The Tempted Series: Collectors Edition

by Janine Infante Bosco

  She’s not trying to be seductive but every fucking move she makes has me hard and craving her. Poor girl, I will demolish her tonight so that when I’m on the road, the ache in between her thighs keeps her company, reminding her I’m never too far from her.

  She turns around and peers at me from under her eyelashes, slowly reaching behind her to unclasp her bra as I lean against the wall and drink in the show she’s about to treat me to.

  “Go on, girl,” I urge, crossing my arms against my chest as I bite the inside of my cheek and watch the straps slide down her arms and expose her to my hungry eyes.

  Her thumbs slide into the waistband of her pants, dragging them down her legs before she steps out of them.

  “No panties?”

  “Not tonight,” she says, reaching behind her to pull her hair out of the clip. Her back arches and her perky tits salute me. “Give me your phone,” she says, shaking out her long hair so it falls down her back and over her shoulders.

  Fucking gorgeous.

  Curiously, I pull my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and hand it to her, watching as she pushes her breasts together and snaps a photo of herself. Bending over, she angles her phone and snaps another photo of her heart-shaped ass.

  “Damn, girl,” I groan.

  She straightens up, eyes on me as she takes two steps closer and spreads her legs. Holding the phone with both hands she lowers it so the lens is level with her pussy and snaps another picture.

  “Don’t say I never give you anything,” she teases as she tosses the phone back, clarifying I’m not the only one leaving reminders behind.

  I catch the phone, place it down on the dresser before closing the distance between us. With one hand I reach behind me, my ribs are still bruised but I don’t react to the twinge pulling across my midsection as I pull my shirt over my head.

  “You want something in return, girl?”

  “Depends what you’re offering,” she says coyly, placing both hands on her bare hips as she winks at me.

  I don’t offer anything instead I drop to my knees and take what I want and give her what I know she needs, placing my open mouth over the lips of her pussy and pushing my tongue between them. Her hands fall from her hips to my shoulders and her nails dig into my skin as my tongue lavishly strokes her.

  Starving.

  Insatiable.

  I feed off her, lapping at her clit, sucking on it until her hands are in my hair, pulling it begging me to take her over the edge.

  Not yet.

  Girl needs to squirm a little. That’s right, grind on me girl.

  “Blackie…” She shrieks as I slip two fingers insider her.

  “Give it to me, girl,” I grunt against her pussy, pumping my fingers to the same beat my tongue is playing.

  Give me something to dream of when I’m off the grid.

  Give me something to remember in case I break my promise to you and can’t come back.

  I feel her tighten around my fingers, hear her cry out in ecstasy as I continue to selfishly take my memory from her, ingraining it to my mind, body and soul as she loses control over my mouth. Her body goes lax after the tremors subside and I slowly pull my mouth away from her. I lift my eyes to hers and lick my lips, savoring the taste to my palette.

  “Fuck, Blackie,” she says breathless, dropping to her knees as she takes my face with her hands. Leaning forward, her tongue sneaks out tasting what’s left behind of her on my mouth.

  “You like that don’t you? That’s all you, girl,” I speak against her mouth. Taking hold of her face I pull back and stare into her dark eyes, only they’re not dark with demons but dark with lust.

  On our knees, arms wrapped around one another, mouths fused together, the both of us wishing tomorrow never comes.

  But it does.

  And I kiss Lacey goodbye, promise to come back to her and pray that I do.

  I love you, girl.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The bitch sucking me off has a mouth like a Hoover vacuum, thank Christ because her face is brutal. I try to thread my fingers through her over processed red hair but the knots make it a chore. Instead, I arch my hips and bury my cock deeper into her mouth—the head hits the back of her throat and she gags.

  “Prez, someone here to see you,” Dipstick says, dropping onto the couch beside me. The prospect watches on as the red head continues to choke on my cock. “I’d be happy to take your place while you handle business.”

  “Fuck that,” I sneer. “Tell whoever it is I need five minutes,” I grunt, pumping my hips faster, ignoring the bitch choking on her knees.

