by Layla Wolfe
“No, no, no,” I murmured nonsensically. My fist automatically began to jack the hot and dry limb of his prick, causing him to cry out.
“No! Gudrun, Jesus Christ on a stick, will you knock it—”
I fell to my knees, taking his jeans down with me.
His hard-on practically brained me upside the head, and I wasted no time in sinking my mouth down on it. Of course I could only take about half of the monstrous thing. My deep-throating days were a long ways away. My throat muscles had shriveled from lack of need. But my long deprivation meant I was halfway insane with desire now, and I tried to cram as much meat into my mouth as I could. I swirled my tongue around the salty slit, using the droplets of cum as lubricant to swish fancy patterns all around the bone.
“Agh,” he choked out, as though he were the one with a mouthful of juicy pecker.
I couldn’t tell if his fingertips that gripped my skull were encouraging me or pushing me away. The men in the bar increased the urgency of their catcalls and clomping. The floor beneath my knees vibrated with their prehistoric dance as I sucked the prick like my life depended on it.
Just the backs of Roman’s thighs touched the file cabinet now. He was standing, definitely lunging into my mouth, pressing his tight, shiny glans against my tonsils. I had to break away to let a breath of air rip through my lungs.
That’s when I saw it.
The flashlight, one of those slim black jobs, sitting on the file cabinet behind him.
Without much conscious thought, I grabbed it. I spit all over the handle end of it. Roman, having seen a lot of strange things in his rock ‘n’ roll days, just panted heavily, his erection twitching and drooling, on the edge of release.
I plunged my face between his thighs—underneath his cock, underneath his balls. I laved his perineum with the spit I had left in my mouth. His gasps came higher and higher, like he was singing scales. I lapped at the tight starfish of his asshole, wetting it, preparing it. It fluttered and tightened against my tickling.
Withdrawing my face, I pressed the business end of the flashlight against his hole. I twisted and turned, looking up at him to gauge his reaction.
His lower jaw was slack, his eyes clouded by a mess of conflicting emotions. And above all, his beautiful prick loomed, the sweet little slit dripping a couple drops of spunk onto my shoulder.
“I’m going to fuck you with this,” I warned.
I could barely hear his reply. “Go ahead,” I think he said huskily.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ROMAN
The idea of Gudrun fucking him had Roman’s cock drooling.
His fingertips scrabbled through her thick scarlet hair. He’d never seen such an inviting sight in his life—Gudrun on her knees, his own big dick pulsating in the air next to her sweet face. Her lips were swollen and pouty from the cocksucking she’d already done, and she looked pleased as punch.
He knew he “shouldn’t” debase her in any way at all. His role as her protector meant they shouldn’t be doing any fooling around at all. His status as a celibate patch holder focusing on revenge meant that messing with Gudrun would detract from his odyssey, his objective.
But hell. Miss this opportunity of a lifetime? Fuck, no.
She had already slathered his asshole with her warm tongue. She had already lapped at his balls, so hard they were like two rocks, full to bursting with jizz. She had already nuzzled her face to his crotch. She had the handle of a flashlight nudged right up against his hole. What other barrier was there to cross?
Shoving his jeans even farther down over his boots, Roman spread his feet on the carpet. “Do it, sweetheart.” His fingers roamed all over her scalp, messing up her hair.
With the most impish grin imaginable, Gudrun slid the implement up his channel.
Instantly, Roman’s eyes rolled up into his head. Like any man alive, he loved being penetrated by a woman. There was that sweet spot, that itch men needed scratched, just inches up the ass right behind the prostate gland. Rolling his hips like a hula dancer, Roman urged Gudrun toward that spot. Dirtbags pounded on the manager’s door and rattled the knob, but they couldn’t get in. Gudrun took her sweet time, apparently an expert at anal torture. She jiggled the handle, inching ever so slowly toward the spot that Roman angled to reach.
Meanwhile, she tortured his dick with tender, tantalizing little licks. She completed the torment with nasty talk that was a shocking and arousing surprise coming from her.
