Cutter's Claim: A Bad Boy Biker Romance (The Demon Squad MC Book 2)

by Monique Moreau

  “Get used to the fact that I display what’s mine. If I’m in the mood to have men panting after what’s mine, wantin’ to fuck my woman, then that’s how it’s gonna be. Don’t you dare cover your fine ass with skirts dragging to the floor. No more. I’ll tear them in half until they barely cover your pussy. You’re under new ownership, baby.”

  “I’m not an old lady in your club. Anyone in the Squad can touch me, mistake me for a hanger-on, a new girl ready for anything and anyone. Or a seasoned biker bitch that likes getting touched or grabbed.”

  As if he’d ever let that happen. For a brainy woman, she was fuckin’ clueless. He chucked the bottom of her chin and snorted softly. “We’ll take it slow. We’ll go to a club party for members only. It’s the birthday of one of the kids. Rated PG. But, to make sure you understand your role…,” he trailed off as he reached inside his cut and took out a fancy square box. Balancing it on his knee, he nodded, giving her permission to take it.

  Reaching for it like a feral cat, she clutched it greedily to her chest. Slowly, she unclasped the lid and raised it.

  Clack.

  Her palm slammed down on the wooden lid. The sound echoed between them, like a crack across a cheek. He pried her fingers off the box and creaked it open. Eyes bulging, Greta fixated on the brushed silver metal.

  “A collar,” he stated.

  He’d taken his time, searching until he found one with the right width and thickness, because the compulsion to attach a collar around her slim neck had been riding him hard for a while.

  “No, no, no,” she pleaded as her head jerked from side to side.

  Keeping his tone even, he said, “Chill out. Collaring a female is not something I take lightly.”

  It was a contract, as definite as slicing a cut for a blood pact. Sure, he’d collared women dozens of times. It was the way it went in his bed, but he had rules. For one thing, he never flaunted a woman wearing his choker. It wouldn’t do to signal the brothers about ownership toward one particular bitch. Until Greta.

  In an instant, she was up on her feet.

  “Nope, nuh-uh, no way,” she sputtered as she spun left and right, looking for the best getaway route. Before she made a move, he grabbed her by the hair. Struggling, she screeched loud enough to break glass, but, through a volley of shouts and curses, he hurled her face down onto his lap, her chest against his thighs. She reared up, but he laid a hard, staying hand on her lower back, until she collapsed. Then, with her head down and her hair polishing the floor, the hellcat squirmed on his thighs. Which was doing little to help his raging, insatiable hard-on.

  Cutter landed a smack on her rump. She took a swipe at him with her claws, but he grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled her head back. Neck arched; she hurled another ear-piercing scream. Yep, her scalp was on fire.

  “Every part of you is mine to do with as I please. You’ll do as I say,” he grated out. He ripped her pants off and walloped her butt cheeks like a battering ram. She writhed and bucked, but he kept his palm steady, lacerating her ass until it was nice and swollen. To add an extra layer of awareness, he dragged his nails across one red cheek.

  “You think a collar is a prison, but it’s a safety net. It reminds you that I am your provider.” He began to knead her abused flesh. In a smooth, alluring tone, he murmured, “Don’t I pleasure you, baby girl?”

  “You know you do,” she whimpered.

  “Do you pleasure me?”

  She licked her lower lip. “I hope I do.”

  His cock, pointing north, dug into her belly and he made a grinding motion with his hips. “You damn well know you do.”

  He propped her up on his lap, callously scraping her bottom against the rough denim of his jeans, before maneuvering her until she straddled his waist. Couldn’t wait to see the horizontal indentations of his jeans cutting across her rump.

  Cupping her jaw, he continued, “When you wear my collar, it will trigger your muscle memory.” He held up the choker and brushed it with his thumb. “It will strain the tendons of your neck, reminding you of your owner. Wherever you’re at, whatever you’re doing, your attention will be on me. When someone compliments your necklace, it will be a compliment to your surrender to me. Make no mistake, brave girl, your surrender is the hottest fuckin’ thing in my life. It brings me the deepest pleasure.” In his throaty baritone he finished, “The pleasure of the man who owns you.”

