Captive: A Devil's Spawn MC Novel

by Natasha Thomas

  It was supposed to be at the clubhouse with Kendall organising the food, Cage the drinks, Lou handling decorating, and my son taking care of the music and entertainment, or so I’m told. I wasn’t asked, which in hindsight was smart because I would have turned her down flat. Kendall assured me all I had to do was turn up, so I relented as I have a tendency to do when it comes to the two women in my life that matter most to me, Kendall and Lou. Especially Kendall. She’s had a rough time of things, more than her fair share of suffering, and if this makes her happy, which it looks like it does, I won’t stand in her way.

  Lastly and most importantly; it’d been at least a week since I’d gotten laid by my current girlfriend, or so she calls herself. I however fervently disagree with her description of our non-relationship. The fact is; I use her when I’m horny and in need of satisfying. It’s my go-to method for stress relief. It might make me sound like an asshole, and for all intents and purposes I am. But I’m a fucking man, and I have needs. Needs she’s more than happy to take care of day, or night. That was the only reason I hadn’t openly discouraged her use of the term girlfriend in relation to what we had going on. I’ve never understood a woman’s need to define shit. I’m forty-fucking-six years old, almost forty-seven, the term girlfriend makes my hackles rise, let alone the fact that I’m too old to be referring to a woman like a high school kid trying to get in the head cheerleaders pants.

  And not to put too fine a point on it, but I say “current” because Beth, the woman in question, has started getting fucking clingy, hinting, not subtly either that she wants to take the next step. Fuck knows what that means in woman speak, and she didn’t elaborate, so I’m left to assume she means moving in together, or some such shit that won’t be happening. There’s no way in hell that I’d move her into my house, or bed on a permanent basis, and she should know that about me by now. I don’t hide it, in fact I made, and still do make a point of telling her where we stand, and have done from the very beginning. Regardless of the fact that I’m an asshole, I’m not a complete dick. I haven’t led her on; making her think that this’ll turn into something it won’t. I don’t take her out, on dates, for dinner none of that shit. We drink, we fuck, and she leaves. End of. Nothing more, nothing less. That hasn’t stopped her mind trying to work out ways to get around my lack of interest in commitment.

  Beth’s been a pain in my ass from the beginning. That should’ve been my first clue she was angling for something more than a quick roll in the sheets. However me being me, I ignored that shit and thought with the little head not the big one, agreeing to address her as my girlfriend even though internally I was cringing. But to her credit; she goes down on my cock like a stripper works a pole for tips, doesn’t mind the odd hours I keep being that the MC calls any time day or night for me to sort shit out, and her pussy gets me off. She’s not the best lay I’ve ever had, but she’s far from the worst, and to be honest I’m too fucking tired to be bothered to look elsewhere most days.

  All this means I’ve stupidly stayed with her when I shouldn’t have. I should’ve broken it off a month ago when she started her not so subtle hinting, probing, and asking questions that set my back teeth on edge regarding moving forward. But I didn’t, and now I’ve gone and fucked myself over by not following my gut. Again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Max

  “Is there life after death? Touch my bike and find out.”

  - Biker Guide to Living

  Three weeks ago I fucked a woman, and that woman was not Beth, hence me fucking myself over. I’m not that man. You know the one who cheats with no conscience? Yeah, well that’s not me. I knew it was wrong, but at the time I couldn’t bring myself to care, I still can’t. Even though I didn’t see our non-relationship going places, cheating on Beth was a dick act. One I’m going to have to pay for by having the unenviable task of telling an ex-Devil’s Spawn club whore that has it in her head I’m her forever, not Mr right now, we’re done. As in done. Over. Finished. Don’t fucking beg, plead, negotiate, we’re over.

