BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books

by Kristina Blake

  I won't ask. I don't need to, and there are better times than this to get down to the dirty details about it. Right now, I'm more interested in a different set of dirty details, and about basking in the moment with this gorgeous woman. I'd rather be enjoying this unforeseen turn my evening has taken than devoting another one of my brain cells to talking myself in or out of this exchange.

  Lane rises up beneath me, propping herself up on one elbow, and reaches back behind my head. She pulls me down by the roots of my hair, and my throat constricts over a purr of satisfaction as I crush my lips against hers once more. I thread my tongue with hers, warring, tangling, as my hand drags along the wrinkled blanket adorning the bed and finds the outside of her hip. I settle my pelvis down between her legs, moving myself against the slick, secret passage I crave with every fiber of my being. It doesn't matter if I'm awake or asleep, riding the roads or hanging around the Clubhouse bored out of my skull: she's all I want and all I need—everything that makes getting up in the morning worth it. I'm a man who’s had everything, given it all up, taken it back when it served him, and taken more than his fair share of what the world has to offer, and everything pales in comparison to being loved by this woman. She could throw me to the ground and dig one of her favorite undercover heels into my back, and I would still thank her for it. That's how much having her around means to me.

  I consider it a bonus when I'm the one who gets to be on top.

  As if reading the filth of my thoughts, I feel the former detective start up beneath me suddenly; the unexpected thrust of one knife-sharp hip threatens to hit home between my legs unless I react swiftly, so I tip sideways, favoring one knee as I wait for this energetic upheaval to come to an end. Apparently my move was exactly what Lane was anticipating, because the woman takes advantage of my unbalanced position astride her to throw me off completely. I wheel slightly in the dark space above the bed and fall comfortably on my back, not bothering to try and regain my dominant position as she mounts me.

  "Oh yeah? Is that how it's going to be?" I taunt her in the dark. My hands come up to grip her naked thighs, fingertips digging into the soft skin and reveling at just how firm her body really is. "Considering the last few times we fucked, I was starting to think you preferred being taken fast, hard, and protesting." Her protesting always leads to begging in the end, of course. A part of me thinks my addiction to sex with Lane stems largely from the role-reversal we enjoy in the bedroom, but I'm perfectly willing to entertain this latest reversal as well.

  "Is this you protesting?" Lane arches an eyebrow in the darkness, before laying herself almost flat against me, her full breasts touching down against my chest and making me groan with the desire to fondle them.

  "Not at all," I manage to get out. She smiles, tight-lipped and hungry, and reaches down between our joined bodies to grab hold of my shaft. The sweet, warm pressure of her touch, and the pleasurable sensation as she firms her grip, causes me to buck inadvertently beneath her.

  "You like that?" she teases me back.

  "Fuck yeah I do."

  Shit, I would be happy with a hand job from my favorite intrepid officer at this point, and I'm sure with her skill she could polish me off quickly and taunt me even more about it later. Instead, she rises up a little on her knees and positions herself like a champ, hovering just above the throbbing dome of my manhood. My hands glide up to the dimples of her ass, welcoming her back down as she lowers herself and sheathes me completely. We both moan at the joining; it feels like a homecoming, and she's as tight as ever, fitting me like an almost too-small glove. I can't get enough of it.

  She begins to gyrate her hips, working me backwards, forwards, and side-to-side as she leans back a little. Her angled position grants me full access to the sight of my thick cock, wet with her aroused juices, pumping in and out of her; I watch the column of it disappear inside her again and again, welcomed by the eager pink slit that can't seem to get enough of me.

  Lane moans as she works me. It's another experience entirely, watching her effectively pleasure herself on my dick; my own pleasure seems almost like a by-product to her by comparison, but there's no denying it's heightened completely by the sight of her. Her wet, tawny blond hair spills over one shoulder, pulled to one the side and framing her panting face, her expression of intense concentration. The way she rolls her hips is sinful; the liquid movement of her pelvis as she thrusts against me again and again should be illegal, but I guess we know whose side of the law she's living on now. No one who wears a uniform during the day fucks like this, that's for damn sure.

