MANHANDLED: Sigma Saints MC

by Nicole Fox

  # # #

  Of course, Erica was already naked. Her voluptuous hips, tiny waist, and milk-white skin all combined to make her body looked like an elegant pitcher of cream. I, of course, needed to catch up a bit, but my body was still so sore that removing my clothes was difficult.

  “Here,” she chuckled. “Let me help.”

  Soon, between the two of us, we managed to strip me naked. Then, still kissing, I pulled her down into bed.

  My body ached. I wanted so to please her, but I was afraid that, after everything I’d been through, that I wasn’t strong enough. I think she sensed my worry, for she laid me back upon the pillow and murmured, “This time, let me handle it.”

  I smiled. Erica could handle anything.

  She kissed me. Her tongue was warm and soft, and her hands explored the outline of my chest as her lips explored mine. She was gentle. The wounds beneath the bandages were still fresh. And yet, within a minute, I felt my erection blooming, huge and hard.

  Erica reached down and wrapped her hands around it. Her fingers were cool, their touch electrifying.

  “I so missed you,” she murmured. Firmly, she closed her fingers in a loop, and rubbed them up and down the length of my shaft.

  “Oh, yeah…” I groaned. After so much pain, to feel pleasure was incredibly intoxicating. Lazily, I reached out and plucked at her dangling breast, like one might caress a fruit hanging from a tree limb. She gasped, and I squeezed harder.

  “I see your hands are fine then,” she muttered, and then began kissing my neck.

  Her kisses wandered. They started at my throat, then meandered downward, to my collarbone, my chest, and eventually my abdomen. Even though I was bandaged, and I could feel each press of her lips with exquisite, wonderful clarity, as if the heavy padding didn’t even exist.

  She nuzzled down between my legs. Her hands massaged my inner thighs, warm and muscular. And then, her kisses found my cock.

  “Oh!” I gasped. It was incredible! I had had my cock sucked a thousand times in this lifetime, but this time–maybe it was the shared experiences we’d had. Maybe it was the comparison between this wonderful, simple pleasure, and the agony which I had been subjected to. Whatever it was, within minutes of her tender, strong, and stroking attention, I felt myself building to a climax.

  I cupped her chin, and nudged her to look up at me.

  “Hold it a moment,” I rasped.

  She grinned. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?”

  “Yes!” I grunted, as she threatened to close my tip between her lips once again. “But I don’t want to finish yet! I want to take care of you!”

  She tittered, and then leaned down to give each of my balls a lick. “You already have,” she murmured. Then, she resumed her pleasuring.

  I felt a powerful, joyous rebellion surge up in me. “Oh, no you don’t!” I thought. I would not allow this to end just on her terms. I wanted our terms.

  So, with a massive surge of effort, terrible to my recently stitched wounds and my ringing head, I hoisted her up and spun her under me.

  Within seconds, my cock was inside her. She was soaking wet, aroused by the act of pleasuring me. I kissed her, breathing in her scent, and began.

  This time, our lovemaking was not like any other time before it. It was not a frenzied, thrusting brawl to achieve multiple orgasms. It was slow and deliberate and passionate, longing not just for climax but for closeness–to feel the two of us connected.

  As we would be, I sensed, for the rest of our lives.

  We entwined with each other, her legs around my back, my arms cupping her head to my mouth. With every motion of my hips, her mouth opened in ecstasy, uttering quiet, exultant little moans. She did not scream. The moment was too solemn, too sacred for screaming.

  Her breasts rubbed against my chest. My manhood slid in and out of her, relishing every inch of her precious center. Her skin tasted like sugar. Her breaths like the sighing of angels. We were the perfect match: me, tough, rugged, and muscular; and her, strong and feminine, creamy, soft. Our cores mirrored this, too. She soothed my battered soul, while I strengthened her battered heart.

  I reached climax, and I saw her eyes roll back in pure joy as she felt me release inside her. After each pumping thrust, I slowed, until I was still on top of her, panting and feeling myself slip back between my legs. With a smile and a kiss, and a locking of the eyes that lasted for an eternity, I slid off of her. Instantly, like she had done it a million times before, she nestled right into the hollow of my shoulder, and I cupped my arm around her.

  We fell asleep like this, arms around each other, soaking in our love.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dominic

  The next morning, I was awoken early by a phone call. Bleary-eyed, stiff, yet feeling like a cat fat from warm milk, I fumbled around a bit before I was able to locate my cell and answer it.

  It was Thunder.

  “We found him,” was all he said.

  I grinned.

  Stirring from the bed, I rose and dressed without showering. I needed to act quickly. This, however, woke Erica up, and she glared at me, annoyed.

  “I thought we’d be done with all this, now that we were together!” She complained.

