First Ride (The Slayers MC Book 1)

by Tara Oakes

  The man being attacked begins to struggle in the other’s clutches, so I grab for the massive arm that holds him tight, trying to free the weaker guy.

  “Let him go!” I call out to the mystery man who’s got the upper hand.

  It’s no use. My pulling does nothing to ease the death-like grip the guy has on his opponent. His arm is like steel, his restraint unbreakable. The choking man below struggles and kicks his legs, clawing and clambering at the rock-hard muscles constricting around his neck.

  “You’re gonna kill him!” I try once more to force the arm away.

  “Angel!” The deep grumble lets out, this time cast over his shoulder when he speaks to me. “Get the fuck back inside. Now!”

  His voice is different, but I recognize it as my state of confusion begins to sort itself out. I immediately release my hands from Dawson’s enormous bicep and step back.

  “I said get inside!” He whips his head aside, eyeing me over his shoulder.

  His dark eyes catch in the moonlight and I can see they’re wrought with anger. I swallow hard, backing slowly up the cracked cement walkway and up the two steps to my front door.

  I never take my eyes off him as I watch the sheer violence he exults on the stranger in his grip. Fumbling with the door’s latched handle once I feel it behind my back, I manage to blindly open it and slink inside.

  Immediately, I turn on the tableside lamp next to the sofa and crawl up the worn upholstery of the used couch, propping myself high enough to see out the window. Holding the plastic mini blinds open I stare at the beating taking place outside.

  Every punch elicits a wince from me, every kick delivered begs me to look away, but I can’t. The raw energy and animal-like strength is certainly enough to kill if not seriously maim the unknown victim falling to the ground, yet it doesn’t, as if it’s used in some way to avoid that terrible finality.

  Just when I think it’s impossible for a man to endure any more brutality, Dawson issues one final kick to the other man before throwing him forward, away.

  “If I ever see you lurking around here again, I’ll fucking kill you, you stupid fuck! Now go! Get the hell out of here!”

  My eyes widen as I watch in disbelief when the wounded man somehow manages to walk, barely run away, down the moonlit street. My breath rattles gently through the plastic blinds, causing them to vibrate the slightest bit while I press my face up as close as I can to witness Dawson’s shoulders rising and falling quickly as if out of breath from all the exertion.

  His back faces me, standing guard while the running man’s shape becomes smaller and smaller, fading, the farther he limps away. Blue-hued luminance dances on his broad, bare shoulders and his smooth, sleek back, with dark tattoos swirling over his skin, showing shadows where his bulging muscles taper.

  Blinking hard, I study his form, his stance, strong and unyielding with a balled left fist still clenched on guard. His right hand hangs differently, holding something, an object I didn’t manage to see before.

  For a moment, a brief moment, he’s frozen in place like a statue, a gargoyle of sorts perched outside offering grotesque protection by way of brutality just as I’m frozen in place unable to take my eyes off the raw physicality of his body, now knowing just how dangerous it can be.

  As if he feels me watching him, I see the muscles of his back tense, tighten, his head moving aside, showing the strong angle of his jaw.

  Like a child afraid of being caught, I jump back, abandoning the window, now fully focused on the front door, waiting as the seconds stretch by for the savage man to enter. I find that I somehow seem to dread it as much as I crave it.

  The moment Dawson enters the apartment, all rugged and sweaty, a cold chill runs up my spine and I feel my skin prickle with goosebumps. The worn, thin, black tank top I wear offers no warmth and the rough tickle of the fabric against my now tight nipples is quick to follow.

  He doesn’t say anything, nor do I. His chiseled chest takes deep breaths as he calms. Reaching with his left hand he swipes at the bead of sweat trickling down his neck. His eyes are still dark, on alert. He catches me studying them and I quickly look away, casting my eyes down where they lock on the object in his right hand, the one I couldn’t make out in the dark.

  It’s a gun.

  I hear myself gasp lightly as I register the deadly weapon and how he holds it familiarly, as if it’s an extension of his arm.

