A Good Girl's BIKER Baby_A Forbidden Baby Romance

by Cherise West

  “Donovan, god, I can’t—” I shudder, shivering with the passionate release of intense, adoring ecstasy. “I’ve never…”

  “I’m not done with you,” he growls, his messy lips dragging a stream of throbbing kisses back up my torso. He slips his teeth around the dainty string holding my breasts together and tugs, letting them spill free from their shabby constraints. He tongues my left nipple, then my right, each pink peak stiffening under such sweet manipulation, his hands stroking my thighs, dipping into my clenching depths to test me, to tease me, and to keep me breathing hard while he tastes and bites at my nipples, making me shake.

  “Do you have a condom?” he whispers into my ear. Oh, god. I pull open Annie’s drawers; a quick glance over at the bed and I see she’s still there, thankfully, and not gawking wide-eyed at the two people relentlessly addicted to one another, lewdly draped across her dresser. My fingers fish through Annie’s clothes, her socks, her underwear, throwing garments side-side while I squeeze for one of those little latex ringlets. My breath catches in my throat as he buries his teeth into my neck, lavishing me with steady, sexy worship from my earlobe down to my shoulder, down to my chest, his tongue once more fixated on my nipples; each time he laps at the taut pink flesh my back arches out against him, my breath shivering; fear fills me as I realize I’ve reached into the last drawer and not found what I’m looking for. Fuck.

  “There’s… there’s got to be one… here, somewhere,” I mutter, frantic. “The… the nightstand, check—” he lifts me off of the dresser, strong arms cupped beneath my thighs, carrying me to the side of Annie’s king-sized bed. He dips down, letting me reach into her bedside drawer; I pull it open, throwing aside a handful of socks until I feel the little foil wrapper and shudder hard. “Here,” I whisper, pulling the condom from the drawer; he lifts me again, carrying me back out into the hallway; I giggle, kissing his neck while he drags me through the house, desperately in search of a couch, or a chair, or something. He rounds the corner into the living room and I fall back-first against Annie’s couch, exhaling deep. I pull the little ringlet from its packaging; he tugs down the zipper and lets his cock spring free, and I shake intensely.

  “Help me out,” he asks with a grin, stroking his shaft hard in front of my face; I wrap the condom around his tip, smirking deviously as I press my lips against his head, pushing the condom down, letting his length slooowly fill my throat until the condom fully wraps his shaft. I look up at him, urging him with my eyes torn in want and my hips pressing out towards him. He obliges, pressing down on top of my body, my stiff nipples and full, thick, heaving breasts pressed against his shirt and the stiff muscles quaking beneath. I feel his tip tease against lips and the sensation rocks me along my spine; when he kisses my neck and bites down just as his shaft plunges deep inside of me, filling me up and stretching me out, I scream out loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood. He holds me and pumps harder and harder in a steady rhythm inside of me, each thrust bringing ecstasy moaning out of every pore, until he thrusts with a powerful pump of his hips and I feel his length spasm and erupt, my body hitting its enraptured peak again, the two of us orgasming together, each other’s names spoken first in melodic shouts and then in tired, breathless pants.

  My arms draped around his shoulders, he kisses me deeply; kisses every tingling wave of erupting pleasure away with his lips feeding me passion and devotion, until he falls onto his side next to me, pulling me tight, kissing me deep. I still can’t believe it, as good as it feels. Donovan Kelly. This must be a dream.

  “I told you I’d only need three minutes,” he smirks, kissing my cheek.

  “H-hey,” I protest with my hoarse, quaking tone, “I lasted longer than that.”

  “I made you orgasm harder than any of your boyfriends before, at least,” he murmurs into my ear.

  “How do you think you have any idea about that—” I stop myself with a grunt. Damn it. He got me again. He laughs a deep and sizzling baritone into my ear, pressing himself against my body, wrapping his arms around my waist, kissing my neck.

  “Maybe you’ll learn one day,” he sighs breathily.

  “Maybe.”

  Enjoying the heat? Subscribe to Cherise's Mailing List, and follow her social media, for more sneak peeks and information on future releases!

