by Ella Goode
His Bold Heart
Ella Goode
Contents
Summary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
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MOTORCYCLE CLUB SERIES
Copyright
HIS BOLD HEART
ELLA GOODE
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THE MOTORCYCLE CLUBS • THE DEATH LORDS #7
The Motorcycle Clubs Series
His Wild Desire by Ella Goode
Off Limits by Ruby Dixon
Wanting It All by Kati Wilde
Her Secret Pleasure by Ella Goode
Packing Double by Ruby Dixon
Taking It All by Kati Wilde
Their Private Need by Ella Goode
Double Trouble by Ruby Dixon
Having It All by Kati Wilde
Their Fierce Need by Ella Goode
Betting It All by Kati Wilde
Double Down by Ruby Dixon
Their Lasting Claim by Ella Goode
Risking It All by Kati Wilde
Double or Nothing by Ruby Dixon
Burning It All by Kati Wilde
Slow Ride by Ruby Dixon
* * *
Coming this Summer
Stolen Summer series from all three authors!
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1
CHELSEA
“Fucking you is like a religious experience, Chels.”
I bite my lip to stifle the laugh that wants to spill out but I can’t quite stop the moan from escaping when his dick hits a particularly sensitive spot. His answering groan isn’t muffled at all. Grant, unlike me, doesn’t care what anyone in this hell hole that we’re staying in hears. He’s as uninhibited as always.
I try to keep quiet. I really do, but he knows me so well. He knows that sound I couldn’t quite swallow down means I want more and he doesn’t hesitate to give it to me. His hips jackhammer up, the force propelling me forward. Good thing he’s got a solid grip on my hips or I might fly off his dick and face plant onto the newly cleaned floor. As it is, I’m making crescent moons in his knees as I hang on but he doesn’t care. I don’t think he’s feeling anything but the clutch of my pussy.
“Seriously.” His finger traces the crease between my butt cheeks. “This right here is like a steeple.”
“Stop it.” I’m half laughing, half mortified. “You’re going to get us sent to hell with that kind of talk.”
I feel Grant shift behind me.
“As long as we’re together, doesn’t matter where I end up.” My heart squeezes at his words and then my entire body tightens when he reaches around to stroke my clit. “This here is the bell in the steeple and I’m ringing it right now.”
“F-ffffuck,” is about all I can get out as he plucks at my tender flesh, playing it like he’s a master musician and I’m a mere instrument.
“Lean back baby. I’m worried my dick’s going to snap off.”
He tugs on my hair until I’m nearly lying on top of him. His hand still plucks my clit. In this awkward position, all I can do is submit to the grind of his hips underneath my ass and his all too clever fingers. I squeeze my inner muscles, gripping him tight.
His free hand tugs on my hair until my head is turned enough to give him a sloppy half kiss.
“Fuck this,” he says and then flips us both over. “Hands and knees, baby.”
I do as he commands because I want it too. He’s been playing with me for what seems like forever and I need some serious relief!
“I need you inside me, right now.” I shake my ass toward him and he responds by giving me a hard slap against my cheek.
“Greedy pussy aren’t you?” A long finger runs down the valley between my ass cheeks and stops at the small circle of skin—the one virgin place he hasn’t taken yet. “We’re doing this soon,” he promises in a husky voice.
“Promises. Promises.” I tease. With anyone else, I wouldn’t want to have any back door action but this is Grant. He’s my first and only love. He took my virginity when I was seventeen and has never stopped looking out for me since—not even during the three years when he was sent away for defending himself and his brother at arms.
“Chelsea—” he stops.
“What?” The pause is long enough that I turn around to glare at him.
He flashes me a wicked grin. “I was just thinking that if your last name and mine were the same, we wouldn’t have to get married.”
“We’re step siblings.” I hate that I’ve always been turned on by his sibling taunts. It’s so wrong yet I can’t stop the squirming and muscle tightening. I guess that’s the point. It’s wrong and taboo but we’re doing it anyway. His dark knowing chuckle only makes me madder and hotter.
“I know, baby sis, and you’re the hottest sister I’ve ever fucked.”
“You’re disgusting,” I shoot back but my body is telling him the exact opposite.
“But it makes you hot.” My smart aleck response is cut short when he impales me in one hard movement. He’s right. I am burning up. I need to come so bad. I let my head drop onto my forearms. Grant gives a satisfied grunt as the position raises my ass even higher in the air.
“Come for me baby,” he hisses out. “Come for me.”
Inside me, I feel his enormous girth swelling and pushing against the soft and sensitive tissues. Each drag of his shaft along my inner walls pulls at something not physical. It’s as if we are connected by some spiritual thread and that connection feels tighter, stronger, and more vibrant when we are on the cusp of orgasm.
I pant as sensation rockets through my body, cutting off all rational thought, shutting down all the motor functions that are not essential to simply feeling. With my pillow beneath me, I open my mouth and let out all the pent up joy and pleasure that Grant has built inside of me. I let it swallow me up and spit me out, exhausted, panting but replete on the other side.