“You like that, my sweet brother? You like it when your sister fucks you up the ass like this? I’ll bet you’ve been craving it, dying for it ever since they told you you were going to have to protect your little sister.”
“Yes,” Roman gasped. He had to admit it. He fucking had to admit it, especially with that damned flashlight jiggling up toward his gland. He’d admit anything in this position. “Yes, I fucking wanted you, sister. Now do it. Just fucking do your brother like you want. I know you can—I know you’re experienced. You want to suck this?” He grasped his erection, pointing it at her luscious lips, but she only sucked the head a little, savoring the drops of precum that had glistened there.
“I’ve been dreaming of sucking my brother’s dick,” she purred in between sips. “You like it when your little baby sister sucks on your big fucking pecker?”
For some reason, the dirty word “pecker” almost sent Roman over the edge. It was such an unexpected word coming from Gudrun. He gasped and nearly choked on a lungful of air. The lunge of his hips as he drove his penis into his stepsister’s mouth brought his ass down on the slender implement, and bam, it pinged the spot.
“Do it!” he cried, grabbing her by the back of the skull.
He would’ve come without sinking his cock down her throat. He would’ve spurted all over her shoulder, embarrassingly. He would’ve shot into the thin blue sky regardless of how well or whether she sucked, because the dildo was sensuously massaging his P spot in a way that instantly sent him soaring into ecstasy.
Even so, he wasn’t sure how much of his jizz she actually caught in her mouth. The dildo was coaxing blissful spasms that rolled the length of his anus, clutching at the nasty little object, draining every possible euphoric spasm from him.
Stream after stream spewed from his dick as Gudrun artfully wielded both the flashlight and her mouth. She had the coordination of a ballerina as she finally caught his spurting dick in her mouth and gulped down a few mouthfuls.
“You sweet fucking sexy sister,” he gasped, finally realizing that he gripped a handful of her hair so tightly he was almost scalping her.
How long had people been tossing bodies around in the main barroom? Roman had been so fixated on his massive orgasm he hadn’t noted when the sounds had switched from rutting bikers humping on bars to men throwing other manly bodies around.
Suddenly women ran down the hallway toward the manager’s office, squealing, clearly afraid of whatever was happening. A rumble. It could be some more Cutlasses come to pay them back for the patches they’d removed from their cuts earlier. Or maybe those cowboys they’d tussled with last year. That thought sent a fresh surge of a different kind of excitement through Roman, and he pressed Gudrun away from him with his palm against her forehead.
He gasped when the dildo slid from his ass, but he made a quick recovery, yanking up his jeans. “Listen, whatever’s going on out there, I want you to hide under this fucking desk, okay?” He picked up his Glock from where he’d placed it, far back on the fire cabinet, jamming it into his waistband and covering it with his cut. “Cumon, up, up.”
Sometimes he forgot about her car crash injury. She had been taking less pain pills to cover her agony, and she winced when he slipped both hands under her armpits and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll be right there!” he bellowed at the door. Someone who clearly sounded like Lytton—or was it Faux Pas?—was yelling at him to get his ass out there.
“Who’s in there, do you think?” Gudrun asked, allowing Roman to lead her to the des
k.
“Cowboys, I think. Here, do you fit? Look, this should only take five minutes. I know I’m supposed to protect you, but I can’t stand by while my brothers are fighting for their lives.”
Her little pale faced was lit up like a planet in the darkness underneath the desk. She looked so small and helpless, and Roman was torn. His duty was clear, though, when she said, “Go, go! It’s your job, Roman. It’s your job and your life!”
A rush of love raced through Roman’s chest as he briefly kissed Gudrun on the mouth. He didn’t even recoil when he realized he was tasting his own semen. He wasted a few valuable milliseconds breathing against her mouth, then she shook him.
“Go, go!”
“Stay safe,” he whispered, before running out of the room.
He had to push past a giant knot of old ladies and club whores. He tried to shut the manager’s door behind him, but the ladies overran him and flooded the room behind him. He only recognized Tess, Speed Shellmound’s fiancée, so he shook her by the arm.
