She shuffled toward him, her gaze bouncing off the mosaic of tiles. He pointed to the mat on the floor between his open knees. “You were bold in bed but seems to me like you’re running scared.”
If eyes could shoot daggers, she’d have sliced him to death.
“Kneel.”
Her eyes dropped, but her knees couldn’t quite drop with them. Her heart banged against her ribs as she wrangled with the jangling nerves prompting her to flee. Eventually, the sultry, warm steam and his steady gaze soothed her heart rate and swathed her in a light daze.
“Greta.”
Eyes trained on his toes, she lowered herself to her knees.
“A firm hand,” he reproved. “That’s how you do best. You’ve got fire, no doubt, but I’ll bring you to heel.”
He caught a strand of hair and twirled it around his finger. Tugging, he directed her to lean her temple against his thigh. His cock was at rest, but she drew in his earthy musk, laced with a hint of spice. Delectably bold, like him. The rich scent lured her tongue to dart out and rasp the crown of his shaft. His cock jumped and began to fill with arousal. Cutter tapped her lightly on the nose. “None of that.”
Her lips pursed in a disgruntled pout. “But I want that.”
“Little one, you’re trying to distract me. Trying to get me to fuck you raw instead of taking care of you.” His fingernail scraped across her naked ass, and she winced. “See, you’re sore. Antics won’t distract me.”
“I don’t want you to take care of me,” she muttered, hiding her expression in his thigh. “Must I repeat it again for the hundredth time? I’m a self-sufficient adult.”
Grasping her by the arms, he brought her to her feet, leaving streaks where his fingers had wiped the humidity off her glistening skin. Leaving her standing, he dropped a bath bomb in the steaming water. Her eyes popped out. “What the hell is that?”
The marine blue of his eyes glinted with sparks of humor. “A bath bomb.”
“Bikers aren’t supposed to know those even exist.”
“Stereotype much?”
“That’s like, so unmanly.”
He checked out his dick, stiff and erect as a staff. “Not worried about my manhood, babe.”
Badly played. She had to own up to her unvarnished prejudice. Heat flamed from her hairline to her chest. “I apologize.”
Unfazed, he ushered her into the tub. One foot, then the other, she stepped into the warm, foamy water swirling around her calves. “Sit down.”
Jets of water bubbled around the contoured oval tub. She gripped the sides and slowly lowered herself into the hot streams rippling below the surface. Her ass skimmed the top and she hissed through clenched teeth. “Dammit, Cutter, this is blistering my butt.”
Cutter’s laughter echoed off the tiled walls. “It’ll feel good once you’re soaking in it. Give it a chance to massage that sexy pink ass of yours.”
She scowled at him, not appreciating the commentary on the color of her butt. Between locked arms, she lowered herself little by little. In her peripheral vision, a stream of liquid from a bottle plunged below the surface, and instantaneously, a mountain of bubbles whipped up around her. “Bubbles!”
Peals of laughter escaped as she corralled swaths of them in her cupped hands. Her stinging ass forgotten, she played with the mounds of foam, shaping them at her whim.
Calloused knuckles ran down her cheek. “Better?”
She batted her lashes playfully and mustered a smile. “Yeah, better.”
She laid her shoulders against the bath and sighed. After the initial shock, her butt was starting to feel better. “How were you able to afford a house and renovate parts of it in such a short period of time? I don’t mean it as an insult, but this had to cost tens of thousands of dollars.”
“Living rent-free at the clubhouse for years left me with money. Besides my bikes, I didn’t spend much. No old lady or kids to support. Those are the big expenses,” he threw out casually, “like you.” Greta averted her eyes. “The brothers helped. We renovated the clubhouse ourselves, so a few rooms was an easy job.”
He picked up the bar of soap. A French-milled lavender soap, to be exact. Triple-milled, to be even more precise. Okay, so she knew a few things about soap. Hey, a woman had to indulge on occasion or else life wasn’t worth living. Books had their own scent, but it wasn’t exactly a sexy smell. In his strong, masculine hands, Cutter lathered a washcloth with the soap. Veins bulged and swerved between the scrapes and calluses that were especially prevalent around his knuckles. She licked her lips at the memory of the magic his enchanted fingers wielded on her clit.
