by Gemma Weir
The sex was good, but not so good that I can’t find someone else to scratch the itch.
Who the fuck am I kidding? The sex was fucking amazing. Livvy’s fast become an obsession I don’t want to quit.
Shit. My cock’s hard as steel just thinking about her bent over, my tongue tasting her cream as she got wetter and wetter.
Fuck that. No fucking bitch runs out on me.
I say when we’re done.
I claimed her.
She’s mine.
I know it. Everyone in the club knows it. I just need her to accept it too.
So hell no, we’re not done yet.
“Gahhh.” My back cracks as I struggle to sit up. This bed’s so lumpy it feels like it’s filled with rocks. Once my feet hit the floor, I stretch my arms above my head and pad into the small bathroom. I catch my reflection in the mirror. Sex-tousled hair and lust-laden eyes stare back at me.
I look like I’ve been completely ravished. Teeth marks mar the top of my shoulder, and images of Echo biting me and pushing me over the edge into a bone-melting orgasm flash into my head. My legs sag as I remember his commanding voice and dexterous fingers; I grip the sink tightly to keep upright.
I rush through my shower, washing the scent of sex and Echo from my skin. My body’s tired, and muscles I haven’t used in years ache. The dull pulse in my pussy refuses to let me forget how he thoroughly used my body in the best way.
I’ve had a couple of one-night stands before, but they never made me feel like this. The morning after was always filled with shame and regret, but my time with Echo has just left me aching for more.
I can’t pin my hopes on a holiday romance, because that’s what this would be.
Echo’s the unexpectedly perfect guy, just at the wrong time.
Blowing out a wistful sigh, I throw on a Strikers tank, shorts, and Converse, and I’m ready for my shift. As I go to leave, my stomach growls loudly, reminding me that the last time I ate was lunchtime yesterday.
I head to an old-school diner and slide onto a chrome stool at the counter. Moments after I order, the waitress drops my pancake stack in front of me, and I drown it in maple syrup. I dip the crispy bacon in the sweetness and pop it into my mouth. The salty-sweet combination hits my tongue. “Mmmmm,” I hum.
“Ahem.” A throat clears next to me. Swallowing my food, I turn towards the sound and find a real-life cowboy’s sitting on the stool next to me. His bright white smile glints like a toothpaste ad in the sunshine.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Cowboy says. He tilts his hat at me, and heat blooms in my cheeks and rises into a full blush. His checked shirt accentuates his slim but toned arms and shoulders. Tight blue jeans and shiny cowboy boots complete his look.
He’s a walking, talking, sexy Woody doll.
“Hi,” I say with a wave.
He reaches out his hand, and I take it. Cowboy exudes confidence, so I expect his grip to be firm and decisive, but instead it’s weak and clammy.
“Wyatt Anderson, ma’am.”
“Olivia Townsend.”
I pull my hand back quickly and discreetly wipe my palm on my shorts, his touch leaving me with a strange, uncomfortable feeling. Cowboy’s eyes slowly look me up and down, his gaze dipping to my boobs.
Watching him appraise me, I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Hey, dickhead, my face’s up here,” I bark.
Confident, gleaming eyes rise to meet mine; a self-assured grin is plastered across his lips. “I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s just those perfect titties of yours are just so eager to say hi. I don’t want them to feel left out.” Amusement laces his voice.
A laugh bursts free from me. “You’re a dick for staring at my tits, but that’s a brilliant freaking comeback.”
He holds out his hand. “I apologise, let me try again. Wyatt Anderson, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His eyes sparkle with mischief as he tips his head from side to side, speaking his next words to my boobs. “And you. And you.”
I giggle again. “Olivia Townsend, and the girls are Bonnie and Clyde.”
Wyatt laughs, and raising his coffee cup to my boobs, he toasts them. “Ladies.”
He’s cute, in a cocky I-know-I’m-good-looking kind of a way. Fresh-faced, he’s almost a bit too well-groomed. His stubble’s artfully sculpted, and his teeth are a shade too white. Cowboy’s sex on legs, but it feels like it’s taken a lot of time and effort to get him that way.