  He purposely spoke of her as his plaything, weaving the language of dominance and submission between them. Spreading his thighs stretched open her heart-shaped ass and gave him access to massage between her buttocks. Humming, he worked a digit between the clenching muscles of her tight hole.

  “Cutter,” she moaned. His name on her lips was like honey dripping on his cock, waiting for her to lick it off. A deep breath of satisfaction expanded his ribcage. Planting her hands on his chest, Greta bowed her spine back and rubbed her tits on his chest. In a wobbly voice, she said, “These clothes will expose me; they will see my tattoo. Don’t you understand?”

  Finally. He let out a breath. Note to self: It takes a finger up her ass to get her to spit out her fears. Her dark secret wasn’t the sole reason behind her refusal, but it was a very real one. Deserving a small reward for her courage, he dipped his hand between her quivering thighs and brushed the lips of her sex. As his fingertips continued to pet her, the gap opened wider. His balls grew heavy, but he took his time, flexing his fingers inside her pussy until her hips bucked and ground down on his hand. He gave her what she needed. Greta’s head slumped on his shoulder, the pink ends of her tresses brushing against his chest.

  “No one’s going to see it,” he assured her.

  “They will if you parade me around half naked.”

  Damn, his bitch could wear a strong man down. He pulled slippery fingers out of her clenching pussy and gripped her chin. “You’ll cover the tat,” he compromised. “But you’ll wear the collar.”

  “The clothes are about the tat,” she gritted out, “but the collar… Damn it to hell, I’m not wearing a collar like an animal.”

  “What’s the difference between an animal and a pet? Because you are my pet.”

  “Like hell I am!”

  Before she could wiggle off, he threw her, belly-down, over his thighs. He didn’t care how many times it took, but he would tame her in the end. “If you’d listen, I wouldn’t have to do this. But you need more discipline, don’t you?”

  With perfect aim, his hand cracked against the bubble of her ass and left a white handprint. She propped one knee on the sofa, spreading her pussy for him, and looked over her shoulder. Lust dominated her expression.

  That was it. His cock needed in.

  “On your fuckin’ hands and knees. I’m going to give you the fuck of your life. After, you’re still gonna wear the collar.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The main reason they had chosen to meet her mother and the Green Mountain Boys MC at the Bike Week in New Hampshire was because it was safe. The Dark Horsemen avoided the state like the plague after a run-in with a local MC. Rolling down the last stretch of highway, the mid-June heat warmed her shoulders and back. Meanwhile, chills ran down her arms, and her belly buzzed like a hive of wasps.

  Cutter turned into the grounds, and she was graced with the sight of rows and rows of perfectly angled parked bikes. Flamboyant, ostentatious, shiny bikes. Hell, yeah. Nothing trumped the sparks reflected off the polished chrome of a line of bikes. A motorcade of bikers, wearing helmets and glasses, and sporting ink on exposed skin, roared by. The riot of colors displayed on their cuts and engines was a glorious show, indeed. Rounds of boisterous engines resounded in her ears and she giggled, reminding her of when she’d gone to rallies as a kid.

  Rolling into a parking space, Cutter’s eyes cut to hers. “You alright?”

  In the midst of roars and rumbles, she flashed him a glowing smile. “I haven’t been this relaxed in years.”

  Cutter cocked an eyebrow and corrected
her, “Besides in my bed, you mean.”

  She playfully swung at him, but he caught her fist with ease. “Show off,” she grumbled, with a wide grin. Dragging her close by her fist, he took her jaw and devoured her in a searing kiss. An audience of bikers cheered them on. Another thing she loved; bikers relished public displays of affection.

  “Better believe I’m showing you off.” Molding his palm between her thighs, he said, “By the end of the day, every biker up in here will know this pussy is mine.” Smacking his hand, Greta threw her head back and laughed.

  They roamed around, and Cutter bought her an ice cream. She licked it luxuriously, while giving him fuck-me heart eyes, until he pushed her against the side of a stand and kissed her soundly. Finally, they made their way to the entrance, the spot to meet her mother. Seeing her, Greta swayed her hands above the throng of people. She swam through the crowd until she landed in her mother’s arms. Ahhh, the familiar mommy scent wrapped around her like a cocoon. She draped her arms around her mother’s worn leather jacket, fingertips brushing the patch with the words “Property of Trucker” printed on it.