  “You don’t have five minutes.”

  I know that fucking voice. It grates on my nerves like nails on a chalk board. I think it’s the fucking accent. I never cared for the Russian tongue, I wonder if ginger over here is a Ruski. That would explain why I haven’t splattered my shit across her face yet.

  I stare up at the impeccably dressed Russian gangster as his eyes take in the bitch slurping my dick.

  “Jealous? Don’t you worry, Vladimir, I’ll give you a turn.”

  His blue eyes pierce me with a lethal gaze and I swear my cock goes soft.

  “Not my type,” he declares.

  That’s right. Stupid Charlie. Vladimir Yankovich likes his girls young and naïve, easy to charm and make them believe he’s one of the good guys sent to sweep them away from their boring lives. He takes them away from their families, hooks them on drugs and when they’re so far gone, he sells them to the highest bidder.

  Yeah, this creepy motherfucker that the G-Man saddled me with isn’t into selling dope on the streets of New York. He sells girls. Vlad’s no pimp though, —he ain’t selling five-dollar hookers under the Brooklyn Bridge, he’s carting them in containers and shipping them overseas, selling these girls to twisted foreign millionaires.

  I’m down with a lot of shit but I ain’t down with that. The G-man blindsided me, paired me with a fucking glorified pimp and made me promise to destroy Pastore’s power over the New York harbors. He then promised me I could move in on the Satan’s Knight’s territory. Vlad would take over the docks and I’d get the streets. If I eliminated Jack Parrish and his club, the new gangster taking over Victor’s territory wouldn’t have a leg to stand on; he’d have no choice but to relinquish control to Vlad.

  I’ve been biding my time, working with some shady as fuck cop named Brantley to bring these fuckers down and I had a plan all set in motion but someone beat me to the punch and tried to wipe out the Knights and Pastore’s family all in one shot.

  I wish I could take the fucking credit for the explosion that mangled the club responsible for murdering my predecessor but I can’t.

  Vlad grills me as I push the ginger off my lap and shove my limp dick back into my jeans. That brutal face stares up at me like a lost puppy and I roll my eyes, slapping Dipstick upside the head.

  “Give her a hit of something and send her on her way,” I command.

  “Oh I’ll give her a hit all right,” he replies sleazily.

  Drawing my attention back to the Ruski and the posse standing behind him, I lift an eyebrow and reach for my beer bottle.

  “What’re you even doing here? I thought our business was finished.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Sure he had heard, every outlaw on the east coast knew the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn were fucked. They might not all be dead but they were fucking disabled, the fucking president was deaf, their clubhouse was a mountain of dust and their bikes were a fucking scrappers dream.

  “Parrish and his club are crippled, off the grid. The Brooklyn charter of the Satan’s Knights is finished. You can move whatever the fuck your heart desires through that harbor, Spinelli doesn’t have the power to stop you.”

  “We had a deal, and you didn’t deliver,” he says calmly, pulling out a gun and aiming it straight for my limp dick. “I don’t give second chances but I’m feeling generous,” he says pulling back th
e safety on his gun.

  Second chances? I didn’t even get a first chance and now my dick would pay the price for some negligence I wasn’t even responsible for.

  “Fine,” I agree, shielding my cock with my hands. “I’ll do it. I’ll finish someone else’s job.”

  “No, you’ll complete your job and while you’re at it, you’ll add Spinelli to that long list of casualties. If you don’t succeed, it’ll be your head.” He pauses and a mischievous smile spreads across his face. “I’ll let you decide which one gets the bullet.” He lifts the barrel from my cock and targets between my eyes.

  A moment later he drops his weapon and stares at his watch.

  “It was nice knowing you, Charlie,” he says eerily before turning around and leaving me with both heads intact.

  “It was nice knowing you, Charlie?” I repeat. What the fuck did that mean?

  Pulling up my zipper, I stand on my feet. I slide back the curtains leading to the common room and make my way to the stash of coke on the bar. Pretty soon this powder will decorate Brooklyn and make me a shit ton of money.

