Fury: Sons of Chaos MC

by Paula Cox

  His tongue is an expert’s tongue. No fumbling, no searching. He goes straight to my point of pleasure and uses it, makes it hot and sore, but sore in a sweet way. He licks faster, harder, with more pressure. All I can do is squeeze his face into me and ride the wave of pleasure. Moans pour out of me, high-pitched, helpless moans. I throw myself into the euphoria, this bad boy biker between my legs, making me scream.

  And then I let my head fall back, close my eyes, and see red. Just red. Red sheets of pleasure. “Ah, ah, fuck, yes, fuck, Killian, yes.”

  He licks me faster. My clit sparks, and the spark becomes an explosion, and soon my clit is blazing with his tongue. Blazing and seeing red, his shadow of a beard tickling my lips, his biker’s hands, callused, gripping my thigh.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  I close my legs tighter, and then it comes. Like a tidal wave, it comes. Spilling out of me.

  My body contorts like a woman possessed, I dig my fingernails into the bed sheets, I throw my head back and let out a scream as the orgasm pulses through me, as I come and come and come.

  Then it passes, and I’m exhausted.

  Killian climbs into bed with me, wraps his arms around me, and in a matter of minutes we’re both asleep, buried deep into each other.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Killian

  I wake in the middle of the night, Hope’s body draped over mine, to the sound of my phone vibrating from the bedside table. I want to ignore it, to sink into Hope and pretend that nothing else exists, but if nothing else, I’m still the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs.

  I reach across and pick it up. I have a text from Gunny: One of the men just told me they saw Patrick meeting with The Headsmen the day before last. He was meeting with the leader. I know what you’re going to say, Boss. And yeah, they’re sure it was him. One hundred percent sure.

  I put the phone back down on the bedside table and rub my eyes. This makes my life damn difficult. Patrick, meeting with another bike club? Why? For what reason? Is he planning something? The thought makes me sick. The thought makes me want to march through the house and slap him around. The thought makes me want to throw him in the damn lake. But I’m also aware that he’s helping Dawn, and going in there right now hot-handed might not be the best approach.

  And there’s the selfish reason, too. I want to spend time with Hope. We have a day off from detox watch tomorrow. We don’t have a shift. I want to be with Hope without having to worry about anything else. Maybe that makes me a bad man. Maybe that makes me a bad leader. I don’t know. All I know is I want to be with Hope for a day, just a day when I don’t have to worry about stuff like this, just a day when we can be a man and his woman.

  So I push it from my mind for the time being and wrap my arm around her, bring her close to me. She moans, nuzzles into my chest, and I feel a big-ass fool’s grin spread across my face.

  Things are complicated, sure, but right now they couldn’t be simpler.

  Just close my eyes, hold my woman, and sleep.

  Since we don’t have to watch Dawn today, I decide to take Hope out to a cabin right in the center of the Darkwood, the most secluded spot I can think of. It’s a Numb safehouse—we rent it from an old man who’s known the Satan’s Martyrs for a long time—where members hide if there’s a crosshair on their back, but right now it’s not being used. When I tell her, she just smiles and nods, in that elfish way of hers. Her eyes tell me: I want to be alone, too.

  We saddle up and ride out way to the cabin, her arms wrapped around mine. I’m beginning to get used to having her arms wrapped around me like that; it’s beginning to feel right, to feel like the way things should be. It’s mad. Tell me a few weeks ago I’d feel this way about a woman, I’d laugh. But men change, I guess. Women have that power.

  The cabin is a rectangle of wood, ivy creeping up the walls and across the roof, the door a small cottage’s door I have to crouch through.

  The inside of the cabin is simple, with a kitchen adjoined to the living room, and two bedrooms off to one side, through small wooden doors. The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Blankets are draped over the furniture and the walls are bare and wooden, making it feel like we’re in some fantasy cottage—like we’ve gone back in time.