  Her eyes are locked on the sight of us joined together, watching me disappear inside her again and again like it's the only thing in the world worthy of her attention. I watch through lidded eyes and emit quiet moans of my own as her passion climbs to new heights. Like me, she looks incredibly turned-on by the sight of our lovemaking alone, never mind the amazing, building feeling we both share.

  Her clit, pearl-pink and as small as the rest of her, looks as if it aches for my attention. I lift one hand off her undulating waist and see to its needs, parting her smooth, thin lips and rubbing it with the pressure I know she needs. A hitch in her rhythm, and a little cry of pleasure as she lets her head fall back, tells me I'm on the right track.

  "Yesss," she purrs again. "Ohhh." She lets herself get louder, losing more and more of her inhibition, as I stroke her pussy. I wonder, with what capacity for thought is left to me, how Dash is faring downstairs. He's definitely not having a night as good as I'm having.

  I take my hand away, and Lane moans in disappointment, but we reconnect moments later when I grab her waist. Enough of this. I can't stand the agony of what she's doing to me, and it's time for a little payback. I force her out of her maddening, serpentine movements and into a bounce, until the sound of slapping flesh fills the spacious mansion room. The noise we make together just fires me up more—I feel my cock twitch inside her, and a tantalizing, molten heat starts to pool in my belly. Lane's cries of pleasure ululate, and I can hear myself egging her on as if from a distance; I'm not even sure what I'm telling her, or what I might be daring her to do. The space where our bodies meet is hot and wet, and it's sweat, not rain, that glistens like diamonds on her flushed skin.

  She gives a long, drawn-out moan suddenly, and I feel her start to contract around me. She grabs for my chest, wanting to hold herself still as she rides the bliss of orgasm, but I use my strength to continue to slide her up and down my cock until she's practically quaking from the friction. Her eyes drift closed, her lips part, and she lets her head fall back, exposing the delicious milk-white expanse of her throat. I can't help myself—or rather, I feel as if I can help myself. Who says no to a billionaire?

  I sit up beneath her, carrying us both into a sitting position as I cross my legs. I cup the back of her neck in one hand, threading the tumble of her tresses through my fingers, and kiss her throat. She shudders, even as I continue to thrust my hips, ramming into her tight, convulsing passage, until I feel myself about to join her.

  "Ah!" I groan suddenly, grabbing Lane and cementing her to me as I shoot my load inside her. My own climax rocks me explosively, and I fill her almost to bursting with my hot seed; she takes it all, crying out in surprise and unexpected pleasure, and grips my shoulders as she rides it out.

  Once I've finished, I lounge back into the pillows, panting, feeling like a prince and a servant both with my queen sitting astride me. Once she's recovered herself, she slips off my spent member and tucks herself beside me, sweeping her tongue along her lips like the canary that just got one over on the cat.

  She runs her fingers along the hard indent of my torso. "I guess I must have come here to get laid."

  "You wanted to see me," I offer. It's a more romantic spin on the truth of her words. "And I wanted to see you. And even though we just finished a bit of pleasure, I have a feeling we have unfinished business to attend to."

  I sit up a little, suddenly struck by a sudden flash of
inspiration. Lane retreats lazily into the pillows, watching me for a moment, before sitting up as well. "You have an idea," she says. "You've thought of something. Believe me; you don't get that look often."

  "Throw a robe on and come with me," I instruct, whipping off the blankets and padding barefoot to the door. "I think I know just the man who can get you your job back."

  #

  "Lane, meet Lesher. Lesher, meet Lane."

  Words I never, ever fucking thought I would be saying, but the world has a funny way of turning your expectations for your life completely on their head: sometimes for the better, sometimes for the truly bizarre.

  The pale, unsmiling face of Lesher Vance stares back at me without expression. Dude's always been handsome in that Nordic, Gentleman's Quarterly sweater model sort of way, but it's the eyes that really pull you in and gut you when he's on the warpath. I can't tell if he's pissed at me currently since it’s difficult to gauge how much is lost in translation when staring at him through a screen.