  Waves of heat roared against her back, and she cast a worried look over her shoulder. Oopsy. She hadn’t meant to stray.

  “Greta,” Cutter’s low, growly tone vibrated above her head. Her mother’s neck strained above her shoulder and she tried to pull away, but Greta clung to her. Her nerves were already strung tight from the energy of the rally. Throw in one pissed-off biker and she was prepared to bury herself inside her mother’s chest like a newborn babe.

  She also needed an extra moment before introducing a man to her mother. Granted, Cutter could charm anyone, but Marianne was no ordinary woman. She was First Lady of the Green Mountain Boys. Heart pumping, Greta dodged his gaze and cautiously stepped aside. Fists clenched and expression stern, Cutter briskly tugged her to his side and slipped a finger under her choker. A pair of vivid green eyes, identical to hers, were trained on him.

  Marianne asked, “Greta, are you going to introduce us?”

  “Yeah, sure…um…” She swallowed. “Mom, this is Cutter. Cutter, this is Marianne.”

  Cutter extended his hand and said, “Glad to meet you, ma’am.”

  An excruciatingly looong moment later, her mother broke into a wide grin and gave him a half hug. The sudden shift in Cutter’s stance caused him to practically choke her. He instantly released her collar, and she rubbed the chafed spot on her neck while Marianne’s arms wrapped around his burly torso. “I see you have my daughter well in hand.”

  “Mom!”

  “You told me you were coming to Bike Week for my birthday. You didn’t tell me you were bringing along a man.” Her gaze flicked to his cut. “And a brother at that. From the Demon Squad.” She gave Greta the stink eye. “You’ve been holding out on me,” she accused.

  “It was supposed to be a surprise,” she fibbed weakly.

  Hands perched on her hips; her mother tapped her foot impatiently. Trucker came up and, assessing the situation, stepped in between mother and daughter. He jutted out his hand toward Cutter. “Trucker’s the name. This sure is a special birthday present for Marianne. I can barely believe my eyes.”

  “Cutter,” he responded curtly. Shaking Trucker’s hand with a hard grip, Greta barely contained an eye roll while the men went through the mandatory, macho hand-wrangling ritual. Because that was no simple handshake. Bikers. It wasn’t even midday and she was already worn out.

  Finally having reached some sort of truce, Trucker wrapped an arm around her mother’s shoulder and said, “Marianne’s my old lady. Greta here is the daughter of my heart.”

  “Really, Trucker, that is so cheesy,” Greta said with a tiny sniff. His hand came out to ruffle her hair, but it didn’t reach its destination. Cutter’s hand stayed his wrist midair. Her breath stalled as the men stood there. Add another tense moment and she was about to tell them to knock it off when Trucker’s hand returned to his side.

  Her mom’s mouth was gaping. Just great. Her gaze located Greta’s and remained, bleeding with questions. Oh boy, she was gonna get it. A massive inquisition was in her near future. She skewered the asshole with a mean look for his feats of possessiveness. Cutter placed a finger under her mom’s chin and gently closed it. Her own mouth dropped open. Greta’s eyebrows hit her hairline. Trucker threw Cutter a warning look and Cutter lifted his hands in apology for touching another man’s old lady.

  With a chuckle, he suggested, “Let’s drink some beers and get to know each other. I know of a good place about five miles down the road. Called the Red Pool Ball. Has a shingle falling off to the side that says Open for Bikers Only.”

  “Yeah, I know it,” replied Trucker. Her mother pecked her on the cheek before turning away and disappearing into a horde of bikers.

  The instant they were gone, she shoved him in the chest. “So embarrassing! I thought you were going to behave yourself and act like a gentleman. I was going to get enough smack from her as it was. Your he-man act just tripled it.”

  “Count yourself lucky that I’m the first man to meet her and that I taught her old man who I am to you. Saved you a wallop for running away from me in a fucking crowd. We talked about the rules of engagement, and you already slipped big time.”

  Color drained from her face. She turned away from him and grumbled, “You and your damn ego. Always needs more stroking.”

  A hard swat to her butt made her jump.

