, maybe. But there's plenty of evidence that you're a definite bastard."

  "A bastard, who it now seems to me, might have actually stood a chance of taking you home the other night." Wolf rearranges himself against the wall, and I feel his leg press against mine. I'm sitting closer to him now than I have since we found ourselves in this mess. Closer than we were even sitting together at the bar.

  "Am I wrong?" Wolf's voice sounds strangely serious for once, with a huskiness to it that makes me shiver. Maybe his throat's still parched. "Or am I your type after all, Laney?"

  "Don't call me that." Grateful to have been given an out in his questioning, I rise from the wall and move back toward the crates. "Glad you're feeling more yourself," I add as I reorganize the flares.

  "More than I have in a long time." Wolf sighs as he leans his head back against the wall. "You have no idea."

  #

  The water bottle is empty.

  The water bottle is empty, and our clothes are off.

  … well, most of our clothes. Wolf still has his pants on, but we both shed our shoes and socks hours ago.

  I've been sweating so hard that I don't think I could get my jeans off at this point if I wanted to. I bundled my blond locks off my neck a while ago, fighting to keep them constrained to a ballerina burn and certain that I've settled for something much messier, although there's obviously no mirror to double-check my work. My outer T-shirt is gone, my undershirt, little more than a thin white tank top, is plastered against my toned frame. I'm certain the outline of the black bra I wear beneath it is no secret to outside eyes, even in the dark.

  To his credit, Wolf doesn't look at the obvious silhouette of my breasts—or if he does, he makes sure to politely avert his eyes as soon as I turn back around again. He lost the thick jacket and gloves around the time he lost his boots.

  I watch him now, trying not to nervously lick the perspiration from my lips in the same moment I see his arms cross around the front of his chest. He hikes his T-shirt up over his abdominals and peels it off his frame, shedding it thoughtlessly and throwing it into a pile with every other article of clothing we've deemed unnecessary. His chain necklace swings back into place around his bared clavicle.

  My eyes rake his frame. From where I sit across from him, I feel confident he can't see me checking him out—but then again, he can see me, can't he? It's too hot to think, and there's nothing else to look at. I feel like my own lingering glances can be excused.

  Wolf is ripped. Not through any conscious effort of going to the gym and trying to bulk up, but from lifestyle choices: he's lean, perfectly proportioned, and cut with washboard abs. Even though he's sitting, I can clearly see the definition in his stomach, the coiled power behind his abdominals. The upper part of his chest is devoid of hair, but I can see now the full reach of the black tribal tattoo; it curls sensuously along his glistening pectorals like smoke.

  I feel great. Giddy, even. I know that it's only a momentary illusion, probably some sort of dehydration-induced delirium. I can hear my own pulse pounding sluggishly in my head, as loud as the bass beat in a Portland club.

  Not that I've been to a club in a long, long time.

  "Like what you see?" Wolf jokes when he notices me looking. I quickly school my expression.

  "I can't see in anything in here." It's a lie and we both know it. We both have adjusted almost completely to the gloom of the back of the trailer, and slivers of sunlight filter in here and there through cracks in the shipping container. It must be mid or late afternoon outside.

  "You know what we could do with an empty bottle?" he asks me.

  I pull my knees in against my chest. The less surface area I take up, the less likely I am to be touching a warm-to-hot surface in this baking oven. I shake my head.

  "Come on!" Wolf goads me as he leans forward and grasps the water bottle. I hate the way the plastic crinkles in his hand, indicating how completely devoid of water it actually is. "Don't tell me you never played spin the bottle in middle school!"

  "This sounds like a terrible idea," I reply as he rotates it experimentally on the floor between us.

  "So you do know the game."

  My knees come down and cross beneath me, and I fold my arms in staunch refusal to put up with this. "I know that it requires more than two people to play, otherwise there's no point. And I know that it's ridiculous to play games right now when we should be thinking about escaping."