  Beth’s going to blow a fucking gasket when I tell her, and don’t for one second think I’m noble enough to own up to stepping out on her because that shit just isn’t going to happen. It might make me a dick with an extra scoop of douchebag on the side, but as far as I’m concerned she and I were coming to the end of the road regardless. It’s enough that I’m telling her, I don’t think I need to turn the knife further and make her bleed by admitting my indiscretions.

  I’ve never cheated, and now I’m kicking my own ass for doing it. Not for the reasons you’d think either…

  Honestly that night three weeks ago was the single most mind blowing sexual experience in my life. Or more like five sexual experiences of my life. It was one of those things I’ll take with me wherever I go. It will remain firmly imprinted in my brain for decades to come. And it has to because it was strictly a one-time only deal. Not because I don’t want another go round, I fucking crave one, but albeit I can come up with a fucking extensive list of reasons for a repeat of that night the reasons not to are all the more compelling.

  Getting home after quite possibly wearing my dick out, and that has never happened before, I questioned how I even ended up at her place. How I made it off my bike helping her dismount without succumbing to the urge to bend her over the leather-seat, rip her jeans and panties down burying myself inside her. My self-restraint was legendary if you ask me, because after seeing those firm tits encased in a tight top, ass hugging jeans, and the woman I’ve jerked off to more than I’d like to admit staring at me with fuck-me eyes I managed to hold off. Just.

  That’s another thing I’ve never done; put a woman on the back of my bike. Not Beth. Not my ex-wife. None of the bitches I’ve fucked have ever graced the black hand-tooled leather seat I installed years before. Riding bitch is reserved for ol’ ladies and wives, not one night stands. Why I felt like it was a primal need to feel her riding behind me, her tits pressed against my back, her hair whipping around our faces, her pussy up tight against my ass I don’t know, but I felt it and I went with it. I couldn’t bring myself to regret it either because it felt right. Having her wrapped around me calmed me somehow. Touched a piece of me that hadn’t been touched in decades. The thought alone scared the ever-loving-shit out of me, but I beat it back, and just enjoyed the ride.

  We made it inside, down the hall, and into her bedroom. Somewhere I’d imagined being more than a handful of times when my mind wandered to her, which was often. Somewhere I’ve wanted to be for what feels like forever. We made it there without me kissing her bee stung lips, another miracle. Lips so pink you’d think they’d been painted that colour, but lips I knew for a fact, because I’d watched her do it, that were only coated in a thin layer of some glossy shit. I wanted to taste them, see if the tasted as good as they looked. Wet, plump, and juicy. The desire to sample every single piece of her was so strong I nearly caved, doing the one thing I never did…kiss.

  It might sound odd that a man of forty-six has never experienced his first kiss, but let me assure you, I’ve made up for it in other ways. I’ll kiss anywhere and everywhere that isn’t a woman’s mouth, no exceptions. But no amount of begging me to kiss them has swayed my decision to withhold that part of myself. I hadn’t even kissed my ex-wife, and that includes our wedding day. That day she got a kiss on the cheek and a hard look when she tried to push for more. I’ve avoided taking a woman’s mouth because I see it as more intimate than when I have my cock buried inside them. More intimate than tonguing their pussies. More intimate than fucking their ass.

  My belief has always been that a kiss is only between lovers, something my ma instilled in me before she passed, and for years before I had any interest in girls. Why didn’t I kiss my wife then; truthfully? We weren’t lovers, we were barely civil to each other. I’ve never felt the overwhelming desire to ravage a woman’s mouth, attack her lips, bite down on the lower one tugging it into my mouth, all while tangling my tongue with hers absorb
ing her very essence. Not until now. Now though, I wanted to do all those things, more than once, but I didn’t. I put my lips to the shell of her ear and said,

  “Lead the way, Angel.”

  Shutting the door to her bedroom behind her I scanned the inside automatically. Something so deeply rooted in me to do that I didn’t think I’d ever not check out my surrounding before becoming comfortable somewhere.

