Torched: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  Then he stops rubbing me, takes his hand from between my legs.

  “What?” I breathe. My chest rises and falls rapidly. Beads of sweat cover my skin, my forehead and my cheeks and my arms and legs.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, his voice low, throaty. “You’re not getting away that easy. I just want to feel it. Stand up so I can take off those tights, you sexy little thing.”

  I know that this is my chance to stop it. If I want to stop it, this is my only opportunity. Once I allow him to take my tights off, it’s game over. If his hand felt like that through tights and panties, I know that it’ll be impossible to fight him when he’s touching my bare pussy. Maybe I should stop it. I don’t know him. I only met him tonight.

  But I’m standing up before I give it any real thought. I’m horny. That’s the truth. I’m so horny for him right now. My panties are damp and my clit is engorged, aching to be played with.

  Killian wastes no time. As soon as I am on my feet, gripping the rail of the cart so I don’t fall out of the side, he yanks my tights down around my ankles and then pulls at my panties. They snap away from me and he drops them on the floor of the cart.

  “Oh my god!” I squeal, as the panties ping away.

  “Don’t sit down,” he commands. That’s what it is, a command. He uses the same tone of voice he used in the restaurant. Business. Carry on. I’ll deal with it. At those words a dozen gnarled, hardened bikers snapped to attention.

  “Why?” I reply. There is a tremor in my voice, but it’s a tremor of lust. I want his hand on my pussy again. I want his fingertip against my clit.

  “I want to see that beautiful fucking ass when I make you come.”

  Then he reaches around me and presses his finger against my clit. With his other hand, he grabs my ass cheeks, gripping the flesh so hard I know there will be handprints on my skin tomorrow morning.

  “You’re so sexy,” he breathes, rubbing my clit, hard. “You’re so damn sexy.”

  I know instantly that this is a man who is familiar with women’s bodies. He does not search for my clit; his finger goes to it as though he is metal and my pleasure spot is a magnet. He doesn’t hesitate before grabbing my voluptuous ass; he sinks his hand in without pause.

  I stand facing away from him, hands clasping the edge of the cart. He sits behind me, one hand wrapped me around to my pussy, the other playing with my ass.

  “You’ll come for me,” he says, matter-of-fact. Not a challenge or a threat. Just a boss telling me what’s going to happen.

  His middle finger slides between my lips and presses down on my clit so hard it hurts a little. But just a little. Otherwise, it is pure white-hot pleasure. He moves it back and forth, the friction like a tongue, licking, licking.

  “Fuck—fuck!” I cry, gripping the cart so hard my knuckles turn marrow-white.

  “Good,” he grunts.

  His hand grabs at my ass, pulls the flesh and then releases it. “Your ass is fucking beautiful,” he says.

  All the while his hand is moving between my legs like a piston, back and forth, back and forth. Soon, I can’t feel his hand, not really. All I can feel is a deep center of heat inside of my pussy, a center of heat which expands outward until it consumes the entire lower half of my body. My knees shake, knock together. Thought deserts me. I know only one thing: his hand between my legs. Even my ass, being grabbed and pulled, seems distant.

  The heat builds and builds, and somewhere faraway I think: This is Killian O’Connor. This is the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs. He is tattooed and a bad man and this is wrong. This is so wrong and yet it feels so right.

  “Good girl,” he comments, his hand moving so fast now his arm is a blur.

  I rock with the movements of his hand, writhing forward when he goes back, back when he goes forward, grinding his hand like it’s a cock. My pussy has never been this wet. That’s not an exaggeration. I’m hot and soaking. I grind his hand and he rubs me, showing no sign of tiring. I don’t know how long it’s been but I think he could do this all day.

  “Sexy fucking thing.”

  My eyes tight shut, spasms rocking my body, his hand a piston on my clit, my breath catches. I can’t breathe. My mind swims red. My body is burning. Sweat drips down my thighs . . . or is it just my wetness?

  And then, all at once, it releases.

  “Ahhhhhh! Fuck! Ahhhhh!”

  I reach down and grab his wrist, holding his hand there, right there, as the orgasm implodes inside of me. Twenty seconds of pure euphoria take me, throw me around, float me. I’m flying. I’m soaring.

  Then it passes, and I open my eyes onto the darkness of the amusement park.

  “Jesus!” I pant, bringing my hand to my chest. “Jesus Christ! That was—”

  “We’re not done,” Killian says, his voice ice-cold.

  I turn to him, the movement made awkward by the heels and the tights around my ankles, and see that he is panting with hunger and unbuttoning his jeans.

  “We’re not half done yet, Hope.”

  He pulls down his jeans and his briefs. His cock springs up out of the waistband. Jesus . . . It is huge, at least ten inches, and thick. It is the type of cock you only ever hear about. It is truly massive. So thick I don’t think my hand would reach around it.

  He sits down bare-assed on the seat.

