Torched: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  Her moans drive me wild. They tell me how horny she is, how much she wants this, how desperate she is for it. I press my crotch into her. With one hand on the back of her head, I push her lips harder against mine. With my other hand massaging her ass cheeks, I pull her toward me, my crotch rock-hard on her belly.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, I need her. I fucking need her.

  I break off the kiss and step away. She looks up at me, lips moist, cheeks red, eyes wide and eager.

  “What—”

  I walk to the couch and gesture for her to follow me. Watching her walk toward me makes me even hungrier. Watching how her legs move, the subtle muscles in them, remembering what they look like when she’s riding reverse cowgirl, her thighs tight, her ass bouncing up and down on my abs. She’s fucking intoxicating, my woman.

  When she gets here, I leap forward and grab her by the back of the neck. I twist her around and push her down, bending her over. She leans forward and grips the couch cushions. The cushion tears when she digs her fingernails in, but neither of us care. She arches her back and pushes her pussy out. Her underwear is taut over her pussy, a thin layer of fabric between me and that hot, wet, perfect place.

  “Beg me,” I grunt. I take off my leathers and my shirt, dropping them to the floor. And then I kick off my boots and pull down my pants and underwear. I stand there naked, my cock so hard it points directly up, unable to take my eyes from that ass.

  “Please,” she moans, and I resist the urge to scream in pleasure just at that one word.

  I love it when she begs me. It makes me feel powerful, makes me feel like she wants it so badly she’s even willing to beg, makes me feel like she’s as desperate for my cock as I am for her pussy, makes me feel like she’d do anything for it. She arches her back even more, pressing her ass out, her pussy opening.

  “Please, Killian,” she moans. “Please, I want your cock so bad. Please, please. Fuck, I want it. I want it. Please, I’m begging you. Fuck me. Fuck me so hard it hurts. Oh, fuck, please.”

  I’m panting, a wolf on a hunt, panting and growling with lust.

  “Please,” she begs.

  I reach forward and pull down her underwear, revealing her pussy. Fuck, has there ever been a sweeter sight?

  “Reach around and spread it open,” I growl. “Spread it open and beg.”

  She props herself with one arm. With the other she reaches around and pulls on her ass cheek. Her pussy spreads open and the pink of it winks at me. I know how hot that pink is, how wet. I know how she cries and moans when I bury myself up to my balls in that pink perfect place.

  “Please!” she cries, true desperation in her voice now. “Oh, please, Killian, please!”

  I step forward, place both my hands on her ass, and slide my cock inside of her. She’s so wet I don’t even have to wet my cock. I slide in, in, until I am all the way inside of her. I look down at my cock as I slide in, watching the way her pussy opens wide. She’s so tight, a fist grabbing my hand, the tightest, sexiest woman alive.

  “Fuck, fuck,” I grunt.

  “Oh . . .”

  But she can’t finish her sentence. I’m unable to hold back my lust any longer. I pull out slowly, and then I pound her, drilling my cock into her, drilling it so hard and so fast that my cock is a blur when I look down. I focus on the way her ass bounces, up and down, up and down, slapping against my pelvis. I thrust into her so hard she falls forward on the couch. But I don’t stop. I reach over her shoulders and grip the edge of the couch, fucking her into the cushions, fucking her until she collapses completely and can do nothing but lay on her front, crumpled, moaning into the couch.

  My cock is white with her come. She comes again and again. Each time she comes, her pussy goes tighter and I have to thrust harder to get deep. Soon, my cock is almost completely white. Fuck, the way the come squeezes between her ass cheeks is getting to me. Fuck, the way she bounces, the way she moans, the way her hands claw at the cushions as if they have a life of their own.

  I wrap a hand around her belly and lift her up, lift her face free of the couch so I can hear her moans.

  Then I lean into her ear.

  “Beg me to fucking come in you!” I growl. “Fucking beg me!”

  “Oh, please come inside of me,” she cries. “Please, p-p-please come in m-me! Ah, fuck, please—”

  I slide my hand down the front of her dress and find a nipple, squeeze it as I thrust. I’m not Killian anymore. Killian has gone. I’m just a beast, thrusting.

  My cock is hot . . .

  Wet . . .

  She’s too sexy . . .

  “Ahhhhh!” I roar, and thrust into her one last time.

  I do it so hard that the couch tips forward, the back of it collapsing to the floor. Hope and I fall with it, rolling over, but the whole time my only mission is to stay inside of her. We land on the floor and I grip her breasts so fiercely I know there’ll be hand marks on it later.

  Then, lying in a mess of limbs on the floor, I come inside my woman.

  We lie on the floor in silence for a while, Hope in my arms, and then we both begin laughing.

  Hope turns over and looks up at me with a devilish smile on her lips. “Wow,” she says, gesturing to the upturned couch. “I think I can safely say that was the most intense it’s ever been.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, stroking her hair. “You’re a bombshell, pretty lady.”

