by Violet Blaze
Glacier's tongue slides against mine, firm and demanding, slow at first and then … faster. Harder. Almost frenzied.
Holy shit.
My mouth feels like it's on fire, flames licking at my lips as Glacier kisses me with a startling amount of passion, alternating between strong flicks of his tongue against mine, and nibbling my lower lip. He takes me to the edge of pain with his teeth, pulling back at just the right moment, just before drawing blood. With his hands bruising my hips, the hard bulge of his cock pressed up against my panties, I'm lost in a whirl of sensations.
It's almost too much and yet … not nearly enough.
Saint slides his hands up my bare back and undoes the clasp on my bra, keeping his mouth busy with mine as the lace falls forward against his chest. Suddenly, his hands are just there, lifting up the heavy mounds of my breasts and making me cry out.
The noise doesn't startle him like I thought it would. Instead, it seems to encourage him as he rubs his thumbs across the painfully stiff points of my nipples, sending these electric thrills through my body that steal the breath from my lungs.
I'm breathing so hard and fast right now that it feels like I've just run a marathon, sweat pouring down my skin as Glacier slicks his hands across my flesh. His touch is just as harsh and unforgiving on my breasts as it was on my hips, pushing me back to that edge as I dig my nails into his shoulders.
He seems to like that, dropping one hand down to cup my ass, burying his fingers under my miniskirt and using his grip on me to encourage the movement of my hips.
I let Glacier pick the pace, gyrating my hips against his jeans as he palms my breast and kisses my mouth in a way that tells me definitively that I was right. This man, he's not an emotionless psychopath like everyone thinks. Not at all. There's so much unbridled passion in his touch, in the flick of his tongue, in the way his hips rise subtly to meet mine.
Glacier reaches between us and pops the button on his jeans, shoving the denim out of his way so he can free his cock. He grits his teeth as he does it, like everything about this moment is painful.
I lean back and tuck some blonde and red hair behind my ear, several long strands escaping and teasing that fine space between my breasts and Glacier's hardened nipples.
My eyes flicker up to his as I lick my lower lip and watch him reach over to grab a condom between two fingers. Without saying a word, he hands it to me and then just sits there staring, waiting for me to take it. My hands tremble as the tiny black package slips from his fingers into mine.
Please let me get this right, I pray as I tear the corner of the condom wrapper and slide the sticky ring into my fingers. I want this so bad right now, more than anything. In the back of my mind, I feel guilty, like somehow I'm betraying my mom by doing this. But I can't stop. I don't want to stop.
Glacier leans back, putting his inked hands on the dark red comforter, still watching me with those gorgeous eyes of his, like the sky on a clear winter day—swirls of silver, gray, and blue. Lube smears across the whorls of my fingertips as I look down through a curtain of my own blonde hair and find Glacier's cock arching thick and ready from the open fly of his jeans.
He's big, I think. But then, I've only ever seen cocks in porn and YouTube videos and stuff, never in real life. Maybe he's just normal? I don't fucking know.
“You can leave, you know,” Glacier says mildly, almost like he doesn't much care either way. There's this sharpness to his voice, though, this razor-thin edge that feels like it's slicing shallow scars all across my heated skin. “If you want to get up and walk away, you should do it now.”
“I don't want to walk away,” I whisper, voice hoarse and raspy and weird. I don't even sound like me anymore. My eyes lift to find Glacier—Saint—watching me. I like his real name, even if everyone else here finds it ironic. “I want to stay.”
My gaze drops back to his cock, to the clean, circumcised head and pale shaft. I can't see his balls; they're still tucked inside his jeans. I want to, but I'm too scared to touch him that intimately, like he might still spook and throw me back on the floor if I do.
Is this what he's like with other girls? I wonder as I drop my shaking hands between us and fumble stupidly with the slick surface of the condom. Does he stare at them like this? Get all hot and edgy and weird like this? Or is just me that does that to him?