  But first I had to kill anyone with a reaper on their back.

  I cut the coke and push it into a fine line. One rip and I’ll be good, then I’ll call church and we’ll finish the job these faceless pricks started, and when I’m done wiping out the Knights, I will hunt down whoever the fuck blew their shit up and make them my bitch too. Fucking amateurs.

  “Shit! Incoming!” I hear my vice president shout as I snort the coke. The motherfucker is probably hallucinating again, goddamn junkie.

  He grabs my cut and spins me around, throwing a rifle into my hand and to my surprise he looks straight. I fight for focus but I’m too distracted by the blaring engines approaching the clubhouse. I glance at the security footage and all I see are headlights, the whole fucking screen is lit up like the tree in Rockefeller Center.

  I order my club to spring into action and collect their weapons but we’re not quick enough. The ginger that sucked me off shrieks in horror causing me to turn around and watch as the Molotov cocktail flies through the glass window and lands on her lap. The flames crawl up her skin and the message is clear.

  Satan has arrived.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Like the night before, I let my mind wander back to the night before I left for Boston. I see her face, flushed, a fresh sheen of sweat glistens over her creamy skin and her lips are swollen from the desperate assault my mouth played on hers. Her limbs weak as they wrap around me, and though she’s fucking exhausted, she arches for me one last time, drawing me into her until we become one. She whispers my name, tells me she loves me and makes me promise to always love her.

  And I will.

  I’ll always love Lace.

  The Corrupt Bastards' clubhouse comes into sight and I push back the sweet face of my girl and bury Dominic Petra. Leading what we’ve dubbed as the final ride, the devil resurrects in my saddle and Blackie emerges. I lift my hand off the handlebar and circle my index finger in the wind.

  Round up boys.

  Satan’s ready to fade these motherfuckers to black.

  My brothers flash their headlights behind me.

  Ready, all we see is red. We’re broken down, battered but we’re ready to crawl our way back to the top. They tried to break us but they don’t know we’re made of concrete skin—it’s time they learned. Thirty bikes deep we roll through the gates, Stryker and Cobra come up alongside me, each steer with one hand and fire with the other, shooting at any living thing in the parking lot. I pull in front of the clubhouse, drop my kickstand and pull the glass bottle out of my saddlebag shoving the rag inside of it. I pull a lighter from my jacket and watch the flame travel the length of the fabric before rearing my hand back and tossing the bottle into the glass window. I don’t care where it lands or who it hits. Burn motherfuckers.

  Pulling the machine gun over one shoulder and fitting the magazine of bullets to the other I dismount my bike. The sea of headlights illuminates the path our boots pound as we race toward the clubhouse. Three Bastards emerge from the shattered glass, guns blazing, but Riggs skids to a stop and sprays them with bullets, waving me to go ahead.

  I shoot my way through the front door and catch sight of the woman dancing in the fire, but before I can put her out of her misery, Deuce does. They creep out of the corners like cockroaches, whores and Bastards, but our bullets don’t stop. We have no regard for human life; we pump them all full of our lead and won’t stop until every last one is dead.

  With another twirl of my finger in the air I let my boys loose and let them do whatever the fuck they want. I’ve got my sights set on the leader, ready to cut him to the marrow and watch the life fade from his eyes. I crave it like the drugs that used to haunt my dreams.

  Charlie lifts his head from the bar, aims the barrel of his rifle at me and fires off a round.

  Come at me motherfucker.

  Let’s go.

  “Promise me you’ll come back to me.”

  “I’ll always come back for you, girl.”

  I take cover behind a wall, close my eyes for a second and she’s back, miles of dark, wavy hair that match her dark eyes. I can almost see the tortured expression reflected at me when they tell her I’m gone. I want to make it better, I want to dance with her and make it all go away but the only way I can do that is if I keep my promise and keep coming for her.