  “A bombshell? Is that a compliment?”

  I grin. “I think so.”

  She leans up and pecks me on the chin.

  “Careful,” I tell her, “or you’ll get me going again.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.” She pecks me again.

  “Yeah, but if we keep going, I won’t be able to break the news to you.”

  She frowns. “The news?”

  I leap to my feet so suddenly that Hope lets out a gasp. “What’s got into you?” she laughs.

  I reach down, hook her under the armpits, and lift her to her feet. She loops her arms around my neck and sings out: “Woooooh!”

  “You’re drunk.” I pinch her nose playfully.

  “And you’re handsome, but you don’t hear me going on about it, do you?”

  “Nowhere near enough,” I agree.

  We stand opposite each other, naked. My eyes rove down her body. I have never seen a sexier woman. Even naked, sweaty and sticky from sex, Hope still manages to have class. To look alluring and sexy and hot and slutty and beautiful and pure all at the same damn time.

  “So, then, what is this news?” she asks. “What’s so important you had to interrupt my nap on the floor?”

  “Wait a sec.”

  I go to my pants, reach inside, feel the box and remove my hand. Wrong pocket. Not yet. The note and then the box. I go into my other pocket and take out the folded up piece of paper. When I turn around, Hope is watching me curiously.

  “You look worried,” I say.

  “Terrified,” she says, but her eyes are twinkling in the mood lights. After Hope comes—especially when she comes a lot—her face seems brighter, livelier. Just looking at her when she’s like this brings a smile to my face.

  I go to her and unfold the note. When I hand it to her, she takes it with a shaking hand.

  She scans over it quickly, her lips moving quicker and quicker as she scans the lines with more speed. Then her lips open wide in surprise.

  “What?” she gasps. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “The deed to the cabin!” I exclaim. “I bought it, Hope, and it’s in your name. I’ve already had the spare room turned into an art studio. But you can do whatever you want with it. Anything. You can make it into a home or you can burn it to the ground. It’s yours.”

  She walks to a nearby table, places the deed down carefully, and then sprints across the room and throws herself at me, wrapping her legs around my waist. I hold her up by her ass as she attacks me with kisses: my forehead and my cheeks and my chin, and then my chest and my shoulders.

&n
bsp; “You just bought me a house!” she squeals. “Killian, you just bought me a house!”

  She lets out a giggle and then jumps away from me, running around the room like she’s full of energy and doesn’t know what to do with it. She runs from wall to wall, giggling, clapping her hands, punching the air.

  As I watch her, my chest fills with warmth until it is overflowing with it. I made her this happy, I think. And I’m in awe of it. Not just of her happiness, but of the fact that seeing her this happy brings a wide grin to my face. I never dreamed that could happen. I never dreamed that making a woman happy would make me happy. I never dreamed that I would care about a woman so much that seeing her bounce around would make me want to bounce around. But it seems even non-dreams can come true. And sometimes they’re all the sweeter.

  She bounces over to me and reaches down, grabs my cock in her small hand. It goes hard and I take in a deep breath, looking at the nape of her neck and thinking about how much I’d like to bite it, to make her squeal in pleasure and pain. But—

  “We’re not done yet, pretty lady.”

  She gives my cock a squeeze. “I know that.”

  “No,” I say. “I’ve still got something else to give you.”

  She tilts her head. She looks like a curious owl, only cuter. “As well as a house?”

  I nod, as well as a house.

  Then I swallow, because this next thing isn’t just a question of giving. Hope also has to accept it.

  I go to my pants, reach into the pocket, and take out the ring box.

  When I stand up, I don’t turn around straightaway, so that she can’t see what’s in my hand.

  “Killian?” she says. “Are you okay?”

  “I need to say something,” I tell her.

  “Okay . . .”

  I take a deep breath, and then launch into it. I haven’t planned the exact words, but I need to speak my mind before I ask her.

  “For most of my life, Hope, I’ve been an outlaw. I’ve ridden and I’ve fought and I’ve bled. That’s been my life. I never questioned this. It seemed like the natural thing to do, since Patrick was in the club. And I was good at it, damn good. I was a top guy by the age of fifteen and leader before I was twenty. I’ve been a good leader, too. The club is richer than ever. My life before you was a series of fights and fucks. Fucks with women who didn’t mean a damn thing to me, less than a damn thing. I know how that makes me sound, but fuck it, it’s true.

  “I thought I’d be like Declan, grow old in the club, until, just like him, I’m sitting around in the clubhouse drinking and waiting to die. I love the old man, but that’s what he does. He’ll tell you himself.

  “But then I met you, and you changed me, pretty lady. You changed me so much I can hardly believe I’m the same man. I’ve been thinking if I need to be the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs. I’ve been thinking if I even need to be a member of the Satan’s Martyrs. I’ve been thinking about it a lot and my answer is, no. I don’t. I don’t need to ride and fight when I have you. I don’t need anything but you.