  “Owww!”

  “You’re lucky to have a mother to bitch about. Keep complainin’ and you’ll end up with stripes covering that sweet ass of yours.”

  With a fixed hold on her nape, he led her through the swarm of people to his bike.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Trucker had somehow hustled a couple of bikers from their table and was holding down the fort as Cutter and Greta entered the bar. Standing on a chair, he waved them over. With an arm around her waist, Cutter plunged forward and carved a wide swath of space for them. Dread curdled in her belly because her mother’s eyes sparked like a boxer sparring before his opponent entered the ring. As usual, it made her want to take a swing at Cutter. Eye twitching, she threw another death glare at him. She was close to spitting with fury, but he didn’t so much as flinch when he caught her expression. Although, he got his point across when he gripped her shoulder and pressed her firmly into a chair.

  Cutter got her mom’s and Trucker’s drink orders but left without asking her what she preferred to drink. Pressure pulsed at her temples. He could’ve had the decency to at least pretend in front of her mother. Instead, he stroked her collar with a hot look and sauntered off without a word. She huffed out a curse but sobered when she found her mom and Trucker leaning over the table with intent expressions on their faces. Sheesh, they might as well have been sitting on her lap.

  “Do you know what I’m thinking Greta?” her mom questioned her. “Do you have any idea? Hmm?”

  Nerves rattling like a broken brake pad in a broke-down car, she slunk down into her chair and shrugged. “Dunno, but I see you’re about to explode.”

  “Explode?”

  Ducking her head, she picked at the lacquer flaking off the edge of the table. “I know, I know. I don’t ever bring a guy around, and then I show up with a…a biker.”

  Her mother placed her hand over Trucker’s and said, “Babe, why don’t you go help Cutter at the bar?”

  Trucker dutifully got up, ruffled Greta’s hair as he passed by, muttering about how he didn’t care for bikers who didn’t let a man touch his own daughter. Once alone, her mother said, “I never said that I didn’t want you with a biker.”

  Greta shrugged. Her mom might be a strong woman, but sometimes she acted like she had Stockholm syndrome. Why else did her world revolve around either one club or another?

  “I figured you wouldn’t want that future for me. Trucker’s a gem, so of course you kept him around.” She attacked the polish of the chipped table with her thumbnail. Waves of hair rained dow
n around her face, but that didn’t save her from her mother, who reached across the table and stroked the pink tip of an errant braid.

  “Sweetie, I don’t keep him around just because he’s a good man,” she began with a light chuckle. “I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember. Even when I was firmly under your father’s thumb, I noticed him. He always went out of his way to do something nice or sweet for me. It touched me. Every single time.” Her mother’s mouth softened with a nostalgic smile. “You know how he is. So gentle and loving.”

  The scraping fingernail stilled, and she leaned in to hear better over the din of the bar.

  “Trucker and I got together long before we left. Yes, he plotted our escape and saved us, but I wouldn’t have stayed with him if I didn’t love him. It wasn’t about the biker; it was about the man.”

  Her mother’s eyes held hers, frank and steady.

  “I suppose I came to my own conclusions.”

  Her mother laid a comforting hand on top of hers and squeezed. “I figured it was best to leave the past alone, so I didn’t bring it up. You hightailed it out of Vermont like a demon was up your ass, and you made the right move. College. Paralegal studies. A professional woman. You’re a success, and I’m proud of you. Sure, you never brought a man around, but I took comfort in the fact that you had a social life. Trucker often shows me your Facebook page.”

  She choked and pounded on her chest as she wheezed. Curse Facebook! Thank goodness, her mother hadn’t seen her other social media, where she posted more, uh-hem, risqué bondage pics.

  A man at a table near them rose to his feet and bellowed to get the attention of a guy near the entrance. Greta flung a look over her shoulder at the same time that Cutter’s head whipped around to check on her.

  His gaze snapped around, taking in their surroundings, and then his attention turned toward the biker who yelled. The displeasure drawn on his brutal expression crossed over the ruckus of the bar and burned through the biker’s drunken fog because he promptly shut his mouth and plunked down on his seat. Cutter stared right at her for a moment and must have decided that she was safe enough because the grooves around his mouth relaxed.