  As soon as we’re in the cabin, I forget about Patrick. Or maybe I force myself to forget about him, to forget about what I know. Whatever it is, he’s gone from my mind and I focus on Hope.

  “This is rustic,” she smiles.

  “Rustic, yeah.” I nod and drop the bag, which contains a few items of food, two bottles of whiskey, and our clothes, on the couch. “I think that’s the word for it.”

  It is a mild autumn day and Hope wears a short dress, cutting just short of her underwear, which drives me crazy. Her legs are begging to be squeezed. Her breasts are barely contained in the dress, pushing outward, until all I can think about is grabbing her, taking her.

  “I know that look,” she says, looking up at me cutely from beneath her eyelashes, like she’s scared and horny all at once.

  “Do you?” I breathe, closing the distance between us. I reach up and grab her leg, just shy of her pussy, and squeeze hard. Not nearly as hard as I can, but hard enough to make her wince.

  She gazes up at me vulnerably. “You’re a bad man,” she pouts, but her voice is thick with lust.

  “I am,” I agree.

  Then I spin her around, push her upper back so she bends over, and yank down her underwear. She supports herself by holding onto the back of the couch, her fingers gripping the top. Then she pushes her ass out, opening her pussy. I can’t stop myself. My cock is already iron-hard, ready to burst, ready to implode if I don’t do something.

  I pull down my jeans just enough, and then I grab her big, beautiful ass cheeks and thrust my cock inside of her.

  We sit on the couch, both of us naked and sweating, holding glasses of whiskey.

  Hope takes a sip and then her face contorts. “How do people just drink this?” she coughs, wiping her lips. We’re both butt-naked. She turns to me, smiling. “How many times was that?” she asks.

  “No idea,” I smile. “Four, five? Are you as sore as I am?”

  She giggles, and then nods. “I’m sore. I’m sorer than I think I’ve ever been before, Mr. Biker. You really are a monster. How do you stay so hard?”

  I tilt my head at her. “What do you mean?” Then I take another sip of whiskey. I’m drinking it fast, but I’m happy and I see no reason to drink it slow. The sex with Hope lasted hours, maybe three or four. Three or four hours of pure pleasure, losing myself in her. Man, she’s perfect. A bouncy ass, a sweet voice, a sexy face. She knows how to work it, that’s for sure. She knows how to drive a man wild.

  “Stay hard,” she says. “Most men can’t stay hard for that long, you know.”

  I shrug. “I didn’t realize that was the case.”

  She looks up at the ceiling. “God, if you’re up there, I have to say, thank you. Thank you for bringing me the only man alive who doesn’t know how hard it is—excuse the pun, God—how hard it is to stay hard for so long. Oh, thank you, God!”

  I nudge her in the arm. “You’re a silly woman,” I yawn, sipping the whiskey. It warms my body so that I don’t even feel like I need clothes. It moves through me, making my chest hot and tingly. Is that the whiskey or Hope? I don’t know. Maybe it’s both . . .

  “Me, silly?” She brings her hand to her chest, right between her big breasts. Even though I’m spent, lust stirs inside of me and my cock begins to get hard. She looks down. “Oh my, really, Mr. Biker? What are you, some kind of machine?”

  “I guess I am,” I snarl, laying my whiskey on the coffee table, standing up, and then reaching down and pulling her to her feet. “A real fuckin’ machine, but just for you, baby.”

  Then I lift her off her feet, aim my hard cock, and slide right into her. I fit into her easily. Our bodies know each other now. She buries her head in my neck, biting so hard that I know there’ll be a
mark there for weeks. But I don’t care. It’s Hope. She can do any damn thing she wants.

  When I come, I suck on her hard nipples, suck and suck and suck.

  The windows are black from the night, pitch-black, and the sounds of the wood rise around us. Insects titter and animals yelp and rustle through the underbrush. I turn on the heating and the cabin grows cozy and warm. Hope and I are both drunk, sitting on the couch, laughing and smiling like crazy teenagers.