  “So I’ve made a decision. I have enough money to get out of the life, and I’m doing it. I’m stepping down from the club and I’m stepping away from the life.”

  I stop, draw in a breath, and then turn.

  Hope’s eyes go wide when she sees the box in my hand.

  “Is that what I think—”

  I walk to her, kneel down, and open the box. A glittering diamond engagement ring looks up at her, just as I do. “Hope Warren,” I say, “will you marry me?”

  My heart is a fireworks show in my chest. No sooner has one heartbeat pumped my chest hard than another follows it up. I can’t hold the ring box still, I’m so nervous. I never expose myself like this. I never show myself like this. Not once since Dad died have I felt this open, this vulnerable. I’ve stripped myself for Hope. I’m naked inside as well as out, right now.

  I look up into her face for what feels like an eternity.

  But it’s only half a second, and then she cries out: “Yes, of course I will!”

  I snatch the ring out of the box, take her left hand, and slide it onto her ring finger. Then I jump to my feet and cup her face in my hands. “You mean it?” I demand, breathless. “You mean it, Hope?”

  “Hope O’Connor,” she muses. “It has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” I say. I lean in and kiss her, hard, on the lips.

  I press my naked body into hers and we both moan. When she places her hand on my chest, I feel the ring, cool on my skin.

  Epilogue

  Hope

  Planning a wedding in two months is no small task, even if the wedding is taking place at our cabin, and even when the reception is taking place at Berelli’s Gourmet in the Cove. For two months—from Christmas until Valentine’s Day—my life is consumed with invitations and dresses and details, details. I’m busy, but I can’t say I don’t enjoy it. Because every day I collapse into bed exhausted from all the planning, I know I’m one day closer to becoming Hope O’Connor, to becoming my man’s wife.

  “Do we really need to send all the Satan’s Martyrs individual invitations?” Killian asks one night, when we’re lying in bed, naked and sweating, in the cabin.

  I turn over and glare at him playfully. “Of course we do,” I tell him. “We’re doing this properly.”

  He holds his hands up, smirking. Every time he smirks like that, I remember the night he was waiting for me outside the restaurant. I remember that night and I think about how my life is now, how much it’s changed, and my mind soars with possibilities for the future.

  “You’re the boss,” he says.

  “Yes, I am.” I lean up and kiss him on the nose.

  We have sex every night for two months, sometimes rough, sometimes loving, but always intense. I have so many orgasms I’m sore with them, but it’s a sweet soreness, a contented soreness. When I wake beside him and he’s still sleeping, I’ll often prop myself up on my elbow and watch him, trace his tattoos, his muscles, trace my man. When he’s sleeping, he looks so peaceful my heart sings a little song.

  Even though I’m busy planning the wedding, I still find time to use the studio.

  I no longer have painter’s block. I sit on the stool in front of the canvas and even before I’ve touched it with my brush, my mind is loud with ideas, each one vying for my attention. And then I lay my brush upon the canvas and I paint Dawn, but she’s not depressed in a hospital room; she’s flying high on top of a sunlit hill, looking away from the view, her hair blowing golden in the wind. I paint Killian, sitting on his bike, looking sexy, staring off into the distance. I paint myself in his arms, small, tiny, him large, massive.

  And sometimes when I’m done painting, Killian creeps up behind me and wraps his arms around my torso, squeezing my breasts, twisting my nipples lightly. He lifts me up and lays me on the papered floor, and when we make love—or fuck, depending on what mood we’re in—the paper crumples beneath us.

  Never before in my life have I felt so sure, so contented, so at ease. Never before have I been so certain that everything is going to work out.

  “I love you,” he whispers into my ear, his breath tickling my skin.

  “I love you, too,” I whisper in return.

  The night before the wedding, I wake up and Killian is not beside me.

  I panic for a moment, wondering—like brides have for years, I’m sure—if I’ve just been jilted. Then I get a hold of myself and lean over to his side of the bed, where a note sits on the bedside table. It reads: Outside. I jump out of bed and pull on some sweatpants and a hoodie. My dress hangs from the wardrobe, crisp in its plastic covering.

  When I open the door of the cabin, I see the lights. I cover my eyes and gasp, and then I slowly peep through my fingers. The lights are bikes, bikes upon bikes with their high beams lit, lined up side by side and opposite each other, making an aisle of light. The bikes lead away from the cabin and deeper into the woods. I pull on some sneakers a
nd follow the aisle, walking through the light, the bikes throwing my shadow huge on the nearby trees.

  I walk for around a minute, past what feels like fifty or sixty bikes, until I come to a picnic blanket laid out on a grass patch of the earth. Blankets are stacked up next to it, and a bottle of wine sits beside two wine glasses.

  “Do you like it?”

  I turn quickly and see Killian sitting on the last bike, his bike, grinning.

  “How did you manage this?” I gasp. The lights remind me of Christmas, making a glittering path through the woods.