“Lock the door behind you!” he ordered. She seemed to hear him and nod, so he was off down the hall, diving into the rumble with something close to sheer joy.
It was those cowboys, for sure.
They’d been spoiling for a fight ever since the Bare Bones had ridden into their town and taken it over for the day. Cowboys and bikers were born enemies, like Churchill and Hitler, seals and sharks, and werewolves and vampires. Throw them together anywhere within a hundred mile radius and a rumble would result. Cowboys, some of them Hopi and Navajo, were tough as woodpecker lips. Bikers were famous for using chains in a fight, but cowboys fought with their spurs on. They hit a man with things like cattle leads, fencing tools, and cow bells.
In fact, the first fight to catch Roman’s eye was between a Navajo and the giant Aztec, Tuzigoot. Tuzigoot was the toughest, most heavily scarred biker Roman had ever known, but the Navajo was ripping away at his throat with something that resembled a horseshoe nail. Since it took two to take down Tuzigoot, another cowboy was running up to him with a horseshoe held high over his head. Roman had the element of surprise, and he could take this anusbrain bare-handed.
Clasping his hands together as one, Roman made a leap in the air that gave him leverage to bring his joined fists down in the center of the Navajo’s skull. The horseshoe went flying and the guy fell like lightning out of heaven. For good measure, Roman kicked the cowboy literally in the ass with his steel toed boot, and he was on to the next fight.
It was generally considered unfair to bring a knife to a barroom brawl, and Roman spied an Assassin doing just that. His switchblade was readied in an underhanded manner as though about to knife the cowboy in the gut. But since the rancher he was up against just brained the Assassin with a rock—a rock?—Roman didn’t feel bad about stepping in and giving the vaquero such a giant uppercut to the jaw that he flew through the air. He landed on a wooden table that splintered into smithereens just like in the movies, and Roman and the Assassin nodded at each other in satisfaction.
Then it was Roman’s turn to collapse to the floor. Someone had whacked him in the brain with a heavy, prickly instrument. Roman had been in enough fights before, and instantly he rolled to one side. The weapon came down again, this time embedded in the chair next to him. Holy Jesus on a stick! The fucking thing looked like a busted-up fence post embedded with nails, like some kind of medieval mace.
The cowboy struggled to remove the mace from the chair. It was embedded so deeply he took the entire chair with him on the upswing. This gave Roman the perfect opening to leap up like a bat out of hell and head-butt the guy in his stupid chest. Thrown off balance, the cowboy let go of his chair mace and crashed backward into another group of punching men.
Roman had the advantage, and he took it. He had no compunction about hitting a man when he was down. Bare Boners fought hard because they fought for their lives. Cowboys, jocks, and cops fought for fun or because it was their job. The Bare Bones was picky about who they allowed to Prospect for them because they needed to be able to live up to what the Boners stood for. A man who ran like a chicken with its head cut off was no man worth fighting beside.
Straddling the red-headed vaquero, Roman picked his torso up with one handful of his shirt. With his right hand he pummeled the loser in the mouth, the nose, the jaw. Years of guitarist experience had given Roman lightning reflexes and that stood him in good stead now. Skill and experience equaled speed, and anger and rage equaled power, and soon the guy’s face was bloody like half a peanut butter sandwich. Meanwhile, guys were being tossed around like sacks of beans, tumbling head over heels, knocking each other over like bowling pins. It was a good, old fashioned free-for-all such as Roman hadn’t participated in in a long-ass time.
Adrenaline flowed like the powerful drug it was. Despite the fact he’d just orgasmed into his stepsister’s mouth—or at least all over the floor behind her—Roman was raring to go, full of piss and vinegar. He probably would’ve kept on belting the listless cowboy had not a shot rang out.
About half the men in the bar stopped cold. Blood dripped from faces and appendages, places where men had been cut with nails, metal, ranching implements. Brothers dropped cowboys from where they dangled from their fists. Bodies landed with dull thuds. Even the men who continued to fight sort of looked around, blindly punching each other with waning enthusiasm as they craned their necks to see who’d been shot.