  The PRIDE of South Boston Sample

  Another tiring night at Sully's. I clean up the bar with my wet rag while the last few drunks file out for the night, the fights over and the clock ticking away the hours until the sun starts to burst up over the horizon. It's about 3 in the morning and while I got myself dressed up, my head held high, looking and feeling good for the night, it's all a mess of runny makeup, a loosened corset and those daggered heels digging and irritating the hell out of my feet now.

  One of the fighters from tonight – James Stiles, a frequent face around here – is feeling good, ordering a couple rounds of drinks this late to numb the pain of his victorious fight. He sits down at the end of the bar – he told me to 'keep 'em coming', and I'd be completely dumb and blind to miss the eyes he keeps shooting me and the smiles he offers every time I slide him a fresh beer and a full shot of whiskey.

  I don't have time for that tonight. I don't know, all that business with that jerkoff at the end of the bar earlier really killed my smile. Sully's has a way of doing that to me, and I look like a hell of a mess now after all of that. Still, he's kinda cute I guess. A little like Braden, but more.. bulky. Broader, rougher looking in his face, with a broad chin in a grimace set in his deep face. I look into his eyes – big, green like Bray's – but it's not the same fire. It's the look of the Lifers I remember from school – like a dog chasing cars. Not like Bray.

  Not.. that it matters. I haven't seen that same look I remember in Braden's eyes in a long time.

  “What's your name anyway, doll?” he asks when I bring him another beer and a shot, sliding it along the bar towards him with a fading smile. “I've seen you around – working here, working into the night, you've got me curious.”

  “Curious, huh?” I comment dryly, trying to sound interested, though really I just want another hell of a night to be over. Maybe some chatter can help it.

  “Yeah. Curious about you,” he adds, sliding up closer to the bar and taking his shot with a deep, fast gulp.

  “I'm Gracie,” I respond courteously, taking his shotglass back and topping it off with another shot of whiskey.

  “Gracie, huh,” he adds, trying his hardest to be cute and coy.

  “Yeah. Gracie,” I grunt under my breath.

  “You from around here, Gracie?” he asks, his voice husky, rasping. He takes another gulp of beer and smiles my way through the battered bruises and blood cut across his forehead.

  “Yeah, I'm from the South Side,” I murmur, looking back up at him with a forced smile on my lips. It looks like he admires me a little – my body and my chest, anyway.

  “Really? Close to here?” he keeps pressing the small talk.

  “..Yeah. Just right up the street from the bar,” I say.

  “This doesn't seem like the kind of place for a girl like you to work – all the fights, all the blood,” he says.

  “Really? What makes you think I don't like the fights?” I joke back at him with a sinewy smile slithering along my lips.

  “Oh? Do you? What part of them is your favorite?” he asks with a little bit of a flirty twist to his words. I lick my lips. Am I really flirting with this guy? He's making me smile a little at least.

  Bzzzz. I feel it in the sleek little pocket of my corset – my phone, jittering around in my tightly-bound garment. There's no real question about who the hell is messaging me at 3am while I'm at work.

  What the hell does he want?

  It's a rough night, I've lost my smile and a little twinge of anger stirs at the back of my head when I think about Braden. I ignore the phone for now, hiding a scoff under my breath. The battered fighter smiles at me while my gaze pulls away from the buzzing pocket on
the front of my corset. The quiet settles in and the fighter at the bar decides to keep talking.

  “I'm Jim,” he says in his rumbling, husky voice, smiling through the bruises across his face.

  “Nice to meet you, Jim.” He scans my body quite obviously and my hips sway while I stride towards the sink to pour him another draught beer.

  “Sure, Gracie. Gracie, Gracie, the first girl I've known who likes to see guys get beaten up,” he chuckles.

  “What makes you think that's the part I like?” I murmur with a smile, playing coy, sliding another beer down the bar towards him.

  “What part do you like, then? Not the blood, the punching, the strategy?” he inquires curiously.

  “Please. What part of the fighting do you think a girl likes? Two sweaty, muscled guys, who know what they're doing in close quarters,” come the sly words through my smirk. I glow in his direction briefly before I go back to toying with the dirt glasses in front of me, idly pretending I'm busy at closing time.

