The Traitor’s Baby: Reaper’s Hearts MC

by Nicole Fox

  “Goddamn, Cora.” He moves his hand from my neck to my chest, sliding it under my shirt and my bra, squeezing the flesh and tugging softly on my nipples with his thumb and forefinger, making them as hard as his cock. “God fuckin’ damn.”

  I arch my back, pushing my breasts up. I don’t think I’ll ever get bored of the way he looks at me when I pose for him, as if he’s been waiting his whole life to see me in this precise pose, as if he’s been waiting his whole life to meet me. It makes me feel special and important, as absurd as that might have seemed to me once upon a time. I keep rubbing his cock with my back arched, and then lean down and take him in my mouth. He makes the manliest groaning sound as I push my face down, as though he’s trying to keep quiet but can’t help but let out the animal noise. He groans and touches my hair, pushing me down. I grab his thighs and push harder, but not all the way. I suck him slowly, passionately, almost like I’m making out with his cock. I massage the base and kiss and suck the upper half. Then I lean back and undo his jeans, yanking them down around his knees.

  He makes to stand up. I push him in the belly. “I’m going on top today,” I tell him.

  “Is that right?” He smiles, dropping back onto the couch.

  “That’s right.” I stand up and strip, pulling my shirt over my head and wriggling out of my pants, standing there naked in front of him. “Now take off your clothes.”

  “So bossy.”

  He grins and takes off his jacket, and then tries to take off his shirt but pauses as his bandages shift. I go to him and help him pull it over his head. Then I pull his jeans completely off. He looks so damn rugged and wild sitting there like that, the helmet of his hard cock pointing straight up. There’s something about the contrast between the couch and him, the wild on the civilized. He strokes his cock, drinking in my body with his eyes, starting at my legs and ending at my neck. I point my toes, push my hips out, bring my shoulder back to make my breasts more pert, getting hornier and hornier the more he looks at me like that. Then I strut over to him and climb onto the couch, being careful not to touch his bandages.

  “You’re too fuckin’ hot,” he growls, sliding his hands up my legs and grabbing my ass cheeks, squeezing firmly.

  I sit down slowly on his cock, reaching down and grabbing the shaft, guiding the tip toward my pussy. I tease him a little, letting the very tip go in and then just sitting there. He opens me up wide but I’m used to the feel of him now. My body is hungry for him. My pussy spreads and warmth floods my lips, my clit, my inner thighs. A wet feeling presses against the walls of my pussy. I place my hands on the couch behind him, squeezing down on the cushion and lowering myself even more. Then Logan loses control and tugs on my ass cheeks, pulling me down to him. I gasp, scream, and then sit down so hard it feels like the first time I ever felt a man. I close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath, and then start to writhe and wriggle atop him, move like the water-snake he said I was all those weeks ago, grind and dance on his cock, dance like I did on stage when he couldn’t take his eyes from me.

  He grips my ass cheeks so hard that I can’t wait to look in the mirror later and see my new hand-shaped tattoos and thrusts up in time with me sitting down on him. Propping my knees on the couch, I sit up and then down, up and down, over and over, controlling how much of him enters me, when he enters me, the speed of it. I have never felt so confident during sex, or so close. I kiss him on the lips without feeling even a shred of awkwardness, our lips as close as our sexes, joined at two parts instead of one. We kiss for a long time, writhing slowly, coming together and then apart, heat and wetness and pressure building between us. I feel the pressure and the wetness in my sweet spot most of all, which I guide his cock to over and over. It presses down against it, triggering another wave of wetness. I’m so wet now that it drips down his cock onto his balls.

  I buck faster and faster, the pressure building, the closeness almost too much to bear. This is the father of my child, inside of me like he was inside of me to make the baby, and this is the man who saved my life a few hours ago, who killed for me. This is my protector and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I focus on the heat at the tip of his massive length, his hands on my ass, listening to his groans and smelling his sweat, smelling his hair, feeling his lips against mine, our teeth clicking together, our clashing tongues. I focus on the way his cock slides deeper and deeper and never seems to end—and then I can’t focus on anything at all. Something snaps inside of me.

  I break off the kiss and bury my face in his neck, kissing and biting and moaning as the orgasm releases. It feels like something propelling my hips, a power I don’t understand forcing me to grind faster and faster so that I can keep up with the euphoria. Logan pulls me close to him, fucking up as I fuck down, slamming into me as I slam onto him. The orgasm lengthens, squirting come spilling down his cock into his lap, squirting come emptying out of me so that I feel deflated, utterly spent of pleasure. I grind down one final time, feeling every inch of him.

  He looks up at me, hair across his eyes, face twisted. “Thank God.” He lets out a long breath and comes inside of me for a full ten seconds, sucking on my breasts and kissing my chest over and over once his pleasure passes.

  I slide away and curl up next to him. I should go to the bathroom—his come is pooling on the couch cushion—but I feel too content here.