“Hoodie helped with the design.”
“Hoodie? As in the young punk who patched in with Whistle? The quiet one?”
“He designs our merch, which we sell online. Not only does he design it, but he set up the website and runs it. The prospects take shifts to cover the orders.” Her jaw almost dropped but she caught herself in time.
“You know our website, right?” He cocked an eyebrow at her. Obviously, she didn’t know about their merchandise, or their website, or pretty much anything about how the club made money. She presumed that it involved criminal activity, although she had no actual proof.
“The club sells biker gear, T-shirts, key rings. Christ, the kid has us selling travel mugs and water bottles. Stickers, decals, posters. There’s an inventory list a mile long. Makes the club a nice bit of change.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You weren’t lookin’. Assumed we’re straight-up hoodlums, and that was the end of that. You judged us like a civilian and then kept on judgin’.” His statement was said without bitterness or anger, increasing a sense of shame that had been building during their conversation.
“The wall art? The paintings tacked up on the living room wall are Hoodie’s?”
“Yep.”
“The graffiti of the Squad’s motto, brushed in oil paints, is brilliant.”
“Rise and face the wall,” he ordered. She did as he commanded and spread her feet wide. Her nails tore at the rough finish of the tiles as he washed down her flanks. He was a bit rough when he scrubbed her down, and she had to bite back a moan.
To distract herself from his delicious touches, she rambled, “It’s incredible. He’s so talented. Well, this bathroom makes much more sense.”
The lathered washcloth came up, circled her shoulder, and swept over her breast. The friction was like a concoction of chili peppers and ice cubes on her nipple, setting up a vibration in her body.
“You in my bath is what makes sense.”
She sank against the wall, bare breasts pasted against the tiles, eyes fastened shut as he gently massaged down her leg. Placing her foot on his bare thigh, he kneaded her calf. Her eyes drifted open, beads of moisture clinging to her lashes.
Cutter was bent over in concentration. She could watch him forever. The steel ropes of his arms, gliding and rippling with each movement. His massive chest covered in blond fur, a shade darker than the mane of his head. His mutable eyes, reflecting the colors of the walls and the water. Every aspect of him filled her with a trembling urge to touch him in return. Her fingers twitched to feel the texture of his wide shoulders, the thickness of his chest and the tautness of his abdomen, ending in the springy hair surrounding his erection. But he’d reprimanded her, reminding her that she was his, not the other way around. As tantalizing as it was to bury her fingers in the curls at the root of his cock, she didn’t dare interrupt him.
Cutter guided her down into the water, and ordered, “Tilt your head back.”
He collared her throat while massaging slow circles down her chest. His nails scraped her dusky nipples peeking out of the foam. The pillows of her breasts shuddered with each nick. She arched her back, but he refused her unspoken plea for more. Instead, his fingers wandered down to knead her core muscles. “Ahh!”
The deep kneading of her belly was like nothing she’d experienced before. His breathing kicked up
as his slick fingers eased into her pussy, massaging away the soreness. Greta wiggled, and he planted a strong hand to hold her down.
“Stop teasing me.”
“Babe, you’ve got no idea what you do to me,” he rejoined.
She struggled to rise but he captured her clit between two digits and gave it a hard pinch. Palming her nape, he slanted his mouth over hers and gave her a bruising kiss. Her hands ran up his chest and wrapped around his neck.
Abruptly, he broke their kiss.
Her fingers drifted over her puffy lips before dropping open on the lip of the bathtub. Dick swaying in the air, Cutter anointed her exposed chest with a fragrant oil until she was in a stupor. “Receptive to my guidance. Submissive to my authority. I don’t take your trust lightly.”
Everywhere he touched her filled her with a humming energy, like spiced honey. Greta licked the sweat off her upper lip.
“Out,” he commanded, in a husky timbre.
