by Cathryn Cade
"You don't talk?" he asked, his breath warm against her cheek as he bent his head to peer at her.
She turned her head, compelled to meet his gaze. She'd known already it was him, the tall, bearded blond biker, but still his nearness gave her a shock of pleasure that traveled deep to her core.
This close, he was even more compelling. His eyes were a cold, clear blue, like shadows in glacial ice. His skin was tanned and weathered by sun and wind, his beard outlining a wide jaw that spoke of bone-hard determination, his mouth a full, sculpted curve that said his formidable will was tempered with sensuality. The crinkling at the corners of his eyes spoke of humor.
"That's okay," he told her. "You don't need to use those lips to talk, blazhinka. We'll find other uses for them."
Well, that was certainly frank. And somehow, coming from him, the words were exciting instead of off-putting. Did he mean the 'other uses' she thought he did? And why did the mere thought of putting her mouth to those uses make her want to do them?
"Come on." He put his free hand on her waist, and urged her through the path that somehow formed for them, around the corner of the bar. Sara walked with him into the shadowed hall and along it to a door at the far end.
When it closed behind them with a thud, Sara turned to him. "Wait—I don't even know you," she said. "I mean, I know you're a biker, and a Flyer."
She gestured at his vest, which he had already pulled off and tossed on the big easy chair in one corner of the room. The only other furniture was a huge bed and a bureau with various manly accoutrements jumbled on the top.
"But I don't know your name." Or his occupation, family or if he liked any of the same things she did ... and she did not have sex with men who didn't fill those requirements. She just didn't.
He gave her a look that said he didn't believe she didn't know his identity, but he didn't care.
"Call me Ivan," he said, and pulled her against him. His big hands were warm and sure on her waist, and then her ass.
Ivan? Wait, she'd heard that name before, and if her head wasn't swimming with alcohol and his nearness, she'd remember. "And I'm Sara, not ... whatever you called me," she added.
He shook his head, his gaze on her mouth. "Blazhinka means blonde, that's all."
Oh, my, he was of Russian descent. He must be a friend or brother of the club president. When he repeated the word, it rolled off his tongue with an exotic rhythm. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him to say something else in Russian.
But he was done talking, because he bent his head to one side and in until his face was all she could see, his warm breath puffed against her lips, and then he kissed her. Holy heck ... he might as well be kissing her in Russian, too.
It certainly had a profoundly different effect on her than the last man she'd kissed. Of course he'd been a polite, smooth-faced lawyer. And more into her than vice versa, which was why Sara had stopped him after one kiss.
This ... this was like being enveloped by a tsunami of big, hard-bodied, whiskered, musky, pure 100% male. Maybe it was time to give up her list of careful requirements, and go with a man who purely turned her on.
Thus, Sara, for the first time in her life, did that. She went with what her heart wanted, what her body craved. She tipped her head back and let him kiss her. His lips were soft and warm, his beard and mustache tickling, then scratching a little as he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth to take command.
And she let him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
And then, drunk on his kisses—and the drinks swimming in her veins—she let a virtual stranger use his big hands to tug her stretchy top and bra down around her waist, his eyes devouring every full curve he bared. Then he used his hands to show her how much he appreciated her willingness to let him.
"I like your big, round tits," he told her, plumping them in his hands and pinching her nipples, which were already tight, pink rosettes of arousal. "Pretty. And your hair. Are you the same color downstairs?"
Since he sucked a nipple into his mouth, she clutched his head and arched into his grip instead of answering. Oh, God, his mouth was so hot and wet and his tongue—holy heck, why hadn't a man ever done that before—sucking hard and using his tongue as a lash of pleasure, his facial hair as a tickling tease in counterpoint? She wanted him to never stop, she wanted more.
"You don't tell me," he said, letting her nipple pop from his mouth, his blue eyes sly. "I'll just have to see for myself."
He took her other nipple into his mouth and tugged her skirt and panties down in one firm, expert move. Sara gave a squeak of shock, her belly tightening.