  "The harder you keep thinking about things, the more energy you're going to expend," Wolf says as he rotates his own black-clad legs beneath him and sits up across from me. "And the more energy you expend, the more likely you are to pass out from the heat or hunger. I'm just trying to keep this party going a while longer. So stop thinking, Lane." He levels a look at me.

  I scoff. "As opposed to you, who hasn't been thinking at all this entire time!"

  "I've been thinking," Wolf protests. "I've been thinking a lot."

  "Sure."

  "Unlike someone I could mention, I've been thinking about what I want. Me, personally." Wolf crosses his arms, his biceps leaping into prominence. I feel even thirstier seeing them on display that way, I don't know why; my mouth goes dry, and with no water or other means to satisfy the feeling, I brace myself to keep enduring it.

  I can't ask him what it is he wants. How can I not know already? But to say the words out loud feels like crossing the final boundary still erect between us. And I'm all about uncrossed boundaries. I have to be. I'm a cop. Lines, walls, fortifications—knowing where they end and begin is my job. I just wish I wasn't starting to feel trapped all the time by them.

  Maybe it's claustrophobia setting in. I am trapped in the dark with a shirtless man intent on pushing these same boundaries, after all.

  I don't back down. He's looking at me now like he just served me a challenge; getting up to leave our improvised two-person circle would be admitting defeat. I tighten the arms folded across my chest until I'm certain I'm pushing my proud breasts up and lean forward. His eyes drop to them immediately, and I can see the certainty in his victory start to waver behind his eyes.

  "…maybe I don't want to kiss you," I simper.

  "Good point," Wolf says. "It's no fun when there's no risk involved. If one of us spins the bottle, it's going to land on the other. So," he gives the bottle an experimental spin with his fingers, "truth or dare?"

  "No." I put a hand out to take the bottle from him, narrowly avoiding brushing his hand with me own. "Try again."

  "Fine. Strip poker style."

  I give another startled scoff, but I can't think of a reason why this is a terrible idea fast enough. A drop of sweat runs down between my breasts, but I don't bother trying to wipe it away—several more run down my temples and others bead on the small of my back. Any excuse to be less clothed right now is something I would normally seize upon readily.

  "Fine," I say. I flick the empty bottle, and it rotates rapidly, skittering across the ground between us. When it stops spinning, the white plastic lid is pointing directly at Wolf.

  Wolf exhales through his nose. I grin and sit back.

  "All right. That's the way you want to play it? You choose," he says.

  This stalls me momentarily. "I…" My eyes rake him again. He sits back, looking completely at ease, not a line of tension identifiable in his relaxed body.

  He has hardly anything left to suggest removing—except his pants.

  "Your belt," I instruct. Wolf flashes his chipped tooth at me as he complies, reaching down to his waist to slowly slide his belt from its loops. The leather slithers free. He holds it out to m
e, and I take it, setting it off to the side in what I intend to make my pile of conquests.

  "My turn."

  Wolf spins the plastic bottle. Even before the bottle settles, I feel calculating gray eyes take in every inch of my body, deliberating on which layer he wants to peel back first. I squirm beneath his gaze, but force myself to hold still, to offer myself up for inspection in this dangerous game we're playing. My heart beats rapidly in my chest, betraying any excitement I'm feeling only to myself.

  "Shirt," he instructs.

  I guess it's the logical next step. I'll probably be glad to be rid of it, what with the stifling heat, but I stall a moment longer before raising my eyes to him. The look of mirth he wears so well is still there on his handsome face, but his gaze is sharp and watchful. I can't tell if he's holding his breath or not, but I don't see the muscles of his shoulders or chest rise and fall for a long moment.

  My fingers find the bottom of my shirt and grasp the fabric. I peel it back from my lean stomach, exposing my flat, glistening navel and the piercing I've kept (relatively) secret there since college.