  I leaned down and kissed her beautiful, glowering, puffy-eyed face. “Just one last duty as president,” I said. “And then, I am all yours. Fully and completely.”

  “Yeah, you’d better be,” she growled, before rolling over and going back to sleep. I smiled. Nothing fazed this woman. Nothing.

  Trying to be respectful, I winced into my heavy biker boots and zipped up my jacket. Though I was healing, my back felt as cracked and dry as an old roadway in the blaring sun. Still, I am proud to say that I was able to manage it without disturbing Erica further.

  I grabbed a bagel from the kitchen, ate it in three quick bites, and slipped quietly from the house.

  There was nothing I could do about the roar of my motorcycle as it sprang to life. For me, the sound was invigorating–like a fresh cup of coffee and morning sex. The sound of it thundered through the air like my excitement thundered through my veins.

  One final mission. One final duty. And a wonderfully pleasant duty it was.

  I met Thunder at the compound. He, too, was covered in bandages–mostly around his waist, where he had a couple of broken ribs–but he still grinned broadly at the sight of me.

  “You have a good night, eh?” He asked, a devilish look on his face.

  “Exquisite,” I shot back, resisting the urge to stick out my tongue at him. He chuckled. “So where are we going?”

  “The turnout, past exit 32,” he said. I smiled. The turnout was a barren, desolate wasteland of a place, deep in the desert and miles from civilization or even the main road. It was perfect for our purposes. We mounted our bikes and revved the engines.

  “You ready, El Presidente?” He hollered over the noise.

  “Ready!” I roared back.

  And together, we roared onto the roadway.

  # # #

  We saw the plume of smoke long before its source, or the group of watchful Broken Spires gathered around it. As we approached, the sight of them–tall, proud, and strong, obeying their orders to the T–filled me with immense pride.

  Yes, I thought. They are ready.

  What they were guarding soon became apparent: a black, dusty van, its engine smoking and adding heat to the already blazing day. Its tires had been blown out in a gunfight, and its windshield shattered.

  The Broken Spires grinned in triumph as we approached.

  “He’s inside, Sir,” one said, as the others nodded in agreement.

  Next to me, I saw Thunder wincing as he dismounted. There was a smirk on his features nonetheless.

  I loosened my gun in its holster, approached the closed doors of the van, and clicked them open.

  The heat that spilled out was terrible, suffocating as boiling water and so dense that it made my eyes water. Once they cleared,
I saw the source of everyone’s smugness–the center of my final duty as president of the Broken Spires:

  Duffle bag after duffle bag of cash, so overstuffed that hundreds of green bills poked out of them like feathers from an old, beat-up pillow. The sight of all this money–spoils of my final heist, which had gone so spectacularly wrong–filled me with a sense of deep, professional satisfaction. But what filled me with personal, visceral joy lay between them.

  Raymond Blade, naked and bound like a pig before a slaughter, quivering in terror. I felt no pity for him. Not after what he had done to Erica.

  I leaned down and leered at him.

  “You can run,” I hissed, “but you can’t hide.”

  Blade whispered. There was a sudden trickle of liquid and I realized with disgust that he had pissed himself. I wrinkled my nose and took a step back.

  “How much is in here?” I ask Tristan, who had also just arrived.

  Tristan grinned. “Oh, ten million, eleven million? We haven’t finished counting yet.”

  “And how much per bag?”

  “Oh, a couple hundred thousand or so. Give or take.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  I reached into the van and plucked one of the duffle bags out, careful not to select any of the ones that had been touched by Blade’s piss. Winking at him, I slung it over my shoulder.

  “You have two choices, Blade,” I said, nonchalantly flicking open the bag to glance over its contents. “We can drop you off at the police station, where you can face the persecution of your crimes–”

  As I said this, he shook his head in terror. He knew that many of the Crooked Jaws had been arrested, too. If they ended up in the same jail together… well, let’s just say that the Crooked Jaws blamed their leaders for their humiliating downfall. And with La Gancho dead, Blade was the only one on whom they could exercise their terrible hate.

  “Okay,” I mocked, grinning. “Your other option is this: we drive you out into the desert–let’s say, ten, twenty miles. That should be enough for an old fuck like you. Then, we cut your bonds, and leave you there. What happens next is up to you.”

  “But, I-I’d die out there!” He protested.

  I shrugged. “Your choice. The desert…or the police. Either way is fine with me.”

  Blade wilted. He seemed like a plant, cut off at the stem. Then, at last, he showed one final act of courage:

  “The desert,” he said.

  “Good man,” I chuckled. “That, at least, is an honorable death. You heard him, men! Take him!”

  A pair of young, up-and-coming Broken Spires surged forward, eager to volunteer. One even had a bike with a sidecar attached.

