Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance

by AJ Downey

  “Umm hmm,” she agreed, still watching his face. Beautiful.

  “I’m Hurley.” He gave her a chin lift, and then he unfolded fluidly and stood next to her, so close she could feel the heat rolling off him. “I’m with the Rebels out of Fort Wayne, but they use me to slog shit here and there” –he swung an arm out, indicating the van behind them– “such as food and amenities for hen’s parties in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

  Rolling her lips between her teeth, she clamped down on them and nodded. Say something, she thought, you’ve been around men like him all your life. Why has this hermoso gringo stolen your voice, chica?

  “Normally when one person of a group or gathering introduces themselves, it’s courteous for the other parties present to reciprocate,” he said with a grin. “Let’s try this again, honey. Hi there, I’m Hurley.”

  Cheeks blazing again, she dropped her gaze to the ground. Forcing her mouth to open, she took in a breath, and then said softly, “Mela. I’m Mela. Carmela, actually, but my friends call me Mela. Like mellow, but with an aah sound. Mela.”

  She heard him move and saw his feet step closer, that heat raging hotter all along her body. His voice deepened, growing husky as he let the sounds of her name roll off his tongue, “Mela.” She darted a glance at him, saw he was looking down at her with a soft smile on his face. “My pleasure, honey.” His hand gripped hers and for a moment, the scene in front of her was gone and in the place of the beautiful young gringo her mind showed her a sweating, older Mexican man, hands reaching out to grasp her wrists. With a jolt, she jerked free and closed her eyes, opening them just in time to see him take a step back, probably assuming her reaction was to his touch. Which it was, just not in the way he imagined, not a rejection of him, but of her memories. “So…” his voice trailed off uncertainly, then picked back up, the look on his face lost in the shadows now, “you said dinner was ready?”

  She nodded and before she could say anything he reached behind her, bringing out and putting on his cut. Then, carefully not touching her, he closed the van door before wordlessly turning and walking toward the fire. Away from her and her fears, leaving her standing alone.

  Trailing him after a few minutes and rejoining the group, she accepted another slug of liquor and took a plate of food from Jess, who slipped in sideways for another quick hug. Hands full, she leaned into the gesture, both women laughing at the awkward embrace. “Wasn’t sure if we’d see you and Brandy. I hear from Slate that her business is booming.”

  Mouth full of food, Jess nodded wildly, then swallowed and grinned. “She’s doing so well, but I always knew she would. Little piece of genius, my woman. Hooked my wagon to a rising star, ya know.” She paused for a moment, and then gestured casually. “So…what happened at the van?”

  “Hmmm?” She lifted her plate and nibbled on the chips piled on the edge. Working one into her mouth without the use of her hands, she grinned around it at Jess, and then, mouth still filled with chip, “Wha chu mean?”

  “Hurley came over here in a hurry like he was all manly he-man pissed off. I figured he tried to hit on you and you swirled him. Boosh, down the drain.” Jess giggled and pretended to press a lever with her middle finger. “Salute…and…boosh, take your swirly, mister Hurley.”

  Shaking her head, Mela opened her mouth, but was interrupted by that same shiver-causing male voice. “She got an eyeful, then ice princessed on me, Jess. I suspect my package didn’t meet inspection.” Turning, she saw Hurley had walked up behind them, brat in one hand, and a beer in the other. “But maybe it was the label instead. Guess the lowly prospect never had a chance, huh, princess?”

  God, she hated that term. Mela actually felt her chin tip down and knew a scowl had settled on her face. “Don’t talk about what you don’t know, pros,” she said coldly, turning away.

  “Ohh. Ice burn,” Jess joked, sliding her arm back around Mela. Shuffling her feet, she turned them in a circle, laughing when they were again facing Hurley. Staring, he lifted his beer and drank, eyes never leaving her face. Mela felt Jess’ arm drop away and heard her say, “Well, alrighty, then.”

  “So, enlighten me, princess.” He kept his voice low, apparently not intending anyone else to hear him when he asked, “Why’d you freeze up? Surely you’ve seen everything right? I’m not that hard to gawk at, am I?”