  Bzzzz. I feel the buzz again, and a churning starts in my stomach. A little guilt settles into me – I know it's Braden, but who knows what the hell he wants? Should I bother? I'm not supposed to be worried about him – not in this way. He made it very clear, and I agreed very explicitly, about what the relationship between us was going to be. Nothing personal – we're not really friends, we're not really... we just interact, physically.

  I bite my lip and ignore the quiet buzz of the phone again.

  “Oh, so that's all we are to you, huh? Pieces of meat thrown into the cage?” Jim jokes, shifting his weight forward on the bar stool and watching me closely. I look in his eyes and the churn starts in my stomach again – I don't know what I'm doing. He doesn't have that glimmer in his eyes – but not everyone can, right? He might be a great, sweet guy.

  I don't know if sweet is what I want.. I want a man. The phone buzzes again, probably a reminder that I have a message patiently waiting in my inbox. My gaze casts down towards the mess of murky dishes and trash collected from the tables and I go back about my work, filing the glasses through the hot, pouring water of the sink.

  “That's not all,” I add idly, trying to occupy myself, the conflicting thoughts roaring like the gushing, hot water through my head. “But it's a nice thing to watch, and keep me distracted.”

  “That's what you want, huh Gracie? Distractions?” he takes a swig of his beer and exhales deeply and my eyes shoot in his direction with a wary gleam.

  “Sometimes, yeah,” comes a sizzling response simmering on my sassy tongue. “What's wrong with that? A girl can't like some sweaty, manly distractions?”

  “I'm happy to provide them,” Jim's salacious thrum responds. It's easy to tell where he's going with that salacious smile.

  Bzzzz. Before I can respond I feel the buzz again. Braden's really eager tonight – he's messaged me once, since he came back into the bar weeks ago, and it was him asking me for a drink while I was on the other side of the bar. Ass.

  “I'm glad then. Had fun watching the fights tonight – even the bloodshed part,” comes my subdued response, while I finger the tip of the pocket holding my buzzing, dancing phone. I go back to working, taking care of the last few dirty glasses while the fighters and promoters all start to filter out the front door. I'll have to zero the cash register soon and close up shop, and I should focus on that.

  And forget about Braden, for now. He's busy with his work with O'Connolly and he knows how I feel about that, and.. whatever. I don't have to worry about it, it's not the relationship we have.

  “So.. what are you doing after work?” Jim broaches the subject without any kind of subtlety at all, like most of the guys that wander in to Sully's and hit on me during work. The words stew quietly in my mind and I shift from one heel to the other, unease striking through my nerves. I don't know why I'm uneasy, why this feels wrong. What's the problem? I'm a free woman without obligations or worries outside of the job, and I can flirt with whoever I want.

  “Probably walking home and settling in to bed,” I respond, drying out the dampened glasses scattered across the bar in front of me and racking the cleaned ones on the shelves behind me.

  “Walking home, huh? You live nearby?” Jim asks, sliding his empty glass away. With a quick grasp of my fingers it joins the other dirty glasses in the sink.

  “Yeah, just a couple blocks from here,” I add, subdued and distracted. There's no more buzzes in my pocket and I guess a part of me starts to worry. Who knows what that idiot Braden got himself into.. I know I shouldn't care, but I've known him for a good portion of my life and I can't just let him go off and get himself shot or thrown into a gutter, right?

  “Need someone to walk you home? It's the South Side, and I know it can get rough,” Jim chimes in. “Rough in all the wrong ways I mean,” he adds with a flirty thrum to his tone. Hesitation freezes me tightly and I think about the buzz of the phone. I even briefly imagine the faint hum of the phone jittering against my chest. It doesn't buzz again, and it bothers me. He's either given up, or he needed something from me. Something serious. It shouldn't be my prerogative – Braden's work or O'Connolly's mob or whatever Braden feels like he has to do to get by, but it bothers me. It bothered me when I walked in tonight and he wasn't at the bar, when Sully told me what he'd heard about Bray's situation. These feelings of concern bombard me harder than I ever expected – it's been weeks of meaningless, physical fun but now I'm tangled in a web of fighting emotion like my hair tangled after a rough night rolling in the sheets. A gulp of a lump in my throat echoes through my ears, the rough patter of my heart in my chest finally getting the best of me.