Roman released the ginger cowboy and stood up straight. Someone had shot directly through one of the bar’s windows, a sniper from the street. Leaping like a hurdles runner over several fallen bodies, Roman was the first out the door.
He ploughed through a knot of men, hang-arounds who hadn’t wanted to get in on the fight. Just in time to see the rear fins of a black Caddy veering around the corner that led to the main highway, the old Route 66.
Grabbing the nearest asswad who would never become a Prospect, Roman rattled him ruthlessly. “Did you get a plate? Did anyone take a fucking picture? Was the guy Chinese?” He knew right away a Cutlass would never drive a cage like that, and besides, a Cutlass would want everyone to know it was him.
The guy being jounced around was mute, but one hang-around actually stepped forward. “Guy wore shades, but he was definitely Oriental,” he said, using the un-PC term for Asian. “Two of them.”
Someone shot from the bar so fast he nearly knocked Roman into the middle of next week. “Speed’s been hit,” said Wolf, grabbing Roman by the biceps to steady both of them.
But another few bikers exiting the bar at warp speed almost smacked them over like dominoes again.
“It was a fucking Bamboo Boy,” Roman told Ford, Lytton, and Knoxie. “He’s going west on sixty-six.”
The crowd of Bare Bones men lost no time in racing for their bikes. Times like this Roman really wished he’d brought his Road King scoot. Everything was rubber-mounted and stripped-down, without a radio or a big seat. He could catch up to those fucking Bamboo Boys in a heartbeat. An event like this, a split second difference could dramatically alter the outcome.
He had to grab Wolf by the back of his cut and yank him off his bike. “Wolf, stay!” he barked. “Gudrun needs you.”
Without waiting for a reply, Roman took one long-legged leap so he was standing on his saddle. Brothers milled around him starting their engines, so he only had another split second. “License plate 221 RBB!” He couldn’t believe he’d memorized the plate from the Tucson clubhouse incident, but it suddenly formed sharp as a blade.
Ford shouted back. “221 RBB!” He didn’t even bother slapping on his brain bucket. He was already out of there.
The only thing Roman had room in his brain for as he sailed down the soapy main street was Gudrun. He glanced back over his shoulder briefly to make sure Wolf was staying put. She’d be safe in the room with all the women, no fucking doubt. Although for a minor second, Roman did worry about leaving the room full of women behind with an adjacent room full of bloodied, beaten cow
boys.
Duji stayed behind, along with old timers like Tuzigoot, Gollywow, Wild Man, and Faux Pas. They’d be able to maintain order. How many Bare Boners did it take to bring down a Caddy of Bamboo Boys? Just the four they had with them, and everyone knew it. Was Speed dead? It didn’t fucking matter. They’d stand together as a club to take down any rival, whether the guy had murdered one of their own or jaywalked in front of their club.
The low-end torque of his FXR’s engine gurgled powerfully throughout Roman’s groin as they hit Route 66. They had to gun it past several tourists, who probably thought they were just being typical bikers always speeding, which wasn’t true. Most bikers didn’t care too much about speeding. It was the torque that mattered. The worst were the Navajo Chevy trucks that always went at a snail’s pace. It was while passing one of these that Ford, riding point, waved an arm. They’d just passed the trading post town of Winona, and Ford must’ve spied the Caddy taking the trestle bridge that led north and would connect them to the Rez highway that would eventually go to Utah.
This made fucking sense if the Chinese were trafficking women north to the interstate system that would take people to Colorado and Chicago and eventually to New York. Roman knew the system because that’s how the club ran guns back East. Ruben Ochoa had recently given Ford a tip that someone in his organization had seen a few Bamboo Boys while shopping for blankets at a trading post near Wupatki National Monument, and that’s where they were headed now. Every hunch and suspicion in Roman’s body was coming to a head the second they rumbled over that bridge. We’re in the right place. We’re going the right way.
Sure as shit, the Chinese didn’t even have to pull off at the trading post to peruse the display of kokopelli dream catchers. There was no way a Caddy could outrun a Harley, and within a mile after the bridge the cage was within sight.