  Looking up, she was again struck by how damned good-looking he was, even in the weak light of the fire. “You already know you’re easy on the eyes, pros. I just didn’t mean to burst in on you like that. Everyone deserves some privacy,” she said, her tone matching his. “But, I couldn’t imagine how anyone could sleep through all the noise this crew was making so I thought maybe you were sulking in there.” She glanced around the clearing, a half-smile on her face as she watched Jess dragging Brandy into the space between their tent and the fire, pulling her close to dance.

  “It bothered me that they said you had to stay in the van,” she admitted, glancing up to find him still watching her intently. “I just…I don’t know…wanted to tell you it was okay to come out. That you didn’t have to. Stay in the van, you know? You were free to come and go as you please.”

  “And that really mattered to you.” He sounded surprised and she nodded. Shaking his head, he said, “As you’ve pointed out, I am only a lowly prospect.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she lied and saw his chin come up.

  “Yes you did, princess. I get it; trust me, after the past year? I get it, putting me in my place.” He turned to look away from her, then back. “Prospect is on my back, but the club is in my blood, and my name isn’t prospect, it’s Hurley.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry. For opening the van without making sure you were ready, and for insulting your standing in the club. The Rebels trust you to keep their old ladies safe,” she said, gesturing out at the groups of women sitting, dancing, or reclining on blankets talking. “That tells me you are more than ‘just’ anything to your club.” Tipping her head toward her friend, she indicated Ruby. “Right there is your chapter president’s woman, but more than that, she is his life, taken from him once before. For him to trust her to you means something.” Turning to look at Mica and Molly, she tilted her head that way, then turned to look at him. “I know what those two mean to your national president.” She noted how serious his expression had turned, eyes locked on her face as he listened closely to her words.

  “Each of those women is important to someone in the club, your brothers.” Putting down her plate, she turned, looking toward the edge of the clearing, where the woods began. “This is a secluded location, and it’s true that nothing about us being here has been publicized, but your national president clearly holds you in some esteem, because you are here” –she swept a hand out to indicate the women– “with all of them. Their lone protector for the weekend.”

  “I didn’t think about it like that.” He shook his head. “Should have, but all the politics that go along with prospecting into a club kinda muddy things. They’ve had me shuffling between Chicago and the Fort, so it feels like double the pressure because I’m trying to please two chapters. It’s almost more than I can think about sometimes.” He shifted his feet, his voice low as he muttered, “I’ll head back to the van. Thanks for the insight, Mela. Food for thought.”

  At her name coming from his lips, she drew a breath. “Wait,” she blurted, and then paused, suddenly awkward because she didn’t know what she had intended to say.

  They stood like that for a moment, and then he tilted his head and held out a hand. Not overtly, so everyone would notice, only slightly extending his arm, tilting his palm toward her. “Wanna talk some more?” At the invitation, she reached out, slipping her hand into his, letting his large hand engulf hers, and following him as he pulled her toward the shadows by the van. He opened the door and they settled side by side in the opening, Mela shifting back far enough to bring her legs up while Hurley retained possession of her hand.

&n
bsp; “I’ve never seen you around the clubhouses.” He spoke quietly, threading his fingers between hers. The non-question didn’t surprise her because only a few people knew what her affiliations were. She shook her head. He continued, “If you aren’t club, then why are you here?”

  Lifting her gaze to him, she answered his question with one of her own. “Do you know the story of how Slate came to the Rebels, and how he got his name?” At his headshake, she drew a breath, and then said, “It’s one hell of a story, and you should ask him about it sometime. How he came by his name, granted by his president on the day he first wore his own prospect patch. I factor into it in a small way, muy poco, very small. Everything happened so long ago, it seems nearly a dream sometimes. A nightmare, but so long ago the edges are all worn and it can no longer hurt me.”

  He made a noise and tugged at her hand until she turned to look at him, waiting. “You know Slate well?” he asked, and she nodded.

  “He saved me,” she said quietly.

  They sat there in silence for a minute, his thumb stroking slowly back and forth across her knuckles, then he asked, “From what?”