Water sluiced off her lithe frame as she stood up. Hunger burned in his gaze, chasing away her shiver and replacing it with sultry heat. Moisture seeped out of her sex and slid down her thigh. He caught the movement and bent his head to catch the rolling stream, tasting her. His tongue reached the apex of her mound and circled around her clit. Lips suctioned around her nub, and he sucked it brutally into his mouth. She clutched his shoulders to stay upright.
Seating himself on the edge of the bathtub, he folded her in an embrace. It was a super-sweet gesture, but who cared when she was clenching a hot, empty pussy. A fact he damn well knew since said pussy was rubbing the thigh she was using as a seat.
Beginning at the dip of her throat, his knuckles ran down the center of her body, skimmed over her mound and landed between her outer lips. Her vagina gripped inconsolably at the lone knuckle, but to no avail because he dropped his hand away, leaving her bereft once more. “Quit teasing me.”
Snickering, Cutter opened a large towel for her to step into and then rubbed her down languorously. She followed his directions, moving this way and that, until he’d dried every inch of her. He discarded the towel and prodded her back to his lap. Tucked under his chin, she melted into his torso. She lay pliant under the strokes of his fingers, her body and mind quiet.
She was almost dozing when he gathered her up and carried her to his bed. He dragged a blanket over them, and she nestled against him, in a cocoon.
“Why the birds?”
The birds. He was referring to the running theme of bird prints in her life. On the coverlet, sheets, and curtains of her bedroom, the wallpaper she had painstakingly molded onto the walls of her kitchen and the pj’s she wore last night. “They represent freedom. I may not ride anymore, but I can hold a bird in my mind.”
“I imagine you riding your own bike. Hot as fuck, decked out in a motorcycle jacket with my name stamped on the back.” She snuggled deeper and his arms tightened around her. “You’ll ride again, princess.”
She smiled and dragged a faint kiss across his chest. “I don’t miss it any longer.”
A total lie. But wrapped around the sexiest male alive, who cared about such things anymore? Greta draped herself over his torso and listened as their heartbeats fell into the same rhythm.
Chapter Twenty-One
Not only had Greta spent the entire night with him, but she had submitted to his care and woke up in his arms again. It was the longest amount of time she’d spent with one person, in one uninterrupted block of time. Cutter was striking her shields down faster than a toddler faced with a stack of wooden blocks.
Around noon, he tugged her out of bed, wrapped her in a bathrobe and settled her on one of the two chairs around his kitchen table. She peeled the price tag off the bare wooden slab and tossed it in the trash can. Besides a few appliances, there was nothing else. No tablecloth or curtains. Not a scrap of cloth that wasn’t utilitarian. No vases, candles, or decorations. Granted, he’d only recently moved in, but the simple, straight-shooting masculinity of the place was pure Cutter.
Raising a hand to shield her eyes, she said, “Wow. This is a special shade of yellow you have on the walls.
“Haven’t had a chance to paint it. Surprised you’re complaining,” he smirked, “considering it’s a perfect match for the yellow ducks on your pj’s. Your favorite color, no?”
“Hardy har-har. First off, those were cartoony ducks, not real ducks, so they’re exempt. The spanking-bright yellow of your walls was meant for birds, canaries to be exact.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially, “Never, ever walls, unless as part of an LSD research experiment.”
Rummaging through a couple of drawers, he pulled out a pan and bowls. “What do you wanna eat? Bacon and eggs? Omelet? Or pancakes?”
Drawing a hand to her chest, she breathed, “Be still my heart, a biker who cooks. And here I thought only bitches had kitchen duty.”
Opening the refrigerator, he grabbed a carton of eggs, butter, milk, and bacon. “Ha, ha. Every day was kitchen duty in my household growing up. Food only got as good as I could cook it. So, I got good.”
“Your mom brought you up right.”
His expression instantly shuttered. “She had to work hard to provide for me and my uncle. You gonna choose or am I cookin’ them all?”
“Pancakes,” she piped up. “I love pancakes.”
His features softened and he gifted her with a lopsided grin. “Me, too. But, I’m going to make the rest. What can I say, I’m a growing boy,” he said as he grabbed containers of whey and protein powder out of a cabinet, “who likes to box.”