“Yes. Yes. Yessss,” Grant shouts as he shoves hard against me. I can feel the pulse of his shaft as he jets his hot come inside me, setting off another round of wild, answering explosions because his joy is my joy. I can’t help but respond to him
I love him so much.
So much.
* * *
Wrecker gets up shortly after he comes. There’s too much to do here at the Misery MC’s clubhouse for him to sleep in I guess. He plants a couple soft kisses on my shoulder blade and then tucks the comforter up around my neck.
“Where you going?” I ask, rolling on my side. He bends over and picks up last night’s underwear and wipes off his dick.
“You need a washcloth or anything?” he asks.
I rub my legs together, feeling the sticky residue of his come between my legs. Some girls might want to wash that off right away, but I like the evidence of how much he wants me. His eyes darken and the grip around his dick becomes less about wiping himself and more about stroking himself.
“Nah, I’m good,” I say and tease him a little more by moving my legs around under the covers.
He drops the boxer briefs on the floor and stalks back over to the bed. “You cut that shit out.�
�� He shakes a finger at me. “I’ve got club business to do and if you’re rubbing your legs together like a goddamned cat in heat, I’m never going to leave.”
I lick my lips with greedy intent. Why would I want him to leave?
He groans and strokes his swelling dick with quick, rough movements. I can’t stop myself from touching him. His rock hard legs tighten under my palms.
I glance at him under my lashes and that school girl look saps whatever self-control he had left.
“Open,” he says gruffly.
I open and slide my tongue out just slightly past my lower lip.
“God fucking damn.” He tangles one hand in my hair as he guides his dick into my mouth. It tastes like us. His come, my juice and our mutual pleasure. His dick is heavy on my tongue, like it’s a substantial weight. Everything about Grant is big to me. His body towers over mine. His hands can span even my generous waist. His thighs are solid, tree trunks.
He wasn’t soft in high school—not by any means, but three years in prison with nothing but lifting and working out to do turned him hard. Every edge of him is sharp and cut and…large.
I open my mouth wide and take him to the very back of my throat. I love how he tastes, his unique musky smell, the texture of his velvety soft skin overlaying that increasingly stiff shaft. My moans aren’t manufactured porn sounds. They are real signals of my desire for him, for this.
Inhaling through my nose, I open my throat and swallow the large ruddy tip down. His strong thighs begin to shake when the muscles tighten around him.
“Oh baby. Oh Chelsea, baby…”
This is what I love about giving my man head. He loses all semblance of control. This hard man becomes putty in my hands. He can’t think. He can’t form sentences. He can’t do anything but reflexively surge against my mouth wanting in deeper.
I take him as deep as I can until my nose is tickled by the soft, curly strands of hair and then I withdraw all the way to the tip. Looking up I can see that he’s gone. His eyes are pinned on me, his hand has swept away the hair from my face, but he’s lost in a world of pleasure. His breath is coming rapidly and his hand grips my hair with a little too much force. He’d never be this rough if he knew what he was doing.
But there’s something about seeing him lose control that turns me on all the more. Between my legs, the gush of liquid is from my own answering desire. I swallow him down again, bobbing faster and sucking harder than before.
He makes inarticulate sounds and pushes against my face and pulls harder on my hair. A tap on my head gives me the warning I don’t need. I know he’s coming. I can feel the tension beneath my hands, feel him swell on my tongue. I want to swallow him whole and so I ignore that feeble tap and open my mouth even wider.
And I’m rewarded. He comes with a guttural groan, not a shout, a sound that rises from deep within and lasts almost as long as the salty streams of come spurt from his dick.
I take it all in, even wiping the side of my mouth to lick up the last precious drop. After he’s spent, he drags a shaky hand down over his face. “Baby, you are killing me.”
“Hope not.” I press my face against his firm stomach. I can hear it gurgle. He’s satisfied one hunger but his body is telling him he can’t live on sex alone. “I’ll need you later.”
“Yeah? How about now?” He leans down and slants his mouth over mine, kissing me and tasting himself. His own spunk has never bothered him. He’s always said if I can swallow it, so can he. I love that too.
He’d never ask me to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. And that’s why I’m here in this dingy house, uncertain of what today may bring. I know that no matter what happens, my future will always be with Grant “Wrecker” Harrison.
One large hand in the middle of my chest topples me over. The sheets are ripped away and even though I hear his stomach loudly protesting, he scoots down until his mouth is between my legs. “I’m hungry.”
“I can hear it,” I joke.
“That shit can wait.” His long tongue flicks out and licks at the arousal the blow job generated. “This can’t.”
Who am I to argue with that?
2
WRECKER
My old man gave me my road name when I crashed my first two wheeler at age four. He’d given me a gas powered scooter and sent me off down the road where I promptly ran into two trashcans pressing the accelerator instead of the break. According to him, it was the first and only real argument that my mom and him had ever had. Since she died when I was a kid, I don’t remember.