  “Get rid of those tights,” he says, his cock pointing straight up, steel-hard, a rod of pleasure. “I want that tight cunt. I want to spank that round gorgeous ass as I fuck you.”

  My pussy aches for it. My hole is begging me for his cock.

  “Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, Killian.”

  “Now, Hope,” he says, his eyes like chips of blue ice in the moonlight. “Do it now. I need it.”

  I kick my heels off and step out of the tights, so that I’m just wearing my skirt and my shirt. His eyes move up and down my body, starting at my breasts and stopping at me feet. They linger on my upper thighs, where my skirt has been pushed up by his hand.

  He reaches forward, grabs me by the waist, and lifts me off my feet. His hands are warm against my hips and he lifts me as though I weigh nothing. He shows no sign that this exerts him. The way he does it, it’s easy.

  “Oh god, Killian,” I moan.

  He lowers me down, down, I split my legs and he lowers me all the way down to his cock. I am soaking wet and pre-come clings to the end of his cock. He slides into me, all ten inches of him, wet and hot and without resistance. His cock fills me entirely, presses into my sweet spot and past it, inching toward my lower belly. It should be painful—he’s so big—but I am too horny, I want it too badly to feel any pain.

  I grab his shoulders, digging my fingernails into the leather of his jacket. He grabs my ass cheeks, one hand per cheek, and digs his hands in.

  Then, lifting me up, he begins to thrust. Slow but deep, at first, he thrusts into me. His cock stretches my pussy, stretches it more than any man—or any dildo, even—has ever stretched it before. His breath comes ragged, aching, drawn-out, the breathing of a man holding back, the breathing of a man who could come any minute.

  I stare down into his face, but his eyes are locked on my breasts. His face is hard-set, serious, intense.

  “Get them out,” he says, as his cock penetrates me all the way to his balls. “Get those fucking breasts out. Now.”

  I release his shoulders and quickly unbutton my shirt, all the way to my belly, and then reach around my back and unclip my bra. My large breasts burst free into his face.

  “Fuck!” he grunts, and then throws his face forward and suckles my nipples, suckles them hard until the nipples become erect, switching between both breasts like he can’t decide which one he wants more badly.

  “I can’t hold back,” he says into my chest, his breath massaging me. “I just can’t.”

  “Then don’t,” I moan.

  There is a pause. Everything stops. The tip of his cock hovers just outside of my hole. His hands stop moving on my ass. His face is unmoving
in my chest. And then he springs into life, a hunter leaping from the brush at its prey. He licks and sucks my breasts. Madly, sucking my pale flesh if he can’t find my nipples, sucking randomly. Sucking like an un-caged beast. His hands spank my ass, grab it, stroke it. Whatever he wants, he does. And his cock pounds into me.

  He lifts me by my ass cheeks and pounds me, his cock a drill thrusting in and out, in and out. Deep, hitting my sweet spot, and then stretching me on the way out, and then deep, deep.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I cry, bouncing up and down on him. “Oh, fuck, it’s so big, it’s so fucking big!”

  “Take it!” he roars, throwing his head back and staring up at me. “Take it!”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” I moan, bouncing as he thrusts, bouncing so that his ten-inch cock penetrates me so hard, and so deep, that all I know is the fire of it.

  His cock pounds into me relentlessly. There is no mercy. And I don’t want mercy. I ride it, bounce on it. All thought of the right or wrong of this has fled my mind. All I care about is his solid face and his even more solid cock.

  “Come quick!” he commands, his lips twisted in agony. “Come quick for me, Hope! Fucking come quick for me!”

  Bouncing, bouncing, I momentarily wonder if the park is really empty—

  But then I no longer care. His cock slides from hole to sweet spot, filling me, and then something shatters inside of my pussy. Shatters and spreads through me.

  “Oh. My. Oh. My. Oh my fucking god!”

  The orgasm originates at the end of his cock, the tip of it smashing my sweet spot, causing pulses of pleasure to take me. I bite down on my lip so hard that the taste of blood fills my mouth, but I don’t care. I don’t feel it. All I feel is the orgasm.

  It is the kind of orgasm only deep penetration can provoke. The kind of orgasm only men as hung as Killian can provoke. The strength goes from my body and I ride the pleasure, close my eyes and ride it; and Killian props me up, still pounding me.

  “You’ve gone so fucking tight,” he breathes. “Fuck, fuck, so fucking tight.”

  The wetness of my orgasm drips over his cock, into his crotch, and he fucks, fucks.

  “You’re too—”

  He cuts short, unable to speak.

  “Do it!” I plead, as my orgasm passes. “Come in me! Do it! Fuck, fuck, do it!”

  He thrusts into me one last time, grunting loudly, and then his cock begins to wilt.

  I think: That was the best sex I’ve ever had, easy.