  “You okay?” He asks, his voice oddly controlled.

  I shake my head. Am I okay? I’ve just seen a man nearly beaten to death. Could anyone be okay after seeing that? Strange enough, I’m not concerned about the bloodied man driven away or the effect of me having seen it first hand. My attention for the moment is solely focused on the shredded, raw, knuckles on Dawson’s hand.

  “You’re hurt!” I somehow forget about the dangerous firearm held in his other palm and approach him, reaching for his battered fingers. I take hold of his scorching hot flesh and inspect the damage. “Here,” I pull him, leading to the kitchen sink, turning on the tap and forcing his hand under.

  He hisses as the cool water makes contact, washing away the blood staining the old white sink red as the drops swirl and spread toward the drain. He doesn’t fight me, he doesn’t protest other than the heavy breathing and teeth grinding as he bears the stinging.

  After several moments the water runs pink instead of deep crimson and I know the worst is passed. The pipes squeak and squeal as I turn the claw-like handle to shut the valve to the faucet off. The nearby dishtowel will have to do as I reach for it and use it as a makeshift bandage, applying pressure and pressing it in against my chest to stop the bleeding.

  The tight ripples in his forearm, the tense weight of his arm, lessen as he accepts me tending to him. I feel the lava like heat of his body inch closer as he reaches to release his hold of the black shiny gun on the countertop on the far side of the sink.

  His breathing tickles against the loose wisps of hair struggling to stay put behind my ear. I can somehow feel his impressive height standing tall against my back as our bodies touch. I feel the denim of his jeans scratching against the bare skin on the back of my thighs below my tight sleep shorts. I feel the drying sweat on his washboard stomach sticking to me like glue, dampening the threadbare cotton of my tank.

  My lips part, my eyes close, as I inhale, breathing in the deep musk of him as it offers some deep, primal, knowledge of him.

  Neither of us moves. I haven’t felt a man this close to me, eliciting this kind of reaction from me in the longest time, maybe even never. Subconsciously, my breathing slows to match his, syncopating. I feel his massive chest rise and fall under the back of my shoulders, somehow now perfectly molded as if our bodies have melted together.

  I’ve been careful not to look too long, to think about him too much, knowing that there was something in him that had an unspoken power, not being able to put words to it; I just … felt it. Ever since the moment I first saw him, barging into the dressing room at the club the other night.

  There’s a roughness to him, an edge. One so sharp it could cut.

  He’s dangerous. I’ve seen it. I know it. And yet… I want it. Against every bit of common sense and rationality in my body, I want it.

  “I thought Sasha was gone. I forgot she was at Lana’s,” I whisper, not knowing if he even cares.

  I don’t know why I just said that. He doesn’t know her, doesn’t owe us anything. I immediately feel foolish.

  “It’s not safe for you two here,” his voice is low, shallow, as if he’s confirming something to himself more than to me. “If I hadn’t been here tonight, if my bike hadn’t caught his eye, he could have looked for something else to steal, Angel. Something else to take.”

  “I know,” I close my eyes, conceding to the truth. “No one’s ever done something like that for me. Why do you keep … trying to help me?”

  The bleeding of his knuckles must have surely stopped by now, yet I continue holding his cloth wrapped h
and close to me, lost in my own thoughts. The rough yet gentle movement of his free hand, sliding across my stomach, my waist, catching on the fabric of my top before his calloused palm slips under it and splays out on the bare skin of my navel, makes me bite my lip.

  My breath catches as I’m held close to him, wrapped in his powerful arms.

  “There’s something about you, Angel. Something I’ve never seen in another person before.” I feel his mouth nuzzle into my hair. “Something in your eyes. I’ve only ever seen it in the mirror, looking back at me. A raw determination. No expectations, knowing you can’t count on anyone but yourself. Fierce stubbornness. I don’t know why, but I don’t want you to feel that. I don’t want that for you…”

  “You don’t even know me,” I quip, fighting against my own words, pulling his arms to tighten around me.