Finally I manage to slide the round circle over the tip of Glacier's dick, rolling the latex into place with my fingers as I feel every muscle in his body stiffen around me. It's like the room goes cold and hot at the same time, gets quiet and loud, flickers light and dark. Glacier's just sitting there, stiff as a board, leaning back like he doesn't give a fuck and then …
Those hands are back at my hips, curling under the waistband of my panties.
“Take them off,” he whispers through gritted teeth, pushing me from his lap only slightly less forcefully than last time. I manage to keep my feet, glaring back at Saint and wondering why, when he's being such an asshole, I feel like the aggressor here.
My panties drop to my knees and then I struggle to wiggle them over the thick leather surface of my motorcycle boots, kicking them away and then standing up tall and straight and proud.
“Come here,” Glacier says, holding out the tattooed hand with the word BURY on it. Carefully, oh so carefully, I place my fingers in his, feeling a shock of bright heat curl down my arm and into my chest.
This time, he helps me straddle his lap, settling me over the thick curve of his shaft and holding me in place by my hips. I'm tall enough that I can just barely feel him brushing against the throbbing wetness between my thighs as I stand there with my heart thumping in my throat, my eyes focused down on Glacier's blue ones.
“I must be fucking crazy,” he mumbles under his breath, pressing his hot lips to the smooth skin of my breasts, sucking my nipple into his mouth as I curve my fingers in his blonde hair and tug him against me. He lets out a low warning growl and bites down hard enough that I cry out. “Last. Chance.”
“I already told you—” I start and then Glacier's grabbing me around the waist and flipping me over onto my back on the dorm bed. He puts a palm on either side of my head and stares down at me, jaw clenched tight like he's angry about something. But that heat in his eyes? That kind of emotion can't be faked. “Do it,” I whisper because I'm ready. Beyond ready. And there's no other man in the world I'd want for this moment.
Glacier reaches down and takes hold of his cock, pressing the slick condom covered head against my folds. In that last brief second of being a virgin, he looks up at me and smiles wolfishly.
One quick thrust and the moment's passed, my back arching off the bed as I gasp and see stars flickering across the ceiling. There's no way Saint could have possibly known I was a virgin—and no way in hell I was telling him—so he mounts me hard and quick, thrusting his muscular body into mine with the most guttural sounds I've ever heard.
It hurts … and it doesn't. I want to ask him to slow down, but I'm afraid that if I do, he'll spook, pull away and leave me with this raw ache that needs to be filled.
“Saint,” I whisper because like this, feeling him inside of me, he can't be cold, unfeeling Glacier, the enforcer for the Alpha Wolves Motorcycle Club. No, like this, he's Saint Nordin, the man beneath the monster. “Saint.”
I pull his head down to mine, crushing our lips together and squeezing my lids shut tight against the tears as I spread my knees wide and embrace this new feeling of sharing my body with someone else. Saint moves fast and frenzied, like he can barely hold himself back from the edge of violence, like all of that easy, cool control he had before is gone.
His tongue shoves its way into my mouth, his lip piercings brushing against me as we kiss. He tangles a hand in my hair and pulls hard. He's supposed to be the experienced one here, but it feels like he's completely out of control, fucking me with hard, angry thrusts.
Pain and pleasure mix together, confusing my brain, drawing these sharp, aching gasps from m
y throat as I dig my fingers into the hard muscles of Saint's back, pulling him to me so I can press my mouth into that tender spot between his shoulder and neck. I hide my face from him as he grinds against me, dropping a hand to cup my ass, pushing deeper into me.
My heart is thundering so loudly that it's drowning out everything but the rough, rasping sounds from Saint's throat. My eyes are squeezed shut, tight as I can get them, and my body is nothing but a confused, aching mess with needs and wants that seem to be at direct odds with one another. Saint's body hurts, but I have to have it. I have to.
The headboard bangs against the wall and the mattress creaks beneath us for long minutes. I'm not sure how long it lasts, but then Saint's inked fingers are on my face, pushing my head back so he can look down at me. My eyes pop open and our gazes meet.
Saint's muscular body tightens above me with an orgasm, his hips moving with the final thrusts as he shudders and pushes into me a few last frantic times. When he's finished, he rolls away from me immediately and stands up, disappearing into the bathroom without looking back.