  Perfect, I thought, then ordered them to stuff Blade inside it.

  He looked utterly ridiculous. Simultaneously fat and bony, his sagging white skin already burning in the sun, his knees cramped up about his ears as he was crammed into the sidecar, I found his humiliation to be complete.

  Winking and honking, the two Broken Spires rode off, to gruff cheers from the remaining bikers.

  Thunder smiled, wiped the sweat from his brow, and turned to me.

  “Now what, boss?” He asked.

  I gazed at him, and clapped one hand on his shoulder. With the other hand, I tore my patch–the one signifying my station as president of the Broken Spires–from my jacket and handed it to him.

  He smiled, accepting the gift.

  “It’s up to you now, Thunder,” I said. Then, I nodded to the van overflowing with wealth. “And, may I say, you’re off to a pretty good start.”

  He chuckled. I chuckled. Then, these sounds of mirth grew and grew, until we were shaking with full-out laughter.

  He threw his arms around me, and pulled me into a hug. “Now, Dominic, go off and find a life of peace. You deserve it.”

  “Thanks, man,” I murmured. We embraced for a full minute, ignoring the titters and heckles of the other Broken Spires–before finally pulling away.

  I said goodbye to the others,–Tristan, Fernando, the lot of them–saluted to the group, mounted my bike, and rode away.

  I did not look back. I did not need too. My future lay ahead.

  With Erica.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Erica

  Dominic returned that evening, covered head to foot in desert dust and grinning broadly. When I asked him where he had been, all he did was smile and reply, “Taking care of some final business. You won’t have to worry about Mr. Blade anymore.”

  I gasped. Part of me wanted to cry out, Did you kill him? But I found that I really didn’t care to know. Instead, I pulled him into bed with me. Yes, the man I loved was violent. But I also knew that he was just. Whatever he had done to Blade, I was sure he deserved it.

  The next day, we journeyed to the Broken Spires compound to pack up. He took his bike. I took a brand new van. We needed it for the storage.

  When he arrived, everybody cheered. Thunder came up and shook his hand, telling him that his work had given the club millions. When he saw me, he swept me into a bone-breaking hug that lifted me clear off my feet. I laughed, kissed him on the cheek, and told him I would miss him.

  “You guys are finally leaving, then, huh?” He asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “A vacation well deserved.”

  “Yes,” he said. “A vacation you both deserve.”

  I smiled.

  The rest of the day was a flurry of activity, stuffing things into boxes and heaving them to the van. Fortunately, we had a half-dozen Broken Spires to help, so it never felt burdensome.

  At last, Dominic’s office was empty. For a moment, the walls and furnishings looked bare, lonely, and sad.

  Dominic appeared. He took me into a backward hug, my back against his chest, and kissed my hair.

  “Are you going to miss it?” I asked. It had suddenly occurred to me that I might be forcing him to leave a life he loved.

  He whirled me around, and kissed me on the nose. “Not even the slightest,” he said. “It was good–but this is better. I am all yours now. Forever and always.”

  I smiled, and–I’ll be honest–felt my eyes well up with tears.

  An hour later, we were out of there.

  We did not have much to take with us. Most of my belongings at the house reminded me of Brian, and so were therefore repugnant. Dominic, on the other hand, had always lived an uncluttered life, choosing adventure and freedom over material collection. As a result, even with all of our important belongings piled into the van, there was still room for his bike.

  That way, he and I could sit up front, holding hands as we watched the road unfurl beneath us.

  THE END

  ***

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  King’s Baby: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

  By Nicole Fox

  By the time all this is over, she’ll have my baby in her belly.

  She was the star dancer at a sh*thole strip joint with plans for something grander.

  I was an ex-con trying as hard as possible to stay out of the spotlight.

  None of this should have ever happened.

  But she pushed too far, and I had to punish her… The only trouble is, she liked it.

  On the run from the law, I’ve got to find work where I can, even if it’s bouncing at this trashy club.

  I should be keeping a low profile, but Christy has other ideas.

  The platinum blonde dancer is a thunderstorm of ambition and ego.

  She thinks she can shake that pretty ass and I’ll help her with whatever she needs.

  But she’s wrong.

  The only needs I’m satisfying are carnal.

  The problem is, when I bend that gorgeous body over, I lose control…

  And my past catches up with
me.

  The old boys from the neighborhood aren’t keen on letting me disappear.

  They’ve found me at my most vulnerable,

  and they aren’t the type of guys to let me live my life in peace.

  Especially not when a shadowy mob boss is guiding their every move.

  I should drop everything and run.

  But Christy’s got me hooked.

  I want her body.

  I crave her taste.

  And I promise you this: come hell or high water, I’m going to make her mine…