I turn my attention back to my breakfast and fork a mound of syrup-soaked pancake into my mouth. “Mmmmm,” I moan appreciatively.
“We don’t get many British folk in Archer’s Creek, so you must be new to town?”
I nod. “Yep, just got here yesterday.” I carry on eating, and the moment the pancake hits my tongue I groan in pleasure.
Wyatt laughs. “Miss Olivia, I’m gonna need a cigarette by the time you’ve finished those pancakes.” My skin flushes red, and I cover my face with my hands in embarrassment. Wyatt touches my wrists, pulling them down. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m just jealous that it’s the pancakes that are causing those noises,” he says with a wink.
Oh God, the cowboy’s flirting with me. This town’s packed full of hot guys. I should be in man-candy heaven, but all I can think about it Echo. I try to compare him to Wyatt. They couldn’t be any more different. Echo’s rough and gritty, where Wyatt’s polished and smooth. Echo took control and I let him; I wanted him to be in charge.
Flashbacks of last night explode into my head. Echo pulling my hair, making me come again and again. I’m so enthralled by the dirty slideshow, I don’t even realise Wyatt’s been talking this whole time.
“So how ’bout it, Miss Olivia, can I pick you up tonight?” Wyatt asks, a glint in his eye.
Wyatt’s hot, but Echo’s hotter. Echo was the best sex I’ve ever had, and I’d totally do a repeat with the biker boy.
But last night was a one-time thing; it has to be.
Fuck it. “Okay, Wyatt, thanks. That would be nice.” I instantly regret it, but it’s too late to take it back, so I smile brightly, hoping he doesn’t notice it’s fake. Wyatt’s grin is smug, like he never had any doubt that I’d agree.
“Shall we say eight o’clock tonight?”
I nod. “I’m staying at Miss Mimi’s.”
“Auntie Mimi did say she had a new guest. Well, I’ll leave you to your breakfast. See you tonight, Miss Olivia.” He pulls my hand to his lips, kissing the back of it softly.
Wyatt is Miss Mimi’s nephew, and Miss Mimi is a judgemental old crone with horribly uncomfortable beds. She obviously hates the bikers and anyone who associates with them. But does her nephew feel the same?
Who knows, maybe nice guy cowboys are better than bad boy bikers?
I watch her.
She’s beautiful.
But she’s tired.
Pure.
Perfect.
But she went with the biker scum.
Now she needs to be punished.
Purified.
Saved.
I can cleanse her.
I can be her saviour.
But it’s not time yet.
Now I need to wait.
It’s been a hell of a day.
I planned to track Livvy down first thing this morning, find out what the fuck she thought she was playing at, sneaking out in the middle of the night. But as soon as I left my room at the clubhouse, I got drafted into club shit that couldn’t be ignored.
The Sinners aren’t classic one-percenters. We skirt the law but don’t spend too much time on the wrong side of it. The club owns several legitimate businesses in Archer’s Creek and the surrounding towns. We’ve also got some under-the-counter illegal shit going, but not enough to make us a target. I deal with security for everything the club has going on. Muscle, intel, surveillance—that’s all on me.
The club business had me driving over to Dripping Springs, a few towns over. We own the only strip club in the town, and I’m forever dealing with t
he shit that happens there. Leave it to Beavers, the titty bar, is run by the pres’s old lady, Grits. She’s an old, hard bitch, and she runs the place with an iron fist. Just lately she’s had a few pretty boys in causing trouble and pestering the girls for “extras.”
Now, as law-abiding citizens of Archer’s Creek, we don’t condone the strippers offering extra services on the side. But we happily turn a blind eye and make sure that no one gets out of hand.
After spending the day dealing with het-up strippers, all I want to do is track down my bitch and spank her ass for running.
Miss Mimi is a sour-faced old bag. She hates the club ’cause her old man took off with one of the club whores twenty years ago. The old bitch wouldn’t tell me where Livvy was, just said she’d have the sheriff on my ass if I didn’t get off her property. I’m not worried about the sheriff, he’s been on the club’s payroll for years, but the threat pisses me off all the same.