I take a quick moment to catch my breath, gather my shirt and bra from the floor, and leave before he notices the bright red smear of blood on my thighs.
I'm kneeling in the garage of Wolf Cycle Service and Repair, trying to fix a foreign bike with missing parts that the idiot owner bought off the internet. The wiring's a mess; the man who brought it in tried to fix everything himself and none of the other guys will touch it. Personally, I enjoy the challenge. In here, in the quiet dark of the shop, there's a right answer and a wrong answer. Either something can be fixed, or it can't. There's no guesswork involved, no emotion.
In here, I don't have to pretend to feel … anything.
I pause and lift my head up, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps. Even over the noise of clinking metal, purring engines, and laughter from the break room, I know who's coming. I know all my brothers by sound alone. It's not as hard as you think, really. Maybe if the other Wolves spent less time talking and more time listening, they could do the same damn thing. They all think I'm some sort of tactical guru, but that's not it at all. While they're all busy fucking, feeling, and fighting, I'm watching from the shadows.
The monster is watching from the shadows.
“Do you have a minute?” Jack asks as he slides into the darkness of the garage, leaving the aching brightness of the sun behind him. I glance up at him, at the frown buried in the darkness of his beard. Jack's the treasurer of the MC, a seasoned old-timer … and Serenity Westbrook's father.
Serenity.
Just the movement of her name sliding through my skull makes me feel fucking insane.
I blink past the thought, trap that feeling beneath the layer of ice that covers my soul, and rise to my feet, tugging a rag from my back pocket and wiping the grease from my hands. My lips curl up in a smile, but not because I'm excited to see Jack. I don't get excited about anything but the chase, the hunt, the kill. But a smile's expected out of me, so it's a smile I give—even though I'm almost certain that Jack fucking hates me.
“What can I help you with?” I ask with manufactured cheer, wondering if the man's finally found out that I fucked his only daughter. Images of that night flicker through my mind, and I almost frown. It's been a month and I'm still puzzling out what happened in that goddamn dorm room. Sex is … I've never liked it. What's the point? It doesn't do anything for me, doesn't make me feel anything at all. I tried it once or twice in the past because it was expected of me, but I just don't get it.
Or … I didn't until Serenity.
My mouth twitches and I tilt my head to the side to stare at Jack.
He frowns back at me, but I don't think it's because he knows I took his teenage daughter's virginity. If he did, he'd probably try to kill me. It wouldn't work, of course, but I don't want to see him try either. I'd have to incapacitate or kill him and that wouldn't go over well with the club. I need this; there's no other place in the world that I'd get patted on the back for being a monster.
“Royal wants to see you in the chapel,” he says gruffly, still staring at me like he wishes I'd never patched in to the club. Jack thinks I'm weird; most of the brothers do. I think the only one that likes me at all is the president and even then, that's questionable. If we hadn't gone to high school together, he'd probably look at me the way Jack does.
“Better hop to it,” I say, making myself smile again, big and wide and stupid. It's like, if I don't make the expression exaggerated, then I can't do it at all. Slow, subtle, little smiles just don't take; they slide right off of my fucking face. “What's the damn redcoat want now?” I ask as I toss the rag onto the bike and follow Jack outside.
“Dunno,” he says, getting out a cigarette from the pocket of his cut and doing his best to ignore me. “Didn't say.” Jack shrugs his shoulders, the leather of his vest crinkling with the motion. I focus on the word Treasurer sewn above the single pocket, and then glance up at his face again. He gives me a look like he wishes I'd die in a horrific motorcycle accident. I'd like to see how much worse that look would get if he knew what I'd done with his daughter. If I was capable of real smiles, I'd probably smile at that; Jack is a fucking asshole.
“Well,” I say with a sardonic grin, “let's find out, shall we?”
The president of the Alpha Wolves Motorcycle Club is some Brit named Royal McBride. He might be foreign and far too emotional for me to truly understand, but he's one of a few souls on this earth that I have half a mind to listen to. Really, he's my only friend. Maybe. Or maybe I don't have any friends? I'm not sure.