  The three of us currently residing in the California Clubhouse are currently on a Skype call with the MC's favorite prodigal son. I'm seated in the desk chair in front of the computer screen; behind me, Lane dips into view to offer a small wave, but I've told her enough about Lesher already to guess her facial expression at finally meeting him.

  "Man, Lesh, you can't even manage to get a tan in South America?" I joke to try and lighten the mood. "You've been down there how long?"

  "Go fuck yourself," the man says, but he's cut off when another figure leaps into the frame: Nancy Cardigan, beautiful and perky as ever, waves exuberantly at me. Her auburn hair has grown out a lot since the last time I saw her, and at least her complexion hints that she's been able to spend some time in the sun.

  "Heeey Wolf!" she greets me. "I miss you, buddy!"

  I grin. "Hey, dollface. It's been too long. When the hell are the two of you heading back?"

  "Once things calm down on your end," Nancy reassures me. "Although, I'm kind of digging it in South America." She glances up, noticing Lane, and waves to her as well. "Hello!"

  The connection lags slightly, and I'm treated to a few still frames of Lesher yanking her off her feet and down onto his knee so they can both fit inside the screen. I chuckle and shake my head. "I see things haven't changed all that much between the two of you."

  "Oh, I wouldn't know about that." Nancy blushes, and I can see she's keeping something from me—something she wants to tell me desperately. I notice the glint of what looks like an engagement ring on her finger, but before I can guess at this recent development, Lesher gets us back on track.

  "What do you want, Wolf?"

  "We just had a question about that flash drive you stole a few months back," I mention, crossing my arms and leaning back from the console. I feel the back of my chair bump against Lane's stomach, and she lays a hand on my shoulder. Lesher's eyes lift a little, and I swear one of his eyebrows twitches in suppressed curiosity.

  "Oh yeah? And do you have any other information on this 'we' besides a name?" he asks me. Okay, maybe his curiosity isn't that suppressed.

  Before Lane can get a word out, Dash leans into the frame, his cool presence interrupting the ignition of any personality sparks. "Bentley was asking about it. He wants to know if it's got anything on the locations of the DBMC safe houses, or on the bars they're currently holding in their territory. He wants us to start taking them out."

  I swing around in the chair. "He does?" I ask incredulously. Lane elbows me, half to remind me that I'm supposed to seem like I know what I'm doing, and half to call my attention back to the Robber Baron who sits on a pile of answers a world away. I turn back around and rake a hand through my rumpled hair. Helps me think.

  "The Devil’s Bastards have been known to move their operations often," I explain to Lane. "And I'm betting it's been happening a lot more frequently these days thanks to a big production someone—who will go unnamed—put on a few months back."

  From an undisclosed country, I can hear Lesher snort.

  "Having revolving Clubhouses can be a good defense tactic," I add. "But it can also leave them fractured if one or more members don't happen to get the memo. Sort of like a change of password. The bar we first met at used to be one of their old haunts before they abandoned it; now it's just frequented by middle-aged wannabes."

  "I knew it," Lane muttered. "I was working on correct information, but it was outdated information. Thanks for making me feel like an idiot about that, by the way."

  "You're welcome," I say. "So, Lesh? Think you can send us the info?"

  "You guys are in the California clubhouse? There's practically one at your front door," Lesher states as he turns away from his computer. Nancy also leans to look; when Lesher reappears, he's holding the flash drive. "Most of it's bank information, but some of it's personal spreadsheets the club kept on file."

  "They weren't too good about keeping their paperwork organized, to be honest," Nancy says. "But there is a document exactly like you just described. Dash, was it?" She smiles. "Want me to e-mail it to you guys?"

  "If you would be so kind, my sweet," I agree. Beside me, Dash nods. I feel Lane bristle, and I wonder if she's at all jealous of my repartee with little Nancy.

  "Remind me again why you guys have this? And what exactly is this ‘bank information’ you just mentioned? I assume you didn't come by it legally?"

  So I left a few parts of the Lesher story out when I relayed it to her earlier.