  I reload my clip and step out from behind the wall. My eyes do a quick sweep of the room and watch as Bergen and Brooklyn destroy and rob the lives of the men responsible for the destruction of our club.

  Pipe crosses his arms, a gun in each hand, and fires away, screaming out in agony as he keeps his index fingers firm on the triggers.

  That’s for Oksana.

  Riggs jumps on top of a chair and spins around in a full circle shooting six Bastards. Repeats the act, shooting the same targets, making sure they’re dead.

  That’s for Mack and Bosco.

  A bullet pierces Cobra’s shoulder and he screams through the pain continuing to shoot, lining up a clean shot and shoots the ear off one of the Bastards.

  That’s for Jack.

  Smoke and his men drop bodies as quick as they appear, we’ve got this.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see the barrel of Charlie’s gun. I cross my left arm over my right and pull the trigger before he can. I pull it again. And again, once more.

  Spinning around, I watch as Charlie clutches his chest with one hand and raises his other with the gun and struggles to pull the trigger.

  “Go on, I’ll give it to you,” I dare him.

  His finger closes around it as my bullet whizzes through the air and blows his finger off. The shots begin to die down, the gun powder is thick in the air and the bitch is still burning on the ground. Smoke throws his gun over his shoulder and walks over to the unfortunate club whore and whips out his cock and takes a piss on her.

  Charlie squeals like a pig, drawing my attention away from Smoke and his attempt to put out the fire. With my gun still poised I make my way toward him and stand over him as he slithers across the floor like a snake.

  I arch my shoulders and pull the trigger again. His body stills and I bend over to stare into his eyes and watch as the life spills out them. He hangs on by a thread, suffering through his death. I sling the gun over my shoulder and turn around. My eyes struggle to search through the smoke for my brother that deserves to take this man’s life and fade him to black.

  “Pipe,” I shout, pulling the utility knife from my belt. I hear his boots creep up behind me and I straighten my back and hand him the knife as he stares at Charlie.

  “He’s going to die, make it be from your hand,” I tell him. Pipe diverts his eyes to the knife I’m offering and then he looks back at me as his hand takes the weapon.

  After Christine died I struggled for years, let my temptations become my demons all because I was desperate for retribution. I got mine and now it’s time for Pipe to g
et his.

  I watch as he kneels beside Charlie and presses the blade against his cheek, the sharpened point touches the outline of one of the teardrops inked beneath his eye.

  “Your tears belong to me now,” he seethes, as he traces the drops of ink, carving the tattoo from his cheek. Charlie’s body jerks but he can’t fight. He can’t scream. He can only lay there and be at the mercy of the knife.

  Like Oksana.

  Pipe flicks the pieces of bloody skin off his fingers before he drags the knife across Charlie’s neck and slices it wide open.

  Retribution.

  It has a color.

  Its color is black.

  Chapter Fifty

  Three days feigning off the sadistic voice inside my head that tells me the long languid kiss Blackie gave me before he slipped out of our bed, was the very last one he’d ever give me, has left my heart in a million tiny shattered pieces. I did everything I was supposed to do. I woke up and routinely took my dose of lithium, replayed his promise over and over in my mind but nothing worked.

  I’m coming back for you, girl.

  In a last ditch effort to pull my sanity from the ruins Blackie’s departure left me in I went to my father’s house. My father knew I was being worked over by my treacherous mind the moment he opened the door. Either he spotted the familiar signs reflected in my eyes that he sees every time he glances in the mirror or I am more transparent than I thought. Whichever the case maybe he was trying his hardest to pull me from the depression dragging me down.

  He didn’t need my stress added to the mountain sitting on his shoulders but he took it, anyway. He acted as if it wasn’t severing his soul that he wasn’t with his club or that they were on the road facing peril without him. And after he cooked me and Reina dinner he and I went upstairs and painted the nursery.

  “He will come back, right?” I ask, rolling the green paint on the wall. I couldn’t avoid the question anymore. I know I’m not supposed to ask, that a better, wiser old lady would just sit idly and wait for her man to come home, but I couldn’t help myself.