The longer it takes me to track her down, the more pissed I’m getting. The thought of turning her over my knee and reminding her who she belongs to is making my dick rock-hard.
She’s mine, and if I need to let this whole fucking town know, so fucking be it.
Wyatt picks me up at eight on the dot, and I’m impressed at his punctuality. He knocks on the door, and I open it to find him waiting for me in his aunt’s hall.
“You look beautiful, Miss Olivia.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my skin. I try to speak but splutter with embarrassment. “Oh, er. Thank you?”
Still holding my fingers, he lifts his arm and wraps my hand through his elbow, leading me down the hall. The move is old-school chivalry, but instead of swooning, it feels awkward and orchestrated.
Noticing I’ve left my bag behind, I pause. “Oh, Wyatt, I’m sorry, my purse’s still in my room. Let me just grab it and we can go.”
He nods, and I dash back to my room. When I walk back into the hall, Wyatt and Miss Mimi are standing close together and talking in hushed voices. “Wyatt, I’m ready when you are,” I say. He looks up and smiles, but raises his finger, asking for a minute.
Several minutes later, I’m still standing in the hallway. I sigh loudly and fidget with my handbag as Wyatt and his aunt gossip like old women. “Wyatt, I’m sorry to interrupt, but if this is a bad time, we can always reschedule,” I offer, secretly hoping he’ll say yes and I can go back to my room.
A scowl crosses his face as he turns towards me, and I shrink back slightly in surprise. In a flash, the scowl disappears and the confident smile returns. “Of course not, Miss Olivia, please excuse my rudeness. Shall we go?”
I narrow my eyes at his snippy tone and start to speak, but his perma-smile distracts me. He threads my arm through his and steers us out the door.
Wyatt’s a good-looking guy. Without the hat, his hair’s dark, short, and slicked into a side part with so much product it looks wet. Does he really think that’s a good look? His much-too-skinny jeans and ab-hugging T-shirt are designed to show off his muscles. But it all feels like he’s trying too hard.
He walks us across the street to Strikers. Jesus, after working here for the last eight hours, this date is quickly jumping into worst-date-ever territory. Ushering me into a booth, he slides in opposite me.
“Did I tell you how hot you look, baby?” he drawls.
I glance down at my clothes and smile. I managed to pick up a gorgeous pale blue summer dress from the thrift shop in town. It’s got wide straps, is fitted round my tits to the waist, and then flares out in a cute rah-rah skirt to just above my knee. The material is patterned with hundreds of little flamingos. My hair’s down and curly. I look good.
Time drags.
We order beers and try to make small talk, but Wyatt’s eyes rarely lift from my boobs.
I’m bored.
After two beers, I check my phone and throw out an exaggerated yawn. His head lifts from my boobs for a moment. “Oh gosh, Wyatt, I’m so sorry. It’s just been a really long couple of days,” I say, faux apologetically.
He stands, then walks around the booth and scoots in next to me. Cringing, I move till I’m wedged against the back of the booth. He leans into me, the stench of the seven beers he’s drunk and his stale, putrid breath hits me.
“Baby, you ready for bed?” he says seductively.
Oh God, his suggestive tone and the ridiculous exaggerated drunken wink has me holding back laughter. He leans further into me, and I fight the gag reflex that threatens when he breathes in my face. His arm creeps round my shoulders, and I suck in my stomach, trying to move as far away from him as possible.
The sound of a door slamming reverberates through the room, and tingles start all along the back of my neck. Wyatt lifts his head, spotting something on the other side of the bar. The colour drains from his face, and his arm tightens across my shoulders. His fingers dig into my skin.
“Wyatt?” I say. His gaze is fixed, his fingers clenching into my arm painfully. “Wyatt, let go, you’re hurting me,” I say louder.
His head turns slowly, his gaze following the movement of something.
Prying his fingers from my skin, I shove his arm off my shoulders and grab my purse as I try to push him out of the booth. An ominous quiet seems to have engulfed the entire room. Wyatt blocks my escape, but his focus is no longer on me.
Echo and Smoke stand at the end of the table.