  His fingers clench into my flesh possessively as he grips, not seeming to be able to hold me tight enough against him. I feel every inch of him, every bit of his body; the strong pulse coursing through the protruding veins of his arms, the soft hairs of his chest pressed against me, the hard bulge down low between his legs.

  I have nothing to compare this to, to equate this with. He’s towering over me, cocooning me. I should fight it, I should repel it.

  But I can’t.

  I want it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DAWSON

  She has no idea how close I came tonight. A part of me wanted to snap that little fucker’s neck in my hands, to watch him crumple down to the ground taking his last breath.

  Probably drunk and high, considering what neighborhood we’re in, he picked the wrong apartment to fuck with. I was just barely falling asleep when I heard the rumbling outside, grabbing my gun to check it out.

  The asshole was drunk as hell, circling around my bike, trying to figure out how the hell to take it.

  But that wasn’t what did it. That wasn’t what got me to the point of rage where I wanted to take the man’s life. He didn’t see me at first as I left the dark apartment to beat his ass, moving quietly down the worn path from the door.

  That’s when I saw it.

  That’s when my blood began to boil more than ever before.

  There, on the side of the front walkway, to my right, was a plastic little doll thing. A dollhouse. Some toy left out by Angel’s niece after playing. That’s when something snapped.

  The thought of the little girl, and of Angel, living in such a fucking shithole where drunk motherfuckers like that one were doing shit like he was doing. That woman whose eyes seemed to mesmerize me being caught up in shit like that where men like this could hurt her, could hurt the kid, it did something to me.

  It ain’t right.

  A person like Angel, who’s doin’ nothing but the best she can, sacrificing so much to help her niece, to help her ma, shouldn’t have to live in a place like this.

  Sure, I know it happens all the time. Sure, I know it’s none of my fucking business. I shouldn’t even give it a second thought, but I do. She’s got no one, got nothing. And it fucking hurts.

  Like someone slicing me up and pouring salt, it fucking stings to know she’s got it like she does. The first night I ever saw her, hit across the face in that dressing room, that’s when it first started. I didn’t know nothin’ about her then; where she lived, or how bad she had it. Even then, something made me want to protect her, to shield her from shit.

  Right now, holding her against me, clinging to her as if I need it just as much as I think she fucking does, it seems to make sense for the first time. I got no clue why but I just know I need to protect her, to prove her wrong that no one in life could actually do that for her. I want it to be me.

  I want her to look at me differently than she does everyone else. Maybe because she’s the only one who doesn’t want anything, expect anything from me. Maybe that’s why I want her to have everything, because she doesn’t think she can.

  Fuck, I’m a lost cause, far beyond saving. Maybe that’s why I want to save her.

  I breathe her in, she smells so fucking good. I hold her tight, she feels so fucking good. She’s so little, fits perfectly against me, my arms closing her in. I’m not a good person. I’m not a good man. But, she makes me feel something other than the numbness and the shit I’ve grown used to. She makes me feel alive, like her being safe and happy could somehow radiate its way onto me. I need it. I need her in order to feel that.

  Her body quivers in my arms, under my touch. I don’t need many things in life. I need my club, I need my bike, and I need my brothers. Other people, broads, can come and go and I wouldn’t bat an eye.

  But somehow, right now, with her in my arms, I feel for her what I feel for the core things in my life I can’t live without and I have no fucking idea how it happened. I only know that I don’t want it to go away.

  The fact that she may not feel the same doesn’t even register. I’ll make her feel it, make her see me the same way I see her.

  My fingertips begin moving on their own, kneading the flesh of her tight stomach, trailing over her silky skin teasingly. I look down over her shoulder and see the dark shadow welling between her tits, moving and expanding quickly as she begins to breathe faster with my touch.

  Her neck stretches, bearing a patch of flushing skin speckled with shades of deep pink. An urge takes hold and I pull her in hard as I bend my head to feast on her delicate neck. My tongue swirls and traces along the slope, tasting her. She moans but doesn’t move, doesn’t budge, as I hold her captive in my tight embrace.