  “So I take it you want me to stick around, then.”

  I kiss him on bare skin. It’s like that does it: the connection of skin on skin. Love pours through the kiss and I’m struck with the suddenness of it. “I love you,” I whisper, almost in awe.

  He flinches as though struck, too. “Wow,” he mutters. “I … goddamn, Cora, I love you.”

  We don’t kiss or make love again. We just sit there a while, sharing silent love.

  Epilogue

  Cora

  Hauling around a one-month pregnant body was easier than hauling around an eight-month pregnant body. If I could tell a newly-pregnant woman anything at all, it would be that simple fact. One month is like having an imaginary friend. I knew he was there and I knew one day he might become real, but it never really occurred to me how real he’d become: so real that I’d feel as if I was carrying around a belly full of water all day every day. But I forget about those concerns when I place my hand on him, feeling his kicking legs. That freaked me out the first time, but now I love the feeling. He’s desperate to get out and meet his parents.

  I ride the elevator up to our apartment. I moved into Logan’s place after a month and I’ve lived with him ever since. But slowly it become our place, because living in a barren cell didn’t much appeal to me. Now it’s covered in Norse artwork—a picture of Odin on one wall, a carved replica shield hanging from another—with plush rugs and a homey feel. Maybe we’ll get a house one day. I don’t know.

  I sing softly to myself as the elevator glides toward our floor. I’ve been singing a lot. It’s my intention to get right back into performing after our son is born. I can’t exactly perform right now, though. Having my waters break onstage isn’t exactly my idea of the rock ’n roll lifestyle.

  I walk down the hallway feeling happy, the grocery bag under my arm. Logan is out of the club, working as a mechanic and training poor kids at the gym, teaching them to box and how to take care of themselves. All in all, this is the happiest I have ever been in my life, ever dreamed I could be as an angry, lonely teenager with no real friends.

  And then I open the door and know that my happiness is only just beginning. Logan is in a suit, his hair tied back in a bun and his bushy brown beard combed neatly. He looks handsome, devastatingly so. His white eyes pierce me. He’s on one knee with a ring box in his hand. The diamond glints at me.

  “Logan …”

  “Cora Ash,” he says, that wicked smile on his lips. “Will you marry me?”

  I’m stunned for a moment, mouth hanging open. I kept expecting him to propose to me after we moved in together. There was a small part of me that feared he
would use me for the will executor’s clause. But after living with him for almost a year, after making love and wasting away on lazy Sundays, I know that this proposal comes from love and nothing else.

  As if reading my mind—and perhaps worried by my silence—he says, “We can get married after the baby is born, if you like.”

  “Are you crazy?” I leap across the room and snatch the ring from the box.

  He takes my trembling hand and slides the ring onto my finger. “Is that a yes?” he asks.

  “Of course it’s a yes!”

  He kisses me, lowering me in his arms, and then lifts me up and takes me to the couch, which is covered in rose petals. He’s laid out two glasses: one with champagne and another with orange juice. “I was gonna go with the chariot deal, but I reckoned that was a bit much.”

  “I need to call Mr. Polly,” I say, smiling. “I can’t wait to hear his smug voice drop.”

  “Let’s not think about that for a while.” Logan hands me my orange juice. “Oh, and one more thing. I know you’re this tough punk lady and all that. But you’re taking my name and that’s that.”

  We clink glasses, and I snap off a mock-salute. “Sir, yes, sir.” A mock-salute, but I mean it.

  I want to swap Ash for Birch.

  Logan

  “Is she next?” Mom asks, bobbing baby Thorne up and down on her knee. He smiles with his gummy teeth, reaching over to me and miming the word Dada, which he said a couple of weeks ago for the first time and now can’t stop saying.

  I wipe my oil-stained hands on my work trousers and reach back to him, giving his hand a squeeze. “Relax, Ma.”

  “Don’t tell me to relax. I’ve never seen her perform before. I’m excited.”

  We sit near the front row of an upscale bar, hipster-looking types all around us, me and Mom sticking out like a pair of sore thumbs. But I don’t mind one bit. I’d much prefer to have her performing in joints like these rather than dive bars.

  “Give him here.” I take my son as the announcer calls out Cora’s name, ’cause Mom is already getting to her feet to dance. I don’t stand up. I whisper in Thorne’s ear, “Do you really think Mommy would let me take you to a rock concert, little man? Look. There she is. This is just for you.”

  Cora walks onto the stage in her Viking outfit, the one she wears for most of her performances now, a patterned tunic and trousers, leather boots and a metal wolf pendant at her neck, partially covering the snake’s mouth. She nods to the band, smiling over the crowd, and then smiling even wider when the band get up and walk offstage. Cora grins down at me, winking at Thorne, and I give Thorne a tickle. He giggles up at his mother.