Echo looks pissed, anger evident on his face. But he’s not looking at me; all his fury is focussed solely on Wyatt. I look from Echo to Wyatt and back again. The pair are engaged in a silent staredown whilst Smoke stands stoically by Echo’s side.
I push at Wyatt’s back until he reluctantly stands, and I shuffle out of the booth, smoothing my dress as I straighten. I turn to leave. Echo’s hand snaps out, grabbing my arm to stop me.
“Sugar, want to explain what the fuck’s going on?” he growls.
“I’m not exactly sure what you want me to explain, Echo. I was just leaving,” I say haughtily.
Wyatt’s head turns towards me, a sardonic grin twitching in place. “Olivia, baby, where are you going? Our date’s not over yet.”
I laugh. “Dude, our date’s sooo over.” I waggle my finger up and down, pointing to his get-up. “All this. Yeah, that doesn’t really work for me.”
Echo’s grip on my arm loosens, so I start to walk away, but Wyatt the douche grabs my shoulder. “You fucking prissy little British bitch. You’d be lucky to get a piece of me after being seen with that piece of shit biker.”
I spin round to respond, but Echo has him pinned by his throat to the wall, leaning in close to Wyatt’s face. Echo’s voice is so low I can’t hear what he’s saying, but Wyatt blanches and starts jabbering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t touch her. Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me,” he whines.
Echo turns towards me, anger straining his whole body. “Livvy, go stand your ass at the bar and wait for me. I’m not done with you yet.”
He’s not done with me yet. Who the fuck does he think he is?
“Fuck you, Echo. I’m done, and I’m going,” I bite out angrily.
Echo doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns to Smoke and nods towards me. Smoke jumps up, slinging his arm over my shoulders. He guides me to a barstool, lifts me up onto it, and cages me in with his hands on the bar.
Furious, I shove at Smoke’s enormous shoulders. “Smoke, what the hell? Move, I’m leaving.”
He looks genuinely sorry, but shakes his head. “Sorry, sweetheart, but Echo wants you to stay, and he’s only gonna follow your ass back to Miss Mimi’s if you leave.”
“I’m sorry too, Smoke,” I say with a shrug. I knee him in the balls with as much force as I can muster. Poor Smoke drops like a sack of potatoes. Hopping down from the stool, I step over Smoke’s groaning body and walk straight out the door.
When I walk into Strikers and see Livvy—my Livvy—sitting with that pansy fucking Wyatt Anderson’s arm round her, I just about lose my mind. From the doorway, I can see she’s tr
ying to move his arm, but she shouldn’t be anywhere near him in the first place.
And he shouldn’t be touching what’s mine.
I don’t even remember moving from the door till I’m standing at their table and Anderson’s telling Livvy their date isn’t over. Furious, blinding jealousy pulses through me. I hate that I’ve lost even a day with her. I’ve only just found her, but she’s already under my skin.
My heart’s thumping in my chest. Anderson’s a little prick, one of the pretty boys Grits has been having issues with. He’s a bully who doesn’t understand the meaning of the word no.
He could have hurt her.
He needs to be taught a lesson, and I’m gonna really enjoy being the one who teaches it.
Livvy’s being a pain in my ass and trying to run again. So I give Smoke the nod to watch her while I scare the shit out of Anderson. I’ve got him around the throat, pinned up against the wall, and hell, maybe I’m enjoying this a bit too much. I lean in real close and whisper to him, “Olivia’s mine.”
His face pales.
“She’s mine and you touched her.”
The poor guy looks like he’s gonna throw up. “Remember what we did last time you messed with club property?” A few years back, we broke his nose and one of his arms for getting rough with one of the strippers.
He’s shaking, and a sheen of sweat’s broken out all over his face. “Olivia’s not just club property. She’s my property. So this time, I’m gonna teach you a real lesson, one you won’t forget.” When I let go of his neck, he drops to the floor and starts to cry.
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know she belonged to the club. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please just let me go. Please.” His voice is a pathetic whine.
I laugh at him. He’s a pitiful, snivelling heap on the floor. Bringing back my leg, I kick him in the face, and his nose explodes with a crack. I lean over him, keeping my voice low so only he hears. “Me and the boys will be seeing you real soon.”