  “Are you glad you waited for me that night outside the restaurant?” Hope asks, her head rolling on her shoulders, a drunken movement, so that she’s staring at me.

  “Happy?” I move my finger around the rim of the whiskey glass. “Happy is an understatement, Hope. I’m more than happy. I feel like every woman I’ve ever been with has used me. Maybe for money, maybe to feel like a ride-or-die chick, or whatever. But with you—”

  “Oh, I’m using you too,” she smiles wickedly. “The only reason I’m with you is because you’re rich. I wouldn’t even be near you if you didn’t give me money, Killian. Never, ever, ever.” She shakes her head, a stubborn child, and then giggles and slaps my arm. “I’m kidding.”

  “Oh, I know you are. If you weren’t, you'd be getting spanked right now.”

  “Ooh, maybe I shouldn’t be kidding, then.”

  “I was saying,” and I glare sarcastically at her, “that you’re different, Hope. With you, I feel like there’s a real connection there. If you ever tell anyone at the Satan’s Martyrs I said that, they’d laugh. But I don’t care. I can be myself with you. There’s a real connection here. In fact, Hope, I could see myself being with you. Not just tonight, or tomorrow, or the day or week or month after that. No.” My voice becomes husky with emotion. I don’t care. I push on. “No, I can see myself being with you for years.” I sip the whiskey to give myself courage. I’ve never been this open with a woman, but then, I’ve never felt this way about a woman.

  “For years?” Hope asks. “Do you really mean that?”

  I’m drunk, that’s the truth of it. I’m rat-assed, messed-up, drunk like a sailor, yeah, yeah . . . but I mean every single word. Every word. I see my life with Hope clearly, and I compare it to my life with the club, and the life with Hope wins, easy, hands down, no contest. It’s not even close.

  “I mean it,” I say. I put the glass down, hand shaking only slightly, and then move close to her, place my hands on her shoulders, and look down into her eyes. “I could buy this cabin, Hope. The Satan’s Martyrs rent it at the moment, but I could buy it easy. You could turn the extra bedroom into an art studio. You could paint the walls any color you wanted. And I could renovate the kitchen for you. This place could be your heaven, Hope, and I’d be happy because you’re happy. I think I could live forever like that.”

  I move my hands up to her face, cradling her cheeks. Then I lean down and kiss her deeply on the lips. Our mouths open and our tongues clash, brushing together, before coming away.

  She falls back, face red. “Do you mean all that?” she says. “Do you really mean it all, Killian? What about the Satan’s Martyrs? What about everything else?”

  “Nothing else matters!” I exclaim. “I could make this the place of your dreams. We’d never have to worry about anything apart from each other. If that isn’t happiness, what the hell is?”

  She smiles and a tear slides down her cheek, but she shakes her head. “I need to hear this when you’re sober,” she says.

  I nod shortly. It makes sense, I suppose. Men do let their mouths run on when they’re drunk. But right now, in this moment, I mean it. I mean every word.

  I sit back on the couch and close my eyes, letting the heaviness of the whiskey take me, letting the warmth and the rare feeling of contentment have me.

  Then I’m snoring.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hope

  I take one of the blankets which hang over the back of the couch and drape it over Killian. I’m still naked, and that in itself is a sign of how close we’ve become. Usually, with men, I have to get dressed almost as soon as the intimacy is over. Usually, I can’t bear to be naked around men, just naked, with nothing sexual happening. But Killian and I just sat there, naked, drinking and talking. It’s strange; I feel far closer to him than I have to any man before.

  He curls up on the sofa. I stand up, go to the bag, and take out shorts and a t-shirt. I wriggle into them and pace up and down the cabin, holding my whiskey in my hand.