  Shifting sideways, she tugged, gently pulling her hand from his grasp. “From the time I was small, my father and uncle disagreed on many things about me. Over the years, their argument escalated until I wound up in a dangerous place, surrounded by dangerous men. Men who were there for business, of which I was a part. Slate, who I still call Uncle Andy, rode to the rescue of a frightened and impressionable young Mexican girl, forced too quickly into adulthood. That is how I know these women” –she folded her hands in her lap– “because while my association with the Rebels may have started with Slate, it continues through my friendship with his woman and with Mason. He and my father have worked together often in the past few years, and I hold a Rebel challenge coin, giving me free passage into or through any territories your club claims.”

  Digging into the front pocket of her jeans, she pulled out a coin larger than a silver dollar, handing it to him. She watched as he turned it back and forth, looking at both sides of the heavy metal disc, then held out her hand to retrieve it. He placed it in her palm, his fingers trailing along hers sensuously. “Tell me how you came to be here?” Affected by his touch, she had to firm her voice as she asked the question, pushing the Rebel token back into her pocket. She wasn’t sure if she would receive a real answer because some men came to the club through paths they preferred not to disclose. Hurley is not one of those men, she thought, as she listened to him.

  “Mom left me and Dad when I was about five,” he began. “My dad’s best friend was a Rebel. Well, he didn’t start out a Rebel, but the president of their club folded it in years ago, so he got grandfathered in. Dad and Diablo, his friend, and Winger, the president, worked on bikes in Dad’s garage until the Rebels bought it to run their own show. By then, I was working in the shop every day after school. Just wrenching, nothing fancy. Nothing at all like Bear can do. That man is amazing.”

  She murmured, “I’ve seen some of his work. Very nice.” Bear and Diablo were names with which she was familiar, and Winger, married to DeeDee at the time, was a man she had known well. Lockee, their daughter, was only a little older than she was, so the two girls were thrown together whenever there was a meeting involving family. Winger and Lockee died several years ago in a car wreck, and it still startled her to think that bright, vibrant Lockee would never grow older. Lockee would never meet and marry a man she loved, never bear his children. All the things any girl hoped to experience, now an impossibility.

  “Yeah, nice is an understatement. Being around the guys made me realize that the club, being a member, was something I wanted. More than anything, I wanted it. Mason made me wait until I was legal to officially prospect in, but now I’m nearly at the nine-month mark, still going strong.” In the darkness, she saw him move and then saw the glint of his teeth as he smiled.

  “So you’re twenty-one?” Mela was surprised at her disappointment, he looked older and acted more mature than most of the boys her own age.

  “Twenty-two now,” he said, that glint of smile shining at her again. “My birthday was yesterday.”

  “Seriously?” She sat up straight and he reached out and placed his palm on her back, supporting her confidently. “Your birthday was yesterday? That deserves some cake or something. Some kind of celebration.” She placed her hand on his forearm and leaned forward, intending to brush her lips across his cheek, “Happy birth—“ she began, interrupted when he turned his head and pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes dipped closed of their own volition, and her small gasp of surprise must have seemed like an invitation because his mouth opened, his tongue boldly trailing across her bottom lip. The kiss ended slowly, Hurley pressing his lips to hers twice, gently working her mouth before putting his cheek to hers. Bad idea, she thought, bad idea. Terrible idea. Breathlessly she finished, “—day.”

  She felt the supporting arm slide further around her back as his other hand came up, sweeping the hair off her neck so he could dust kisses up the column of her throat. “Mmmm.” The noise he made in the back of his throat was low and sexy, and she couldn’t help shivering again. “Thank you,” he murmured, kissing her jaw– “for the” –moving back to nip her earlobe– “birthday” –lips back to her jaw, he kissed up to her mouth– “wishes.”

  The heat from his hands traveled up and down her arms, the sensation trailing the path of his palms moving over her skin. Her neck arched and he accepted the silent invitation, pressing hard, openmouthed kisses along her jaw and back up to her mouth. This time when his tongue teased along her lips, she opened to him, feeling that same shiver work its way up her spine as he swept into her mouth, possessing her. Lips working, he tangled his tongue with hers and she felt his hands shifting her closer as the kiss deepened.