  I wave quickly to the couple on the screen. "Welp, see you later! So long! Farewell! Logging off for now! And Nancy?"

  "Yes?" The woman cranes closer, so close that I see Lesher's hands come up to wrap instinctively around her waist and keep her from falling forward. I notice he wears a ring on his finger as well. Lesh was never one to go in for jewelry…at least, not until this singular woman.

  "Happy for you, Nance." I grin. "Send me an invite to the wedding, will you?"

  "Roger that." Nancy blushes. "Over and out, or…whatever. Don't be a stranger!"

  The screen blips off, and I turn back to my accomplices. Dash and Lane both stand with mirrored postures: their arms crossed and their faces contemplative. "Jeez, lighten up you two," I say. "Do we need to get this party started already? You want to hit them tonight?"

  "Yes," they both respond at the same time. Then, noticing they share one similarity too many, the two of them quickly break their stances. Dash moves out of the room to gather up his gear as Lane turns to me.

  "I know what I have to do if I want to get my badge back and bring these assholes to justice." She looks at me, and I feel my stomach drop at the determined quality of her gaze. "And so do you," she says.

  Why do I have a feeling things are about to get recklessly, stupidly dangerous around here? And why does that thought suddenly make me so nervous?

  Before, when I was Houdini, I had nothing but my own life to lose; now, staring at Lane, I realize just how much things have changed.

  CHAPTER 9

  LANE

  "Wolf says you're terrible at going undercover."

  I shoot a sharp look toward the biker walking beside me. "Wolf is full of shit and you know it. Dash, was it?" I ask him. "Why don't you live up to your name and walk a little faster?"

  The tall, silent man says nothing in response to this. I think of him as silent because there's really no better description; he exists, and he takes up a lot of space, all things considered, but he doesn't draw a lot of attention to himself despite his size. He's taller than Wolf, maybe six-foot-five, and his gait is maddeningly unhurried. More than once I've tried to push for more speed as his slow going has prevented us from reaching the biker bar any faster.

  He's certainly handsome, I'll give him that much. So far these Robber Barons are nothing like the unwashed road warriors I might have expected to find beneath their helmets—they know how to take care of themselves, and they clearly have the money to do so. Dash is considerably more clean-cut than Wo
lf is, with short-cropped, almost nondescript brown hair. He wears the unshaven look just as well, although I wouldn't accuse him of being scruffy, like I might Wolf. Nine times out of ten, it looks more like Wolf has forgotten to pick up a razor blade that morning, rather than looking like he was intentionally going for the beard.

  Dash's face is strong and angular; in certain light, the shadows under his cheekbones make him appear almost gaunt. Strange, considering his frame is generously muscled, his devotion to fitness more obvious and more deliberate than Wolf's. Something tells me he's seen some shit in his day, but apparently this same shit hasn't introduced a need for urgency in his stride.

  It's a different matter on his bike. He drives smoothly, without hitch or incident. He's a hundred times more careful than Wolf is on the road, but the ride over wasn't boring in the slightest; it just makes me want to get back on a bike and ride on forever. Never thought I would consider myself a biker chick, but I have a renewed appreciation for the lifestyle, and I can certainly see the appeal. I would chalk up his driving style to maturity, only I'm not sure how much older than Wolf or me this man actually is. My guess is only a few years at maximum.

  "While we're being honest, tell me how I look," I prompt him as we pause in the shadows outside the bar. He stands in the darkness, silent as ever, studying me beneath the glow of the porch light. We aren't alone out here: there are more than a few bikers loitering on the deck, but they're engaged in heavy conversation and none of them appear to have noticed our arrival in their midst yet. I assume there are a lot of men Dash's size, and a lot of women in my particular uniform this evening, coming in and out of that front door.

  "You look like a prostitute," he offers. I look down to assess myself, reaching up to adjust the cradle of my dress and allowing my breasts fuller room to breathe. I could care less if he's looking; that's my intention, after all. If this getup works on a stoic man like Dash, than we should have no problem gaining entry to the Devil’s Bastards' bar.