  I hear Wolf's sharp intake of breath, and it encourages me on. I draw the shirt off me and straighten out my arms in a little flourish, whipping the shirt with a jerk of my wrist and tossing it off into the far corner to join the other discarded articles of clothing. I sit before him in my bra, trying to keep my shoulders straight so that I don't look as if I'm self-conscious or experiencing indignity. Unfortunately, or fortunately, my posture only succeeds in pushing my breasts out further for inspection.

  "My turn," I say hastily as I grab for the bottle. It looked as if Wolf was about to try and spin again.

  The bottle spins. Me again.

  The compartment has gotten increasingly quiet since our game began; now, the only sound is the rattle of the floor beneath us and the occasional slide of objects as the container rocks back and forth.

  I know what he's going to say before he says it, but the silence leading up to it is agonizing. I'm half-tempted to start unfastening my bra; I even raise my hands a little before he says: "Wait."

  I pause, awaiting his instruction. It puzzles me that it hasn't come already. Why else would a man want to play strip spin the bottle with a woman?

  Wolf lifts himself up and motions for me to come to him. I don't know how I feel about an up close and personal show. My thoughts are slow, my logic sluggish. My body, by contrast, feels hyperaware of its own increasingly revealed state—with every item of clothing that I lose, my tingling senses and secret aches for the man across from me grow increasingly harder to resist.

  The motioning of Wolf's hand changes, and I realize he wants me to turn around. I move to him, half-standing, and comply, sitting down with my back to him. His fingers trace the line of my shoulders, pads wicking the sweat from my skin. I arch my spine forward and turn my head to the side as Wolf's deft fingers undo the back fastening of my bra.

  As soon the horizontal strap falls away, I shrug out of the shoulder straps and throw it off to the side. Then I move out from beneath his hands, before either of us can think any more of it, and shift back into position opposite of him.

  He doesn't hide the fact that he's openly considering my bare chest. My breasts are nice: at least, that's what I've been told. Perfectly proportioned with the rest of me, still round and full and perky despite their heft. Despite the heat of the trailer, I can feel my nipples tighten and pull taut beneath his gaze. I try to ignore the ache his prolonged glance instills in me.

  "Your turn?" I prompt breathlessly.

  "I feel like I'm already winning," Wolf says. "Maybe I should give you a gimme on this one."

  "Not really a gimme if I keep rolling myself," I mutter. I decide to accept his charity anyway. I pull the bottle to me again, conscious of my newly-freed breasts with every little movement I make. I give it a spin.

  It lands facing the wall between us. It's fifty-fifty. I rack my thirsty, heat-addled thoughts for what is supposed to happen in this scenario. Do I spin again? Do we both win, or do we both lose another outer layer? And is that really synonymous with losing?

  I look at Wolf. Wolf looks at me. "Well, it's not getting any colder," he states.

  I guess I have my answer.

  "Here." I move to stand as he does. When he looks to me in question, I hold my hands out, indicating that I'm willing to return the favor and help him take his clothes off. Not that he needs my assistance. Honestly, I'm just looking for a stall tactic...and maybe I feel like it's only fair that I get to have my hands on him for a split second.

  There's no way Wolf's body can feel as good to the touch as it looks, can it?

  The contact between us lasts much longer than expected this time. I hold my hands out, and he walks into reach, glancing down the length of his torso to watch the deftness of my own hands at work.

  I unbutton his fly and immediately hit a snag with the zipper; as I wrestle with it, trying to be as delicate as I can, Wolf reaches between us to start on the front of my own pants.

  "Stop," I breathe. "Wait."

  But my hands are occupied, unable to swat him away, and my voice isn't as severe as I had intended to make it. He unfastens my pants with ease and yanks them down decisively in the same moment that I manage to get his off. The truck hits a pothole and rocks beneath us.

  And then suddenly I'm in his arms. Wolf's broad hands are wrapped around my backside, cupping the bare swell of my ass in his broad palms, cementing me against him and molding our naked forms together.

  We're both in our underwear, but we might as well be completely nude. The cotton fabric is damp and translucent by this point. I'm certain that when I pull back, he will see the cleft between my legs, and I will see—

  "Lane," he groans. "It's so hot."