He drew back, and gave her mons a long, assessing look, one that she swore she could feel like a brand between her thighs. "Milaya blazhinka, all over," he approved. "I like this too."
“You do?” she asked breathlessly. “Why don’t you show me how much?”
“Impatient?” he asked her, his gaze traveling back up to her face. “Good. So am I.”
He took off his shirt, because she tugged it up under his armpits, nearly wrestling him for the right to get her hands on his broad, hard, satin-skinned chest, and explore the glory of golden hairs curling across it and down in a darkening trail that led over his hard abdomen.
This close, she could see that the tattoos on his right arm were of a grinning skull surrounded by strange assortment of automotive things, those on his left a marauder of old, with luxuriant beard and mustache, a carved helmet on his head, crossed weapons before him.
She wanted to taste his skin, but then he cupped her bare pussy with his huge hand—those hands made her feel lush and feminine and delicate, not too big, too curvy as she usually did—and she threw back her head and made a sound she'd never uttered in her life. A soft, yearning, female sound.
A sound that he drank as he laid her back on the bed and surged over her, forcing her open thighs wider, his fingers rough and knowing as he plumbed her wet, silken depths.
"Tight," he approved. "I like this. And so wet for me."
Sara might have blushed at his graphic talk, but he forestalled her in an incredibly effective way, by stroking the pad of his thumb over her clitoris, and she made the sound again. Oh, God, those rough fingers felt amazing.
He made a deep, approving grunt in his chest, and withdrew his hand. He unfastened his faded jeans enough to don a condom with quick, expert moves, and pushed the head of his cock into her swollen vulva. He planted one elbow beside her shoulder and thrust his other hand underneath her bottom.
"Da," he grunted, pushing harder. "That's right. Let me in. Take my cock."
"Oh, my God," she mumbled. "You're ... huge." And it had been so long since she put anything inside her besides her vibrator or a tampon that his size, heat and urgency made her want to scream with excitement tinged with fear. She clung to his big, hard, shoulders as he came down over her,
"This is good," he told her, forging deeper. "I'll make you come so hard you'll beg for more." His accent had thickened in a way she found so incredibly sexy she wanted him to go on talking to her. She was fairly certain she could orgasm on his voice and his cock even if he didn't move.
"Your ego is even bigger than your penis," she told him, but now he was deep inside her, and he felt so amazing she forgave him for raising one brow in a clear challenge as he palmed her ass, yanking her up tighter against him.
"You'll beg," he told her. And then he began to move.
"Never," she assured him, even as his huge cock raked delicate tissues and erogenous zones she hadn't known she possessed.
"Da. You will." Then he shut her up by kissing her, and began to move in long, hard strokes that proved his point. And when she was clinging to him, flushed and damp and more excited than she'd been in her entire life, he stopped. Sara dug her short nails into the hard muscles of his shoulders, writhing under him, but he held her still, even though his eyes glittered with lust and he quivered in her grasp like a stallion ready to buck.
"Now," he
growled. "Beg me to finish you."
And she did, completely unabashed at pleading for the orgasm that was nearly, nearly in reach. "Please, Ivan. Oh my God, please."
With a grin of triumph that made him look even more the marauder she'd imagined, he thrust his arms beneath her knees, lifting them high and to the side until she was helplessly impaled on his cock, and began to move again, fucking her with a force that was nearly savage in its intensity.
Sara took it and reveled in every single thrust. Her pussy convulsed around him, and she came so long and hard she wailed and clung to his massive, sweat-dampened shoulders, digging her nails into him again, this time for traction.
He stiffened in her arms and gave a deep groan of completion, his lean hips moving in short, jerks until he stilled, his head hanging, his face on her bare breasts. His breath was hot, his big body relaxed.
Sara felt loose, liquid with pleasure and so giddy she wanted to giggle, and maybe she did a little, quietly.
Guess she had found a biker man, after all. And after she just enjoyed the glow for a little while, they could talk. And get to know each other verbally, 'cause that was important if they were going to be doing this again ...