  Her hands were twisted, one in his shirt, winding helplessly, trying to pull him closer, and the other twined in his hair, threading through and cupping the back of his head demandingly. Plucking at the piece of leather that tied his hair back, she released it and his hair fell around them, creating a silky curtain that swayed with their movements.

  She felt the muscles of her stomach jolt and lurch as one of his hands slipped underneath her shirt, the backs of his knuckles brushing along her ribs. He broke the kiss and pressed his lips to the side of her head, his breathing as ragged as hers when he said, “Mela, don’t tell me to stop, please God.” His hand rose along her ribs, thumb stroking the side of her breast and then across her already hard nipple over the fabric of her bra. “Want you,” he muttered, palming her breast and plumping it, slipping his fingers inside her bra to tease her bare skin.

  “Yes,” she breathed and he made an eager noise in response, easing her back onto the mattress, propping himself over her on an arm as he reached down, bringing her legs into the van. With one hand, he grasped the handle, and she watched the wedge of light from the fire grow smaller, narrowing and then finally winking out of existence as the door closed. Eyes stretched wide, she found there was just enough light filtering in through the windows to see his silhouette where he knelt between her feet. From the tilt of his head, she knew he was looking down at her, so when she felt his hands on her ankles, she didn’t jump.

  Wordlessly he tugged her boots from her feet, slipping the socks off and tucking them into each boot, setting the paired footwear aside. Stretching his hands out, his fingers found and worked the fastening at the waistband of her jeans, pulling them open and sliding them down her legs. He bent her knees to remove them, taking her panties at the same time and laid her clothing next to her boots. Reaching out, he grabbed one of her hands and tugged, pulling her into a sitting position. Reaching around her and under her shirt, he worked the fastener on her bra, and then took her shirt and bra off, laying them next to the rest of her clothes.

  Totally nude, bathed in the limited light shining through the windows, she sat in front of him, waiting, feeling her eagerness begin to retreat as t
he moments ticked past without him touching her. She crossed her arms and was startled when he said, voice low and forceful, “Don’t cover yourself. Let me look at you.” Dropping her arms, she fought the urge to bring her knees up, but she wanted him so badly by now that she was afraid of doing anything that would cause him to stop. In the end, desire won out over inhibition and she waited in silence, legs bent in front of her, arms at her sides. “Fucking gorgeous,” he said in that same low, possessive tone. “Blinding me, you’re so beautiful.”

  Moving slowly, he took off his cut, folding it carefully. Then with quick movements, he stripped off his boots and jeans, tossing his own clothing thoughtlessly aside. Reaching up, he swept his hair from his face and back with one hand, tilting his head and reaching out, seeming to take forever until he touched her. He cupped one hand over the top of each foot, tugging them open and pulling her toward him. “Lie down, honey,” he said softly, running his hands up the inside of her legs and back down, his thumb stroking up along the arch of each foot. “Lay back; let me make you feel good. Let me make it good for you, honey.”

  His reverent tone and the contact, the soothing trace of his hands across her skin gave her the courage to do as he asked. His hands stroked higher across her ankles, then the inside of her knees, sweeping down then up farther, then frustratingly back down. She lost the heat from his hands for a moment and then trembled as his thumbs, palms, and fingertips again trailed up and down her skin. Delicious torture, because she longed for his touch but couldn’t predict the path his hands would take, so her quivering anticipation was constant and kept her on edge.

  Rising on his knees, he bent over, lowering his torso and then his mouth was on her inner thigh. She sensed his breath ghosting across her skin and gasped at the first bold swipe of his tongue across her pussy. With a groan, she lifted her hips, chasing the sensation; he chuckled, deliberately sliding his fingers up and down the folds and she felt the smooth glide, the touch of his work-roughened hands soft as spun silk against her skin. “God, honey,” he muttered, lips brushing across her flesh as he spoke. “You’re fucking drenched for me.” With a shift in position, he lapped at her, teasing her clit out of its hood and sucking that bundle of nerves into his mouth.