  One dark red wall at the head of her bed was the first thing to catch my eye. With the three others being a pale grey colour it was striking, almost too striking, but somehow it worked. Heavy dark timber furniture made up the entirety of her bedroom furniture. A tall chest of drawers, two side tables, a dressing table, and TV stand fit the room like it was built for it. For all I knew it could’ve been. I haven’t seen workmanship this good in years, it certainly wasn’t shop bought, and it was completely unique just like the woman standing in front of me nervously chewing on the corner of her bottom lip.

  Diverting my attention though was the hand painted quilt cover, and matching pillow cases, framed by a mountain of cushions in all shapes and sizes, all of which are strategically placed on a California king bed that can easily sleep ten, not the one petite woman in front of me watching me now with a look of unguarded curiosity.

  The quilt cover is a piece of art all unto its own, the room doesn’t need further decoration with it taking centre stage. Solid black with skilfully painted vines in varying shades of green ranging from the darkest jade to the lightest grass green imaginable. Among the vines there’s a dragonfly in vibrant purple, magenta, and metallic silver. It’s not lost on me the meaning of a dragonfly as a tattooist, and I immediately feel a wave of sadness hit me like a ton of bricks.

  Symbolising the subconscious, dreams, and thoughts, the dragonfly doesn’t have a long life span. It has to live every day like it’s its last. The profound realisation that this dragonfly symbolises everything she’s lived through, everything she’s haunted by, and everything she’s fighting to escape makes me want to turn tail and run. Shit, I very nearly do. But my feet are anchored to the spot, my body remains unmoving as the weight of this new knowledge settles in.

  I don’t do the emotional attachment side of sex. To me it’s straight up fucking plain and simple. I’ve always done it that way, until Beth that is, and my ex-wife, but look how that turned out. And therein lies the reason for my choice to keep it uncomplicated. Without warning a foreign feeling creeps in, slowly piercing my chest, heading directly for my heart. It’s something I haven’t felt before, and not altogether welcome. But I’m powerless to stop it, and a small part of me doesn’t want to. There’s no chance in hell I’m going to take the time to analyse it right now. Not with a warm, willing woman waiting for me, so I push it to the back of my mind, and continue to look around the rest of the room instead.

  There’s a series of five hand drawn sketches framed in heavy timber to match the furniture hanging on the wall opposite the one that’s half taken up by windows. They’re some of the most exquisite pieces of art I’ve ever seen, if I had that much talent I wouldn’t be wasting it like she is that’s for sure. The subject in the drawings is haunting. Captivating. I can’t look away they’ve drawn me in, so much so that I’ve got to take a closer look.

  Stepping forward I can see they’re her side profile. They look like they start when she’s still a young teenager, cataloguing her life up until the most recent one which looks to be at, or around the age she is now. The sorrow on her face is evident, and the pain I see reflected in the inanimate drawing hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. What’s worse is that it’s a look that doesn’t change with the progression of the drawings. It’s the one constant. The one thing that she’s carried with her, that she’s been unable to leave behind. And it’s the only thing she’s chosen to depict with clarity. She’s captured it in time, and hidden her pain in a place I’m relatively certain not many people have seen.

  Another feeling takes hold one that’s infinitely more dangerous. Anger boils deep in the pit f my gut, churning relentlessly at the idea of another man being in her house. In her bedroom. In her fucking bed. Jealousy isn’t far behind the anger, and I know it’s time to move this along to the more enjoyable part of the evening. That or get the fuck out before I do, or say something that’ll have her hating me tomorrow, maybe longer with the depth of anger I’m feeling right now.