As he lifted away from her, Sara let her body relax into the big, comfy bed and sank into the torpor of alcohol and sex.
* * *
Stick Vanko slid off his bed, yanked up his jeans far enough to walk, and moved into the small bathroom beside his room. He disposed of the condom, cleaned himself off and fastened his jeans. For the first time in days, he felt calm, relaxed.
Whoever this blonde was, she was an enthusiastic fuck. Although not nearly as experienced as most of the women who came to the club looking to get some biker cock. Her look of awe when he pushed into her tight pussy had made his chest swell with pride.
And the way she'd begged him to make her come ... the memory had his cock twitching in his jeans again. He walked back into the room, and grabbed his shirt from the floor, then looked down at her.
She looked like she'd stepped from one of the old-time calendars, with her lush curves, her lips swollen from his kisses. Her pale blonde hair looked good spilling over his dark sheets, too. And she smelled fresh—clean, a little sweaty from the hot evening, but her hair smelled of meadow flowers and she lacked the heavy, musky perfumes most of the club hangers-on preferred.
Maybe he should wake her up and put those lips to use on his cock while he guided her with his hands tangled in her thick, silky hair. He'd be nice, and use his hand on her wet little pussy again so she'd come too.
He was about to toss his shirt down again when a heavy hand pounded on his door. "Stick! You in there?"
His brothers knew better than to interrupt him with a woman unless it was important. He strode to the door and opened it.
It was Rocker. Unusually, Stick moved, positioning himself so his Vice President couldn't see the woman lying naked in his bed. "Yeah? This better be fuckin' important."
Rocker's lips twitched. "More important than fucking, you mean? Sorry, but it is. Streak and some stranger who looks like he might be a gang-banger are squarin' off, and knives are out."
Hell. "They better not be near any kids." There were families here.
"Nope. Around the north side, by the fence—kids know they don't go out there."
This was true. The north end of the compound was off limits to anyone but the brothers. A gravel sweep, loading docks and a privacy-fenced area with plenty of space for whatever a motorcycle club might want to store out of sight of curious passersby, this was where cargo trucks came in and out, and accessed the garage where they worked on their bikes.
The brothers also knew better than to get into fights while there were families on the compound. Any blood was spilled, they'd either have to hope no one talked, or call the sheriff themselves. And with what was hidden in one of the north storage bays right now, Stick did not need the law sniffing around.
He moved to grab his cut, leaving his shirt on the floor and Rocker standing in the open doorway. Stick shrugged on his cut, leaned down to smack the blonde on one full, bare hip. "Blazhinka, up. I got shit to do, and you need to leave."
Then he strode from the room, passing Rocker, who now had his eyes averted from the room, and a strange look on his tanned face, as if he didn't know whether to laugh or curse.
"What?" Stick demanded.
His VP shook his head, lifting his hands in negation. "Nothin', bro. Not a thing."
And Stick forgot about it as he moved through his clubhouse, what was left of the crowd parting before him like grass before the wind.
CHAPTER NINE
Most of the partyers had spilled outside to enjoy the dusk. But while music still poured from the huge speakers, no one was dancing except for a blonde in a bikini lost in her own world—strung out on something from the look of her. She wasn’t an old lady, and she wasn’t hurting anyone else, so not club business.
Stick and Rocker strode on, along the back of the building and around a wall to a graveled drive before two big closed truck-sized doors.
Flyers, and women formed a loose ring. In the center, two men faced off, scowling faces bruised and bloodied. One was Streak, a young recruit from the Tri-Cities with his curly brown hair scraped back in a messy knot above his cut. He had blood running down one arm. Streak had left the Tri to get away from the constant territorial warfare between the Rattlers and the biggest, baddest, Hispanic gang, the Angelinos.
Looked like that trouble had followed him here. Streaks' opponent was a small, lean Hispanic not wearing a cut, but with a red bandanna tied around his head over a ponytail, and crude gang tattoos down his bare arms.