  The outline of his thick member presses against me; I gasp at its size. I'm not a girl who is easily taken by surprise in most situations, but this…this was unexpected.

  "What is it?" His hands grip my flank harder, fingers digging into the voluptuous flesh of my taut rear until I'm sure he must be leaving prints. His hold on me doesn't hurt; it just awakens me out of my overheated stupor. I lay my hands on his chest and turn my head aside, afraid of being kissed. Afraid that I will like it.

  "How do you ride with this thing between your legs?" I murmur.

  "I manage." His voice is a rumble in his chest. "It was a lot harder after having you beneath me the other night."

  "I felt how hard it was then," I whisper. I feel how hard it is now, and the closer Wolf holds me, the more his erection starts to swell. My own need winds itself tightly in my stomach like a coil, unseen and unacted upon. Only my breasts betray me, and even then he holds me so close, I'm certain he can't see how badly I yearn for his touch…then again, he must feel the hardness of my nipples pressing against the flat plane of his chest.

  "Was that what all the stunt driving around has been?" I query. "An outlet for your sexual frustration?"

  "No," Wolf says. "I haven't found an outlet for it yet."

  Then he's kissing me, and I'm kissing him back just as fiercely. His hands slide up my curves to grip my biceps, locking me in place before him as he finally takes what he has wanted to seize from me for so long. His mouth crushes mine, his tongue skating the seam of my lips until I'm opening to him, eager to taste the forbidden recesses of my nemesis. He tastes amazing: warm and wet and a little like he takes cinnamon in his coffee. I lose myself utterly in Wolf as I throw my arms around his neck.

  My first act of submission must also be my final one. I can't think far enough ahead to know how this might play out, even if a tiny voice in the back of my head as shrill as a police siren is telling me this can't end well. Our lives are imperiled, and so is my career and my badge now that I've given into my darkest desire and let this rogue road warrior gain the upper hand.

  Yet, in the moment, all I can do is give myself over to the plundering sweep of his tongue and the crash of my blood as it pumps through m
e. Maybe it's the unbearable heat that's making it simmer in my veins, or maybe it's the unleashed power of the man in my arms.

  Was this what he was all along? It's dizzying to think that the thorn in my side that I bore with such impatience—and let's face it, unacknowledged attraction—is the same person taking possession of me now, thrusting his tongue inside my mouth and taming any words of argument or protest. And God, Wolf is a good kisser. It's not a collaboration, but an invasion, as indecent as if he had already twitched my underwear aside and plunged the thick dome of his member into the tight slit between my legs. Kissing Wolf feels like that—like engaging in a filthy act of intercourse that should probably be outlawed.

  I want more of it. I feel my defenses fall, and the sexual being within me comes roaring back like an awakened dragon. Something I've never admitted to a lover before, and barely even admitted to myself on a conscious level, overtakes me now in a single, devastating moment of insight and acknowledgement.

  I want to be dominated. I want Wolf to fuck me, whenever and wherever he pleases, if it means satisfying this base unrest within me. I want the biker to make me exactly what every man in that bar wanted to make me: his property to treat as he pleases, a dissenting voice that he can silence with sinful, smiling lips.

  He groans again heatedly, a growl that almost sounds like my name. His hands grab my waist once more and he spins me around, shoving me forward. I emit a small cry of surprise and throw out my own hands to catch myself against the nearest crate. I grip it by the corners, my body bent almost at a ninety-degree angle, my bare back nearly as flat as the surface of a table beneath a master workman.

  "Didn't you say we needed to conserve our energy?" I pant. Our sweat-soaked bodies slide together, what was once a source of extreme discomfort now becoming a source of natural lubrication. Wolf thrusts the front of his groin against the crack of my ass, his cock straining against the fabric of his underwear. It's the only thing that keeps him from entering me as he grinds into me, testing how tight a fit it will be.