  “No, no thanks Jim,” I dismiss him, giving him a confident and fleeting glance. “I'm meeting someone.”

  “Oh. Meeting someone? Another fighter, huh?” Jim adds with a laugh. The deflation in his tone blusters out clearly when I speak.

  “No.. well, maybe. It's complicated.”

  “It's complicated whether he's a fighter or not?” Jim queries oddly.

  “Yes,” I say.

  My hand tugs at the little compartment on the front of my corset and I rush with a panic to my step towards the corner of the bar, gnawing on my lip and awaiting impatiently for the backlight of my phone to flick on.

  3 Messages from – Braden.

  Three messages left for me in one night, when he hasnt't left me a message in.. who knows how long. He must know it's fight night – and he must have seen my smile fading from a distance. Thinking about him trying to smooth things over my expression grimaces roughly and angrily in response. What could he even say to bring my smile back? He pissed me off bad tonight.

  The phone whirrs and flickers, my finger swiped across its touchscreen to open up my text messages.

  “Gracie. Call me.” That's the first one I see. Succinct, and meaningless. Telling me to call him at 3 in the morning, and that's all he has to say. A sigh blusters through my lips and I flick to the next message.

  “Gracie. Call me.” The same thing a second time. Irritation floods into my mind. Is that all he's going to say to me? After not showing up tonight, leaving me in the dark like this? It's almost like I'm getting more angry about this than I should be, and more defensive than I really should be – especially turning down a guy that's clearly in to me, just so I can go check my texts and see what jerkoff Braden is up to. I could punch him right in his cheek again, right about now.

  “Gracie. Meet me. Your place.” My place? Does that mean he's already at my house? He hasn't seen me outside of the bar, the locker room and fight night since we established our physical arrangement, now he wants to come to my house? I gnaw roughly on my lip to try to contain the little underpinnings of rage seething up through my throat, an upheaval of anger raging in my blood.

  At least it's flattering he remembers where I live. Presumably.

  The anger builds and in a huff I fly out from behind the bar, grunting under my breath over to Sully.

  “Sully, I need to he
ad out early,” I hiss.

  “What? We need to count down the register and clean up,” Sully retorts, standing near the cage discussing business with sleazeball Marconi.

  “I just – I'm sorry, Sully,” I grunt storming across the dark, scored floor of the bar. “It's Braden.” Sully rolls his eyes.

  “What happened between you two now?”

  “There's-- there's not that.. kind of thing, between us, Sully,” the insistence in my voice pleads, “But he's been messaging me for twenty minutes and he says he's at my house.”

  “Well tell him you've got work to do,” Sully retorts as I pass towards the big, heavy threshold out into the street.

  “Sully, you know the deal – he's in big with O'Connolly,” I murmur. “There's no telling what stupid things he's gotten himself in to--”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay,” Sully finally acquiesces, sighing heavily. “Don't make this a regular thing, though, okay? I don't want you getting mixed up with--”

  “It's not a regular thing, trust me,” I emphasize with a dour look flashing across my face.

  It's just business between us, physical business.

  “Be careful, Gracie,” Sully warns ominously. A glance shoots past my shoulder towards him briefly and I nod before pushing my way through the big, heavy door and out into the steamy, sleazy night.

  Heels clicking wildly as I pass through the throngs of drunks gathered around the outside of the bar I storm past them, ignoring their lewd looks and sideways glances and the catcalls and all the bullshit I usually have to deal with when I pass the smokers outside. When I strode into Sully's tonight I had my head held high and my lips grinning a confident grin. I leave with a different kind of confidence – a vicious, glowing fire of confidence, eyes dead-set and stirred to madness by those messages buzzing brightly on my phone. The last one came in only ten minutes ago – and if he's at my house.. well, I'm not sure what the hell I'm going to do.