“Saint,” he says as I let myself into the chapel—the semi-sacred place where the club holds all its meetings. The old building sits behind the clubhouse, surrounded by the towering trunks of ancient redwood trees, the entire interior drenched in the smell of tobacco. Doesn't bother me, but it doesn't thrill me either. I don't smoke; what's the point in that? Like sex, it doesn't do anything for me. Not a damn thing at all.
Royal sounds tired, looks tired. He's sitting in his chair at the head of the table, one elbow resting against the wood, fingers curled in his dark hair as he examines some documents laid out in front of him. When he glances up at me, his brown eyes are dark as pitch, the skin of his face tense with stress.
“Now, don't you look awful,” I say, trying to keep my voice normal, pleasant, conversational. It takes so much. Too much. And my brothers wonder why I prefer to be alone. It takes a lot of goddamn energy to keep up the facade. “Didn't you just get married?”
The man takes a deep breath and sits up straight, leaning back in his chair, his black hair falling across his forehead as I make my way over to him, curling my tattooed fingers around the back of the chair to his left.
“And that's the only bloody reason I'm not throwing my body off a bridge,” he says with a tight smile as he looks over at me … and shivers. I seem to have that effect on people. I don't know why. I'm not out seeking violence, searching for victims with hungry, smacking lips. It's not even that I really like hurting people. It's just, I don't dislike it either. I've found my niche, and I'm sticking with it. Besides, torture is like art. The canvas is the human body, the paint is blood, and the brush is a hammer … a knife … a pair of pliers.
My brothers might not like my particular set of skills, but they need them. That's why I'm here, wearing this vest covered in patches, the word Enforcer stitched into the leather above my pocket. I'm an officer in the Alpha Wolves Motorcycle Club, right hand to the president. My name is Saint Elias Nordin, but everyone calls me Glacier. I kill people for a living.
“Any news for me?” he asks, trying to be subtle. Failing. In his voice, I can hear it.
Royal's afraid of me.
Basically, everyone is.
And they should be.
I am a dangerous, dangerous man.
“Nothing,” I tell him, and in that single word, I can hear a hint, a whisper of emotion. See, I'm not emotionless; it just
takes a lot to get through to the man inside, a boy named Saint, buried deep, half-dead, always fighting to get through the layer of ice above his grave. I wasn't born this way; I was made. It's unfortunate, but it happens. “The man's almost as stubborn as you are.”
I try to lighten the mood with a joke, but Royal just purses his lips even tighter. Guess I shouldn't joke about torture? It's hard to know what I'm supposed to do in any given situation and I've been trying my whole life.
“If you want to get up and walk away, you should do it now.”
I hear the sound of my own voice playing in my head, and it stokes that little ember, the one burning deep, deep down inside of me. I feel myself grit my teeth before I can stop the motion, and Royal's brows shoot up.
Fuck.
Fuck Serenity.
That girl … I tried to get rid of her, but she wouldn't go. She. Would. Not. Go. And now I feel like something's off inside of me, like something's just not goddamn right.
Deep, slow breath.
“He won't talk, Royal, and let me assure you, he's a weak man. It's possible that he just doesn't fucking know anything.”
I watch apathetically as my boss shoves the papers off his desk with a snarl, mouth twisting into a sneer as he rises to his feet. I wonder sometimes what it'd be like to be that emotional. If it's this exhausting just trying to pretend, I can only imagine. It sounds fucking awful.
“So you're telling me that Miguel Saldaña, the leader of the Saldaña Cartel, doesn't know anything about his own supply lines? Bleeding hell, Saint. We need this information.”
“I know we do,” I say because lately, things have gotten weird around here. The club is standing at a precipice; one wrong move and we all fall. Everything's resting on me and my craft, on the shoulders of my monster. “I'll press hard tonight, but if I do, that's the last chance we'll get.”
“Then do it,” Royal snaps, running his fingers through his hair and looking me straight in the face. “Take care of it, Glacier.”