"Pendejo," Streak spat. "You can just slink your ass back home and tell your homies that I'm a Flyer now. Don't have to put up with your shit no more."
The Hispanic sneered. "Puta. You think you can hide from us in plain sight? Think again. I found you, so will mi hijos. I go home with your blood on my knife, I'll be a hero."
Stick shoved people out of his way to move into the circle. "Look around you, asshole," he ordered, his deep, rough voice breaking their standoff.
He stepped up beside Streak, his gaze on the stranger. "You use that blade on one of my brothers, you think you'll be goin' home at all?"
The stranger sneered, although his gaze fastened on Stick. "You won't do nothing to me. Everyone knows the Flyers don't make a move that the law won't approve."
A rumble sounded from the bikers circling the area. Stick's skin rippled with adrenaline at the anger charging the air. The women watching were hustled back, out of the line of danger, and the ring became a cage of pissed-off brothers.
Stick bared his teeth. "The Flyers answer to no one, pendejo. We're just not as stupid as the Rattlers. Although you're no Rattler."
He moved to stand midway between the two men, eying the stranger's ink. "From your ink, you're an Angelino, maybe allied with the Snakes, maybe not. Regardless, Streak is off limits to you. You wanna get out of here in one piece, you'll say your adios and walk away ... while you still can. 'Cause at this point, anything happens to you? It's just my brother here defending himself against an outlaw ganger who pulled a knife at a family barbecue."
"Truth," Streak called. "Everyone saw you pull your blade first." He pulled his sleeve up to reveal a shallow slice across the outside of his triceps. "And if I wasn't fast on my feet, I'd be bleedin' out right now. You weren't aimin' for my fuckin' arm."
"I say we just gut-shoot him," Bouncer offered in his cigarette-roughened voice. "Cut off his little pecker, send him back to the 'cities in a bag. A message to his gang not to come up here and mess with us."
The ganger flinched, and Stick laughed, deep in his throat. "Nyet, we'll let him go home by himself ... this time."
"Si, I'll go," the ganger said, gesturing in a last show of bravado. "But I'll be back, with mi hijos."
To Stick's left a loud snick signaled a round being loaded into the chamber of a shotgun.
"You do, best be wearin' full body armor," Toro, a Hispanic brother built like his namesake bull, called. "'Cause the Flyers don't take kindly to threats, puta."
The ganger glared at him. "Qué chingados! You side against tu hijos?"
Toro growled. "Besa mi culo, puto. You ain't mi hijo. You're surrounded by mi hijos."
"Now drop your blade," Stick ordered. "Before Toro fills you full of buckshot, and Streak carves you up like a banty rooster."
The ganger was sweating visibly now, his bravado all that held him upright. Finally, it was getting through his thick head he was in danger of more than a slice or two. Fuck, these gang-bangers were bone deep stupid, believing some ink and a colored scarf made them invincible.
The Hispanic managed one more sneer, but opened his hand and let his knife fall to the gravel. It was a switch with a cheap, gaudy case.
"Now you ain't so tough," Streak said, advancing on him. He kicked the knife out of the way and then flew at the ganger, punching him first in the face and then in the gut, solid blows that sent the smaller man reeling backward, his heels scrabbling in the gravel. He swiped blood from his nose and mouth and spat a hate-filled stream of Spanish at Streak.
Streak advanced, fists clenched for more, but Stick called him back with a grin. "Enough, brother. We want him in just good enough shape to drive his ass back where he came from."
Stick looked to the brothers blocking the way to the parking lot out front, and they stepped aside to let the kid through their ranks. Bouncer and Toro followed him away around the club house, Toro with the shotgun at the ready.
Stick turned to Streak. "Get that cut seen to. Tomorrow, we talk."
Streak nodded, his jaw set, face pale but his gaze direct in a way Stick liked. The recruit knew he was in for a reaming, but he'd take it and learn from it. Stick clapped the younger man on the shoulder, and watched him walk around to the kitchen, where Knife would have the first aid kit out.