  My tongue traces its way up to the soft drop of her earlobe and I take hold, sucking and pulling on it with my teeth. Angel lets out a deep sigh and I feel her knees buckle. For sure she would have fallen to the cold, hard kitchen floor if not for my arms. In one swift motion, I toss her up and around, catching under her thighs and pulling her in so they spread on either side of me, hugging my waist with her legs.

  Her eyes look down at me as I hold her up, with her tits nearly popping out of the black top and spilling into my mouth. She watches me, wondering what’s happening but not doing anything to stop it.

  I bury my head between her breasts kissing and slurping at the mounded flesh, moving between one tit and the other, coercing them fully out of the fabric with nothing but my lips and my tongue.

  Her hands hold tight to my neck, bracing herself as I walk blindly through the small room to the door I’d seen her escape through earlier last night. Her body with its small curves and hot skin is light, bouncing with each step I take. Her perfect tits dance playfully in front of me as I bob for them, catching them and pulling on the tight nipples peaking high, releasing them with a hollow popping sound as I reach for the other, back and forth.

  Her breaths are heavy and deep, with hot air flowing over me every time she exhales. Not more than two steps into her darkened bedroom and my legs touch the frame of her bed.

  I feast on her as she pants, neither one of us wanting for me to let go, but I do. Somewhere between gentle and not, I let her go, falling to the bed as I follow. There’s a window somewhere, I don’t know where exactly, but rays of moonlight fall perfectly, casting onto her face.

  Her eyes are huge, watching, needing me. My forearm rests near her face and I stretch my fingers out to touch her cheek, pushing aside a stray strand of hair. Her eyelashes flutter as my fingers make contact with her glowing skin and the simple little motion does something to me.

  Those deep eyes of hers hypnotize me, capture me, but I force myself to look away before it does something I’m afraid of. I see her lips, plump and swollen, parted as she breathes heavily and I lower myself onto them, taking them with my own.

  Kissing’s more of a chick thing, but I swear her lips taste like they’re coated in sugar. Sweet, delicious. I want more. I take more.

  My mouth is bigger than hers, covering and prying her soft lips open until I’m deep in the center. She wriggles under me, moving to free her hands and they skim up my side causing me to
shiver from some unseen electric current.

  Once she reaches my shoulders, her fingers grab hold behind them, sliding into place behind my neck. Her tongue is strong, silently pleading with mine to continue, her neck lifting off the soft pillow following me as I pull back.

  “Dawson,” she whispers as I release her mouth.

  I feel a rush of blood down to my already swollen cock at the sound of my name passing her lips. “God, baby. Tell me you’re on the fucking pill?”

  Her eyelids fling open, full of regret. She slowly shakes her head no. Closing my eyes, I hate that I’ll have to settle, not being able to feel her the way I want to, the way I need to.

  No time to fucking waste wishing for what isn’t.

  My hands move roughly, each taking hold of the hem of her shirt, lifting high as she helps wriggle free of it. Her perfectly round and smooth tits bounce on full display, each nipple taught and tight.

  Flattening my hand, I pass my palm over just the tip, hovering over the nub of one, feeling it brush against my own skin every time her chest expands while breathing.

  Each second of contact makes her eyes tighten more, until she arches her back and fills my now cupped hand with the supple flesh.

  “Dawson,” she pants again as my thumb and forefinger toy with the rounded peak.

  My other hand throws off the now useless towel wrapped around it into the shadows of the corner of the room and begins to work the buckle of my belt. The clinking metallic sounds cause her eyes to fly open and stare at the show in front of her as the leather strap falls to the side.

  “Shhh,” I tease her, releasing her tortured nipple and using the back of my fingernail to stalk a line up through her cleavage, over her pounding heart, her neck, up to her neglected lips where I skim circles around the velvety pink border with the pad of my ring finger.

  The muted pop of the button on my jeans coming undoing excites her and she surprises the shit out of me by opening her perfect mouth and latching onto my finger, nearly swallowing it whole.