As he cracked eggs and mixed ingredients together, he asked about her mother. And because, with each egg he cracked, he cracked open another shield, her tongue loosened. Tossing out a prayer that she wasn’t dragged into an undertow, she answered questions about her childhood.
“My mom must’ve been around seventeen when she fell for him. Scorpion was much older, and a bad boy. I suppose he may have loved her, but who really knows, because his love has hard limits.”
He leaned down to wrap an arm around her, and her head lolled in the crook of his shoulder. Stroking her back, he laid a kiss on her neck and then bit down lightly. Then, he returned to prepping.
“The more I saw my father’s rotating whore-door and my mother’s helplessness, the more I was determined to save her. But, I had no idea how.”
Greta shook her hair like the mane of a horse dislodging gadflies biting into her hide. Gorging on her blood.
“He ever touch you?”
She shook her head. “He never touched me, but he made sure to hurt her in front of me. In a way, I wish he had hurt me. It would explain why I only get off when I’m being dominated. If I’d been molested, at least it’d make sense to me.”
Suddenly, Cutter was in her face, gripping her chin. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.” She cast her eyes down. He continued, “It hurts to witness your moms getting beat down. A child wants to help, no matter what. I know a bit about that myself. And when we can’t save the ones we love from harm, we hurt. Bad enough that we think we’re fuckups. Don’t wish the worst on yourself. And, you don’t have to come from a fucked-up family to enjoy getting your ass tapped with a crop. That’s Hollywood, not real life.”
Silence stretched between them, punctuated by the sound of his whisk smacking against an aluminum bowl. “How did you and your mother get away?”
“Ironically, with help from a biker. After all she’d been through, she went ahead and fell for another biker.” A glimpse of a smile flashed on her lips. “Still, the day we drove away from Camden, in his truck, was truly one of the best of my life.”
Cutter wasn’t showing much in the way of sympathy, which she appreciated. An unexpected sense of relief washed over her as she revealed her past to him. She felt unimaginably light, as buoyant as a dove released from a cage. Sparkly clean, like after the bath Cutter had coddled her with the night before.
“I remember every aspect of that day like it was yesterday. Mo
m was on lockdown in the house and I was at school. It was after the last dismissal bell, and the stairs of the front entrance were flooded with kids running to meet their parents or to pair up to walk home together. I was going to walk home alone, like always. Except that afternoon, Trucker was there.”
Greta closed her eyes and drifted back to the moment when she noticed him. He was leaning against a lamppost at the street corner, smoking a cigarette. Spotting her, he threw the butt down and captured her in a big bear hug. His truck was idling a few feet away. He boosted her up to the front seat, rounded the pickup truck, and jumped in.
“‘Listen up,’ he said to me, ‘face forward and keep cool. Your mother’s under the blanket behind you. We’re leaving for good.’ I peeked behind me and my mom smiled up at me, face bloody from another busted lip.”
“‘Scorpion’s gonna kill you,’ I warned him, and he said, ‘don’t worry about me, pretty girl. Worry about your mama.’” She slanted away from Cutter, giving him her profile. “We went underground. Hooked up with an underground railroad. Fled from house to house, crisscrossing the country like fugitives. But, we couldn’t run forever. Trucker’s brother was a member of an MC in Vermont called the Green Mountain Boys. They took us in, so we ended up there. Of course, Scorpion found us. The ‘details,’” she air-quoted, “were hammered out between the clubs.” It stuck in her craw that her mother ultimately turned to an MC, another patriarchal organization, to save them.
Turning from the stove, a spatula in his hand, he waited for her to continue.
“Scorpion agreed to let us go but finagled one last meeting with my mother. I remember how she made him wait outside the house. She took a seat on the couch, watching the clock, as the brothers begged and pleaded for her to meet him. Exactly thirty minutes later, she stood up and marched out the door.” Greta’s voice dropped low, “God, how I loved her for that.”
Cutter's Claim: A Bad Boy Biker Romance (The Demon Squad MC Book 2) Page 11