She wanted him to ease up, maybe have me peddle around in a big wheel for a while but Dad was bullheaded and said I would never learn if I just didn’t climb back on.
“He’s a Death Lord. So he wrecked. Least he didn’t lay down his bike,” I remember him saying proudly. He ruffled my hair and set my bike upright. After a quick inspection to make sure that I hadn’t broken anything, I was placed back up on the bike. I raced it back to the house and crashed into the fender of his old Ford pickup.
My road name was cemented. Road names are an important part of our biker world. Like the cut and the patches, the road name identifies our brotherhood. Abel, the newest Death Lords MC patch, doesn’t have a road name yet. In my book, Abel suits him fine because he knows how to get shit done which is why I let him go five nights ago to take care of a Misery MC patch who decided club life wasn’t for him anymore.
I trust Abel to take care of business and to watch my back so when I emerge from the bedroom and see Abel leaning against the wall opposite of the door, I know immediately we need to talk.
“How about some breakfast?” I ask, shrugging on my cut.
“Sounds good. There’s a diner about four blocks away.”
“Chelsea wants to take a shower.”
“That’s fine.” He pushes away from the wall and starts down the stairs. “I’ll wait downstairs.”
Chelsea’s not part of the club but the vibes in the Misery MC’s clubhouse are off and I don’t want to leave her alone. I don’t think anyone of these fuckers would touch her. I pistol-whipped a guy for spouting off about her so the entire crew knows that she’s off limits. But you never know and I wouldn’t trust most of the guys in the Misery club to watch my second cousin’s cat let alone my most precious possession.
I stick my head back in the door. “Breakfast in about thirty?”
She wrinkles her nose but nods. “Yeah. I’ll have wet hair but it’s not like I want to be here alone.”
She dons one of my t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants and brushes by me on the way to the bathroom. There’s only two in this house. A small one downstairs that just has a sink and a toilet and a larger one with a tub and a shower up here. In the basement there’s a drain and a shower head used by Junior, the president of the Misery MC. Chelsea took one look at the dark, dank basement with its exposed brick walls and dirt floor and noped out of there faster than I could say her name.
It does look like a place where a serial killer dismembers his prey. Junior doesn’t have a killer vibe to him, not like Easy or Michigan, the Death Lords enforcers, but there is something off about him. It’s always the quiet ones who surprise you the most. They’re the ones in the aftermath of some bloody, inconceivable horror that neighbors refer to as nice and quiet and all of this is a complete shock.
I’m not turning my back on Junior any time soon.
Downstairs I find Abel flicking through messages on his phone while two hungover Misery guys are shoveling cereal into their mouths. Only Abel acknowledges me with a tip of his chin. The other two pretend I’m not there.
Junior ambles out of the kitchen, polishing an apple on his sleeve.
“Guess I don’t have to ask whether you had a good morning,” he jokes. One of the guys laughs but given that I’m the only one who’s been laid steadily since I arrived, I chalk it up to juvenile envy and ignore them.
“What’s the plan for the day?” I ask.
Junior bites off par
t of the apple and chews it before giving me an answer. He never responds right away and I haven’t figured out whether making me wait are power plays to try to display his dominance or whether he’s a thoughtful guy, picking and choosing his words carefully. Doesn’t really matter because not only am I patient—I learned in prison that the sun always rises after the long dark night—but also because the name on the back of my cut is Death Lords and the only club I’m accountable to is that one.
I take a seat next to Abel and wait. If Chelsea wasn’t upstairs getting ready, I might have tagged Abel and we would have taken off while Junior chokes on his fucking fruit.
“There’s a shipment of goods coming down 94 and working its way down to Chicago,” he says finally. “Another club asked if we’d handle the transport through the cities and down into Wisconsin. The SS out of Madison will pick it up around Eau Claire.”
The SS are a bunch of skinheads rumored to be loosely affiliated with the Eighty-Eight Henchmen, a West Coast supremacist club. I don’t know any of the SS personally but Judge, my dad and the president of the Death Lords MC, might. “What size is the transport?”
“Two moving trucks.”
“And how many bikers?”
“Six.”
Abel coughs next to me. I hear the word he’s not saying though. This sounds like a big clusterfuck.
“You’re taking two moving trucks escorted by a parade of bikers down Interstate 94? That’s not going to raise any red flags,” I say sarcastically.
The other guys at the table—Riot and Coffin—stop eating. No one argues with Junior, apparently. I can’t stop comparing Death Lords to this club. My dad’s secure enough as president that he doesn’t mind people arguing with him, particularly members of the club. Granted, he’d never come up with this shit kind of solution. If you are moving hot goods from one end of the country to the other using motorcycle clubs like a relay race, you are bound to raise the suspicions and hackles of police. It’s not like these fuckers don’t communicate with each other.