  I make the decision to stay knowing that this is both a mistake and inevitable at the same time. I’ve had too much to drink, not enough to hinder my judgement, and she’s stone cold sober, hasn’t touched a drop all night. There was something in the way she looked at the alcohol being served that disturbed me. Not enough to forego my next beer, but enough to call it quits after that one. Something wary passed through her eyes mixed with a healthy dose of distaste. I didn’t ask, she didn’t tell, and to be blunt I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know the details of her life any more than I already do. Shit, that’s already too much, far too much. More than I need to know in order to keep an eye on her, and not a day goes by some piece of her horrific history, or what I know of it doesn’t invade my conscious, fucking me up for hours afterwards. Enough thinking. Enough delaying. I need her underneath me. I need to feel her all around me. I need to own her, even if it’s just for one night.

  Moving to where she’s seated still fully clothed on the edge of the bed I pull her to stand in front of me, using my fingertips to skim the length of her arms. I gently move them over her fingers, before tangling in the hem of her shirt ripping it over her head. Casting the shirt aside I look down at what I’ve uncovered, and suck in a deep breath at the perfection that’s less than an arm’s length away. She’s all mine to touch. To pleasure. To lick, suck, bite, and fuck however I want. Well, for the next few hours anyway.

  She’s not tall like the women I categorise as my type, nor does she have huge tits, again my usual preference, but in this moment she’s more perfect than any woman that’s come before her. Or will come after her. Her tits are barely enough to fill my hands, the skin on her chest leading down to those luscious mounds I intend to have my mouth on soon is creamy white, smooth, and free of ink. I don’t waste time unfastening her black lace bra that’s doesn’t cover a lot, but at the same time hides the colour of her pretty nipples from me. I need to know if they’re the colour of raspberries, or if they’re pale pink like I’ve fantasised about.

  Ripping the offending scrap of lace off her body I watch it fall at our feet, and cup her right breast in my hand firmly, not enough to hurt her, but just enough to plump her soft flesh, lifting it higher so I don’t need to bend too far to take the tasty treat that is her nipple in her mouth. I was right I muse. Her nipples are pale dusky pink, small enough to fit in the slight hollow of my tongue, which they do when I suck it into my mouth without warning.

  The next five minutes is filled with clothes flying, hands grappling to get hold of as much flesh as possible. Mouths, teeth, tongues tracing muscles and flesh. As soon as I have her naked underneath me, her eyes locked with mine, and my hands bracing the majority of my weight off her petite frame I ask,

  “You sure about this, Angel?”

  A flash of something unexplainable crosses her face, but she does well hiding it quickly behind a sweet smile.

  “I’m more than sure.”

  That’s all the encouragement I need to have me plunging forcefully deep inside her dripping wet pussy. She’s tighter than the punishing grip I use on myself in the shower when I need to jack off to ease the ache she’s unknowingly created. Over and over I thrust into her, revelling in every moan, every sigh, and every plea to give her more. And I do. I give her everything I have. I fuck her with the fury of two years of pent up sexual tension, desire, and lust I’ve felt for her. I fuck her hard, furiously. So much so that I’m worried I might just end up hurting her. But when I try to ease back, slow my strokes, she digs her fingernails into my ass cheeks, wrapping her legs around my hips, and arched into me sh
owing me she wants what I’m giving her…nothing less.

  So I give it. I give her my all holding nothing back as I plough into her hot vice like pussy demanding her orgasm, forcing it from her. As her walls begin to spasm they grip my cock with each individual muscle, and I feel her cream flooding her sex, dripping down the length of my shaft onto my balls. Knowing its only a matter of time before I’m coming with her my balls draw up tight to my body, and the tingle at the base of my spine signals I’ve got no chance of holding off any longer. Roaring my release, and her name over and over I cum deep inside her.

  I reach between us putting pressure on her clit immediately sending her flying headlong into climax screaming my name.

  “Max! Oh my God. Max!”

  My thrusts punctuate my words. Words I never use because I’m not someone that likes to talk while fucking, but with her they seem necessary as they’re torn from my throat.

  “Cum. For. Me. Milk my cock with your tight pussy, Angel.” Complying, at the crest of her orgasm her pussy clamps down violently on my cock sending me flying with her as I growl out, “Adelyn.”