  Then Cora sings, and even if it’s not what these hipsters wanted, even if she’ll have to pay the club owner for pulling a stunt like this—maybe give a free performance in a couple of weeks’ time—it’s worth it.

  “Hush little baby, don’t you cry …”

  THE END

  ***

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  Filthy Sins: Sons of Wolves MC

  By Nicole Fox

  I never should have slept with him. Now, I’m pregnant with his child.

  The biker saved me from my alcoholic daddy.

  In return, he wants me to have his baby.

  It’s so wrong, and yet it feels so good.

  But our filthy sins might cost us everything.

  Because my dad’s corrupt cop friends want to kill my baby’s father and drag me back to hell.

  My belly is growing, but my hometown is burning.

  I have to decide:

  Can I trust the outlaw to keep our baby safe?

  Chapter One

  Nancy

  “Do you really think I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make you a better person?”

  Dad shakes his head slowly, looking at me with his bloodshot eyes. He was drunk last night, way too wasted to drive, and yet he drove anyway. He drove straight into a tree, luckily going only a few miles per hour, and of course he blames me for it. I’m his daughter, and if my childhood taught me anything, it’s that fathers blame their daughters for things their daughters had no part in. We stand in the garage, me with my back to the wall wishing it would swallow me, Dad leaning against the vending machine and pointing a righteous finger at me.

  For the millionth time, I ask myself, why do I put up with this?

  “Do you think that’s my big wish in life, Nancy?” Dad grins at me sideways. It’s a mad grin. Once or twice he’s grinned like that before smashing a bottle or a glass, and perhaps once or twice is an understatement.

  Behind him, the window shows a glimpse of the garage. The mechanic working on Dad’s car is shirtless, oil flecking his chest and face. He has a slightly punky look about him, his hair bleached blond and spiky, but this is offset with his massive muscles and the leather jacket slung over a stool. I look closely and see a patch on the jacket: Sons of Wolves.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Dad barks.

  You should be in jail, I think but don’t say. You were drunk driving and they should have locked you up for a little while, but of course the one-time sheriff gets special treatment. Of course the one-time sheriff can do anything he likes and get away with it.

  “I’m hearing you,” I mutter.

  “So why haven’t you done as I’ve asked?” He throws his hands up in a familiar gesture: one that proclaims to the world that there’s nothing to be done with me. I’m a lost cause. Et cetera. “It’s a simple request. I’ve tried talking to the man but he just won’t listen. Aren’t you a lawyer? The last time I checked, you were a lawyer! My daughter the lawyer won’t help her own father!”

  Dad is a big, burly man with a tangled gray beard and a bald egghead with a purple vein running through the middle. His chest is a barrel, his belly is a beach ball, and his arms are steel pipes. He looks imposing and ridiculous at the same time, a unique combination I’ve never seen anybody else pull off.

  “The worst daughter in Salem,” Dad says. “I mean that. That’s how you’re behaving.”

  “You keep insulting me and insulting me,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level, my head level. “How is that productive?”

  “Don’t use your fancy lawyer speak with me!” he snaps.

  “Fancy lawyer . . .” I trail off. I won’t get drawn into the argument.

  Through the window behind Dad, I see the mechanic glance up. We meet eyes briefly. His eyes are light green and penetrating. He chews his lip, glances at Dad and then me, and then turns back to the car.

  “Hello?” Dad says. “Are you there?”

  “He won’t change the price,” I mutter. “He’s made that very clear. The price is the price.”

  “I remember when you were nine years old and Miss Havisham was giving you a hard time at school. Do you remember that?” When I don’t reply right away, he prompts, “Well, do you?”

  I nod. I know what he’s doing and yet I can feel its effect working through my mind. That’s the cruel paradox of Dad’s manipulative tactics: I understand them and yet they still function.

  “Your mother—that coward hiding in California, I should say!—told you that you were just imagining it, and that she was just behaving as a teacher ought to behave. What did I do? I went in there and I had a talk with her and I got to the bottom of it. That’s what I did.”

  I remember that episode with confused emotions. At the time I was thrilled when Miss Havisham stopped berating me in class, but later I understood that the only reason she’d stopped was because Dad had frightened her, and that she had never really been berating me in the first place. She had been educating me just like Mom thought. Dad sees this as some victory, a moment to be weaponized when he wants to bend me to his will. But when
I stand up, it’s not because of what happened with a teacher over a decade ago. It’s because I know he won’t stop.

  I leave the waiting area and walk across the garage to Sal’s office. The mechanic looks up at me and smiles, a wicked glint in his light green eyes. “Hello,” he says.

  “Hello,” I reply, a little flustered. Sweat and oil make his well-formed chest glisten.

  I knock on Sal’s door.

  “Come in!”

  Sal, just like my dad, is a big man. But he’s more like a teddy bear, soft and cuddly with thick hair on his arms. He wears horn-rimmed glasses and moves slowly and ponderingly as if each movement has been well-thought-out years before. He’s the owner of the garage.