  Could there be a future with Killian? I suppose it’s not impossible. We love—I stop, having to grip the glass hard to stop from dropping it. My breath attacks me. Giant, heaving breaths which make me grab the wall and lean over, panting. Love. Is that what I thought? Love? Love? Love? I try and steady my breathing. In the end I have to drain the last of the whiskey to come to grips with it. I can’t think like that. He’s drunk. He might’ve said more than he planned.

  I try to repress the feelings rising in my chest. I go into the spare bedroom—the bedroom he told me I could convert into a studio—and sit on the edge of the bed. Placing the empty glass on the side table, I lean back and stare up at the ceiling. It’s as though the life we could share runs on a movie reel up there, with the projector somewhere behind me, perhaps buried in the mattress.

  I see myself walk into this room, but there is no bed, just an easel and a stool and a board of pain. I strut into the room with a paintbrush in my hand. The walls and the floor are covered with white sheets. I don’t have to be extra careful, like at the apartment. I don’t have to curse when I spill a tiny drop of red on the carpet. No, I can let my imagination run wild. It gallops and gallops and I paint my best works here. And then Killian bursts into the room, grinning that cocky-as-hell grin, and scoops me into his arms. He knocks over the easel. I curse at him. He laughs and lowers me into the paint and we fuck like that, my back smeared with paint.

  Be careful, a voice warns. You know how men can be.

  That’s true enough. I think most women do. We’ve all had men say they’re going to do this, do that, they’re going to be with us forever, they’re going to cherish us, blah, blah, blah. And then what? We share a few sweaty nights and they’re gone, like the wind, and more often than not we’re glad they blew away.

  Big talkers, but that’s all. Big talkers but small doers.

  And what about his club life? I know it’s more dangerous than he lets on. I know so little about it, but I’m sure it isn’t safe. How can it be? Everyone in the Cove knows that the Satan’s Martyrs are outlaws. Outlaws. Like old Western outlaws, and how many of them had a happy ending? What sort of life would I be signing up to if I took him seriously?

  The scene on the ceiling changes. I’m in the kitchen now, a brand-spankin’-new kitchen, a kitchen out of my dreams. Everything shines. Light slants through the windows and hits knives and surfaces and cooktops and ovens, and all of it is lit brilliantly in the dream. I’m dicing onions with a stupidly wide grin on my face, an—Say it! Say it . . . It’s an in-love grin.

  Then the door opens and I look up, expecting to see Killian. But it’s not Killian. Instead, it’s a man, a gruff-looking man, one of Killian’s rivals, holding a shotgun. He points it at me and smiles, flashing yellow teeth, and then pulls the trigger.

  I sit bolt upright in bed, gripping the mattress with my fingers.

  How much do I really want to know?

  Can you really have a life with an outlaw?

  These are questions to which I don’t know the answers. I can’t even guess at the answers. I know I’m happiest when I’m with Killian, but I also know that Killian has done things, still does things, which put him in grave danger. With the other men, the biggest risk was they’d get bored, which was fine by me. With Killian, I could attend his funeral any day.

  Stop it, I tell myself. You’re just driving yourself crazy.

  I look up, and Killian is standing at the door.

  “Tell me,” he whispers. He’s wearing shorts, but his torso is bare, showing
his muscles, his tattoos. His blond hair is curly and messy, hanging low, and his blue eyes are brighter than ever, despite the drink. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  I swivel, place my feet on the floor. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll tell you.”

  “I meant what I said,” Killian says, once I’m finished.

  “But you can see what I mean?” I persist. “You can see why I’m worried?”

  We sit side by side on the bed, our legs touching, his hand folded over mine. “I can see, yeah,” he says. “You’re scared.”

  “But not for myself. Well, maybe a little for myself. But mostly that one day you’ll be on a job and then . . . You’ll be gone, and then what sort of life will we have?”

  “I get it,” Killian says. “I get it, Hope. An outlaw’s life is a hard life. You’re right. A dangerous life, too. I used to think that an outlaw who took a wife was a stupid man.”