Charge: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance

by Cate C. Wells

  Charge grins, sniffs, and stomps his boots in the entryway. “Ayup. It’s a whirlpool.”

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I expected, but I don’t think any twenty-one-year-old would expect a suite done in pinks and reds with a champagne glass bathtub. And a heart-shaped jacuzzi?

  “And a fireplace?” My jaw has permanently dropped open. It’s the set of a cheesy porno. From the eighties.

  Charge grins wider. There’s a fire already crackling, and next to it, a plate of chocolate dipped strawberries and a bottle of wine in a silver ice bucket.

  Charge drops the helmet he got for me onto a table, and he shrugs off his cut, hanging it in a closet.

  Must be civilized, of course. Use a hanger. In the bow-chicka-wow-wow suite.

  And that’s what this is. It’s one of those couple’s resorts in the mountains. I saw the signs on the drive here—and it was such a gorgeous drive, the air mellow and earthy-smelling like it gets in spring. I thought the signs were funny. Hokey. The pictures of Barbie and Ken doll couples in two-story, foaming champagne glass bathtubs.

  I guess I thought we were gonna go camping. Or to a cabin.

  But no. We’re at a resort where people go to fuck.

  My chest is getting a little tight, and I’m sweating under my new leather jacket. I mean, I knew we were coming here to fuck. But this―this is very obvious.

  I shrug my jacket off and hang it next to Charge’s cut. He bought me the jacket. Said I needed protection. And then he’d said, “Speaking of, you on the pill?”

  I said I was, and then he changed the subject to what kind of leather I should get. So I shouldn’t be surprised that his choice of getaway is…not subtle.

  I’m not gonna lie. It’s disorienting. I’m Jimmy’s mom, for heaven’s sake. I keep my head down, work hard, don’t give people a reason to talk. I’m not the type who goes to hotels to do it on fake silk sheets. Or real silk sheets? How do you even begin to know the difference?

  While I’m dithering, Charge has climbed the stairs to the loft where you enter the champagne glass tub. He leans over the rail and grins at me. The man looks like the cat that ate the canary.

  I’m one more weird-shaped tub away from a panic attack.

  Does he bring all his women here?

  Does he expect me to know what to do in these tubs?

  My hands clutch the back of a velvet chair, and I try really, really hard not to run. Or throw up. Or throw up while I run.

  “Peaches?”

  “Uh huh,” I mumble, not looking at him, not looking at anything. This whole suite is embarrassing.

  “Eyes up here.”

  I look up.

  He does have a way of bossing me. Weird that I don’t really mind. It doesn’t feel ugly like control, but safe. Like he’s coaching me. I want what he wants, but I also want a push. Cause I’m a little scared. Not of him. But…of it.

  “You here with me, baby?”

  He’s still in the loft, close enough so I can see the serious in his blue eyes, but not so near that he’s in my space at all.

  I nod.

  “We’re gonna have sex,” he says.

  We are?

  I mean, yeah, I know, but it’s not like I’d thought about it very specifically—except for replaying those moments in his truck—because…because I’ve got some hang-ups.

  Which is one way to put it. Another would be that I’m damaged goods. Broken. I don’t even masturbate well. I can’t. I try, but nine times out of ten, I give up frustrated. There’s always this disconnect.

  Charge stares down at me like he can read all of this on my face. We’ve talked about the masturbation thing once. I’d had two beers on his porch one night after Jimmy was in bed, so maybe he does know what I’m thinking? He seems to get me pretty easy. Which can be embarrassing.

  “When you’re ready,” he adds. “Until then, we’re gonna put on our bathing suits, drink sparkling white wine, and play in the bubble bath.”

  I giggle. I can’t help it. