Devil's Kiss

by Celia Loren

  A Hearts Collective Production

  Copyright © 2014 Hearts Collective

  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

  Also From Celia Loren:

  Satan’s Property (A Satan’s Sons MC Novel) by Celia Loren

  Crushing Beauty (Harbingers of Sorrow MC) by Celia Loren

  Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC) by Celia Loren

  Wrecking Beauty (Devils Reapers MC) by Celia Loren

  Other Books by Hearts Collective:

  Impossibly (Dante’s Nine MC) by Colleen Masters

  Faster Harder (Take Me... #1) by Colleen Masters

  Faster Deeper (Take Me... #2) by Colleen Masters

  Faster Longer (Take Me... #3) by Colleen Masters

  Faster Hotter (Take Me...#4) by Colleen Masters

  Riding Dirty (Ruiners Motorcycle Club) by Abriella Blake

  DEDICATION

  I'd like to dedicate this book to all the awesome readers :)

  Connect with Celia Loren and other Hearts Collective authors online at

  http://www.Hearts-Collective.com, Facebook, Twitter.

  For information on the latest releases!

  Join the mailing list to receive FREE copies of our new books!

  DEVIL’S KISS

  Widowmakers Motorcycle Club

  A Vegas Titans Novel

  By Celia Loren

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  Prologue

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Eight Years Ago...

  I lean against the white-slatted wall of my parents’ ranch house. The Nevada night is heavy with heat, waves of it still rising from the brush-covered ground. Only the sound of parents’ voices cuts through the thick air, carrying out through the living room window above my head. I don’t know what they’re arguing about, and I don’t really care. Their arguments always seem pointless to me anyway—needless and repetitive. The sound of a glass shattering inside startles me. There’s a short silence, and the yelling resumes, louder now than ever.

  Pushing off the wall, I pull a pack of Camel Lights from my back pocket. I got one of my older friends to buy them for me. I’m still a couple years away from being about to buy my own smokes, but I’m not going to let that stop me. My mom smokes, though both of my parents tell me not to. But I don’t really feel like listening to either of them right now.

  I put some distance between me and the house, take out my Zippo, and light up a cigarette. I inhale, but not all the way. I don’t really care for the feel of the smoke traveling down to my lungs, but I do like the idea of doing something my parents don’t approve of. It’s silly, I know, but satisfying all the same. I ash onto the dirt and carefully stamp out the smoke, making sure to crush it completely. The brush is dry out here—it could catch fire in an instant.

  The low drone of a motorcycle engine signals my older brother’s return. Drew—or Stick, as he likes to be called now—saved up for years to buy his first Harley, working every job he could find. The roaring sound grows louder, and I spot two orbs of light shining down the road that leads to our house. A shiver runs through me, despite the warm weather.

  Drew is probably riding with West, his lifelong best friend. They go everywhere together. Stick is the more outgoing of the two, with a mouth that his body can’t quite back up. West is the one who always finishes the fights Stick starts. West’s mom is a real piece of work, and his dad is long gone, so he doesn’t like to spend much time at home. My family life might not be ideal, but it’s better than his. My parents let him stay with us a lot when he was younger. And now...well, he sure grew up.

  West is only three years older than me, just nineteen, but he looks like a grown man already. He’s constantly surrounded by women. I’ve seen Stick get plenty of girls interested with his personality and his sense of humor, but all West needs to land a lady is one look. I feel like such a dumb little girl around him. I can always feel my face getting flushed, and my dad inevitably catches me and laughs because I can barely look at West, much less talk intelligibly when he’s around.

  Puffing nervously on my cigarette, I pull in more than I mean to. I burst out in a coughing fit, just as the boys arrive. Through watering eyes, I watch the bikes pull into the driveway and hear the engines cut out. I catch my breath and hear the screen door open and shut. Stick will be able to talk my parents down. He’s good at that.

  I take a smaller drag of the cigarette and glance back toward the yawning darkness at the rear of the backyard. A twig breaking by the house snaps my focus back. In the dim light spilling out of the windows, I see West making his way out toward me, walking slowly. I can only see the outline of his body, but know it’s him. He has about fifteen pounds and three inches on my father already, and I don’t even think he’s done growing yet.

  Shit, I think to myself, What do I do? I try to slow my heartbeat, which has already spiked. I aim to look casual, and immediately feel tenser. I nervously run my hand through my hair as West ambles up to me. At least I’m wearing my short jean cut-offs and a cute tank. Could be worse.

  “Hey there, Tiny,” he says by way of greeting. I swallow hard as I feel him stop next to me. This far from the light of the house, I can’t even see his expression. His voice has gotten so deep. Raspy, with a hint of devil-may-care arrogance in it.

  “No one calls me that anymore,” I reply, trying for brave but coming off whiny. Tiny is what my family always used to call me because I was so small for my age. But I grew an inch and a half this year, which puts me...well, still below average height, but at least not as far below.

  “Oh, yeah? What do they call you now?” West asked, amused.

  “Olive,” I say, “You know. My name.”

  “Olive,” he repeats, tasting the word. I feel a little rush at the sound of my name on his lips. “Aren’t you a little young to be smoking, Olive?”

  “I turned sixteen in March,” I reply, attempting to match his cool detachment.

  “Sixteen, huh?” he murmurs. I feel his hand close around my wrist and gasp. He slowly but firmly draws my hand, and the cigarette in it, up towards his face. I’m not sure what he’s doing, but I can feel my blood rushing loudly through my veins.

  He brings my hand up to his mouth and takes a long drag of the cigarette. His thumb strokes the soft inside of my wrist as he breathes in. Time slows down to a crawl at his touch. Lowering my hand, he keeps the cigarette, my cigarette, cradled between his lips. He turns his head and drops the smoke from his mouth onto the dirt, quickly stomping it out with his boot.

  “Hey! I don’t have many left!” I protest.

  “Good,” he growls.

  I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that he still has his hand wrapped around my wrist. I fall quiet at once as a long moment passes between us. In the dark, I feel safe with him beside me. I can feel his gaze on me, warm and lingering.

  He tugs me gently toward him, closing the distance between us. I only come up to his chest, and can smell sweat and fresh air on him. He draws my
arms around him, and I rest them on the small of his back. He runs a hand up my back. I can feel his fingers glance over the clasp of my bra underneath my shirt. My head feels light, and my knees begin to shake.

  He brings his hand to my face, running his thumb over my lips. I can’t help but let them part. My head tilts into his palm as he cups my cheek. He leans down, and I feel like I’m watching the moment from outside my body. I’ve been kissed once before by this guy at school, but it was sloppy and rushed. And when my brother found out, the kid got a black eye and a broken rib. Or two. I can tell this kiss is going to be a whole different experience. A wonderful experience...

  I breathe in sharply and close my eyes just before his firm lips touch mine. I feel his mouth open against mine, and I follow his lead. His tongue presses into my mouth, and my eyebrows raise at the sensation. I’m amazed how good it feels. I let my tongue glide against his, and feel my body heating up.

  I forget any awkwardness and press my body tightly against his. To my surprise, he lets out a low groan, pulling me sharply toward him with both arms. My body lights up where our torsos press against each other and I bury my fingers in his shaggy brown hair. His hands slide down my back, and I gasp as he cups my ass and pulls me roughly against his crotch.

  Whoa, is the only thought I can form.

  “Hey West! Where’d you go, man?” calls Stick from the front of the house.

  West drops his arms and backs away from me. His quick retreat is jarring after feeling him so intimately against me. I feel like I’m emerging from underwater, and the cold air is a shock to my system.

  “Be right there!” West calls back.

  We look at each other for a moment. West runs his hand through his hair. “I...” he begins. He glances toward the house and Stick, then back at me. After a moment, he turns toward the house and walks away.

  Fuck. I watch his retreating figure, an inky blot against the light of the house. I turn and kick the dirt in frustration.

  Stick is so ridiculously overprotective of me. Sometimes he acts more like my dad than my older brother. Maybe that’s because my dad isn’t really much of a dad, but still. Stick shouldn’t interfere so much. No boys have so much as asked to borrow a pencil from me at school, ever since Stick beat up the kid who gave me my first kiss.

  My anger at Stick recedes, and I remember the good part of what just happened. I smile and touch my lips with my fingertips. West just kissed me. West just kissed me! And it was good. Really good. And I know he enjoyed it, too, by the rise I felt in his jeans when he pulled me against him.

  I take a deep breath to compose myself and brush my hands through my hair. With a smile still plastered on my face, I head back toward the yellow lights of the house.

  Chapter One

  Olive

  Present Day

  McCarran International isn’t too busy on this Friday night. There are only a few people in the taxi line as I exit the automatic doors from baggage claim. The warm September air hits me as I cross the threshold, erasing the AC-induced goosebumps from my arms.

  Eight years living in New Hampshire did nothing to accustom me to cold weather. If anything, I hated the cold more every year after moving there when I was sixteen. Even in the early fall here in Vegas, the temperature still hovers in the 70s. Back in Concord, some of the leaves are already beginning to change. I do have to give the Northeast credit for that, the foliage is spectacular. That’s something I’ll actually miss.

  I struggle to pull my two rolling suitcases with me as a cab drives up and the attendant signals me forward. Thankfully, the cab driver helps me stow everything away in the trunk, and I slide into the backseat with just my purse.

  “Where you headed?” he asks, slipping back into the driver’s seat.

  “West Clayton,” I say and give him my old home address. It’s about a twenty-five minute drive, and I know Stick would’ve picked me up this morning, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity to surprise him by coming home early.

  I open the window as we hit the highway and feel the breeze blowing through my hair. I haven’t been back to Nevada since my dad’s funeral three years ago, though Stick has visited me in Concord since then. I was so worried that Stick and I wouldn’t stay close when my mom and dad split up, but we managed. If anything, the divorce made us even closer.

  Of course, I understood that he wanted to stick with the Widowmakers, the motorcycle club that he and West were prospecting for, and I couldn’t see being a teenage girl without my mom. So, he stayed here, just outside Vegas with my dad, and I moved east to Concord with my mom so she could start a new life where she’d grown up.

  But now, I have good reason to move back West to be with my brother, and it’s not just the warm weather.

  The wind picks up a piece of my hair and it flips into my lip gloss. I pull it off and roll the window up a bit, fetching a compact out of my purse to study my face. Makeup looks good. Subtle, like I’m not trying too hard—which is quite a feat, since I am, at the moment, trying to look as good as I can.

  I haven’t seen West since I moved to New Hampshire eight years ago. When I came back to visit or for my dad’s funeral, he was still serving in the Marine Corps, but he’s been back for a couple years and he and my brother are now living in my childhood home together. Roommates again, just like when we were little kids.

  I’ve inquired as subtly as possible with my brother about West’s current romantic situation. He’s not with anyone seriously, but he’s still doing just fine in the lady department. Which doesn’t surprise me one bit. That kiss we shared as teenagers in my backyard is still burned into my memory. I’ve been with my fair share of men since then, but there was something about that night that I’ve never been able to let go of. West and I never talked about it after, nor did we share any other kisses. It turns out that my parent’s fight that night was one of their last. They soon decided to split up, and I was never able to get West alone again before moving back East.

  West and Stick decided they wanted to enlist about a year later, though Stick was disqualified from service because of his asthma. He encouraged West to go ahead with it, and their friendship picked up right where it had left off after West returned. Those two have always been inseparable, after all.

  Before I know it, we’re pulling onto my old street and the cab driver stops the meter. I peer out the window at my childhood home, which looks smaller every time I visit, and of course the lights are all off. Stupid. What made me think my brother or West would be home on a Friday night? So much for my plan of surprising him and West by knocking on the door looking impossibly fresh after a long plane ride. Well, no point in waiting around here for them to get home. I have a pretty good idea of where they might be tonight.

  “Um, you know what? I’m just going to drop off my bags, and then if you could take me into town, that’d be great,” I say as I open the door. The cab driver shrugs and starts the meter back up again.

  I ditch the bags around the side of the house for now, since I don’t have a key yet. It takes me two trips to get them hidden behind a bush under my old bedroom window, but I think they’re safe. I return and flop into the back seat once more.

  “Where to now?” the cab driver asks, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.

  “the Black Rock,” I reply.

  He turns in his seat for the first time to look at me directly. “You sure about that?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t really look like the type of girl—”

  “I’m sure. Thanks, though,” I reply with a smile, and he backs off. I’m sure his concern is valid. The known biker bar is notoriously popular with all the motorcycle clubs in the region, the only civilians who go there are looking for trouble.

  I take my compact out of my purse again, nervously studying myself in the mirror. I duck down in my seat and lift up my boobs a little to maximize cleavage. I look down to check—probably as good as these B-cups are going to get. My leg shakes up and down as my nerves start up. I won
der what it’ll be like to see West again. I wonder if he even remembers that kiss.

  We pull into the main drag of West Clayton and I watch the signs for the Black Rock. He slows down and I peer around. Ah, there it is. Of course its main entrance is in an alleyway. The cab driver is right to be nervous—it looks like a total dive from here, and I’m guessing it won’t improve the closer I get.

  Reluctantly, I take a look at the meter. Shit. I better find a job here quickly, because I don’t have that much money saved up. I fish my wallet out of my purse and pay the cab driver with a smile. He looks at me nervously in the rearview but doesn’t say anything more.

  I sling my purse over my shoulder and take a deep breath before shutting the car door. Here goes nothing. I walk down the alleyway, stepping carefully over cigarette butts and what I really hope is a puddle of water...but judging by the smell, most likely isn’t. I pause before the black door, listening to the muffled sound of “Bad Company”. My dad always liked to listen to that song, before he drank himself into an early grave, that is.

  Pushing the door open, I take a step inside and let it swing shut behind me. A burly, bearded man is standing just inside. I’m about to reach for my ID, but he looks me up and down, making me blush, and waves me in. I look around, stepping lightly. A long bar spans the length of the left wall, and a bunch of couches are set up on the right side of the space. In the back right is a pool table, and behind that, a partially curtained off area with some tables and chairs.

  I scan the dimly-lit place, looking for my brother. It’s packed, and most people are looking pretty loose already. A bad-ass looking biker stands up from one of the couches, licking his lips as he eyes me up and down lasciviously. Oh, great. I quickly head toward an open space about halfway up the bar and slide onto a vacant, vinyl-covered stool.