  We walk back through the amusement park, past the stalls and the ghost train, toward Killian’s bike. I’m wearing just my tights and my heels. My panties are back at the ferris wheel. I walk somewhat awkwardly because I’m still wet and his come is dripping out of me. But it doesn't embarrass me, as it should. The pleasure was too intense to care about petty things right now.

  “Quite the night,” I say.

  He laughs. “Quite the night,” he agrees.

  We don’t hold hands, but we walk closely, close enough that we could hold hands if one of us reached out. But neither of us does.

  “I want to know about you now,” I admit.

  We pass under the arch and stop next to the bike, him on one side and me on the other.

  “Know about me? What do you want to know?”

  He looks cool as hell in his leather and his jeans and his boots, his blonde hair messy, his eyes light blue. For some reason, I think he looks cooler now that we’ve had sex.

  I shrug. “Shouldn’t a girl know something about a man she's just had sex with? A man she had sex with after, what, a few hours of knowing him?”

  He raises his hands and shrugs. How should I know? the gesture says.

  “That’s not how I usually do things.”

  “Tell me about yourself,” I insist.

  “What, though?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Something!”

  He laughs, that cocky smile back on his face. He’s back in control now, but there was a moment back there, toward the end, when he wasn’t in control. When his lust took him. Maybe I’m being crazy, but I think there was something there. Not a connection, exactly. But the potential for a connection.

  “What, though, pretty lady?”

  “You want to make me happy?”

  “I never said—”

  “Whatever. You want to make me happy, just tell me one thing you haven’t told anybody else.”

  “That’s a tall order.”

  “I don’t care. That’s the deal.”

  “We’re not making a—”

  “We are. Now, tell me.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. I wait it out. Finally, after ten or so seconds of laughing, he trains his gaze on me. “You’re the feistiest woman I’ve ever talked to, Hope. Hands down. Okay, fine, I’ll you something. I’m pretty damned worried about my brother, Patrick. He’s not the same since he got out of prison. He’s taking stupid risks. I’m starting to think he’s not fit for duty. There, I haven’t told anybody else that.”

  “Okay,” I say, and then let out a sigh. “That wasn’t so hard was it?”

  He reaches down and picks up the helmet, hands it over the bike to me.

  “It was harder than you think,” he replies.

  I take the helmet and we climb onto the bike.

  I left the Cove not sure about this man at all. Now I’ll return with his come in my tights.

  How the hell did that happen?

  As he starts the engine, I think about how much Dawn would like to meet Killian. My sister has always loved bad boys.

  Chapter Six

  Killian

  I stop outside of Hope’s apartment building. It’s one of the semi-commercial buildings which have started popping up in small towns all over the States, and began rising here in the Cove about a decade ago. She climbs from the bike and lays the helmet on the back. I stay mounted, but twist and face her.

  “I had fun,” she says, standing with her handbag clasped near her crotch, perhaps to hide any wetness.

  I can’t help but smile.

  “What’re you grinning at?”

  I nod at the bag. “Making it pretty obvious, aren’t you?”

  A light is fixed above the main door to her apartment building. It shines out onto the street, so that when she blushes, her cheeks are lit rosy red. “You’re a cruel, cruel man.”

  “That’s true, pretty lady. But I don’t remember you saying that half an hour ago.”

  “You’re a cruel, despicable human being!” she giggles.

  Then she turns on her heels and heads for the door.

  “Wait,” I say.

  She stops just outside of the door, her hand in her bag, searching for her keys.

  “Yes?” she says, without turning.

  “Your cell number. Give it to me.”

  “That’s not a way to ask a lady.”

  “Just give it to me.”

  The way she’s standing at the door, her ass looks amazing. Round and well-formed, something to be grabbed. Bitten . . . Damn, I wish I’d bitten it.

  “I’ll give it to you,” she says. “But you have to promise not to play games. I hate men who play little games.”

  Games? Are there men who even know how to play women’s games?

  “I wouldn’t even know where to start. I don’t usually get to the taking-number stage.”

  “Charming,” she mutters, but I must be getting pretty good at reading her, because I can hear the smile in her voice.

  Then she reads out the ten digits of her number.

  “Have you written it down?”

  “No need,” I say, and kick away the stand on my bike. I rev the engine. “I’ll remember it.”

  Then I speed away from her apartment, the bike growling into the dead night, toward the Satan’s Martrys’ clubhouse.

  When I get into the clubhouse, it’s past four o’clock. I leave my bike out front with two others, Gunny’ and the old man’s, Declan. I walk into the bar and grab myself a small w
hiskey. The lights are off, but I don’t have to be able to see to know the clubhouse, to know that the walls are wood paneling covered in framed photographs of the Satan’s Martrys’ members. I know, too, that on the wall next to the pool table, there’s a photograph of Patrick’s first steps out of prison, a goofy grin on his face. My big brother, grinning like a fool.

  I drain the whiskey and make my way toward the back office, past the tables and chairs, past the pool table and mounted bear’s head, to the doors which lead to the meeting and storage rooms.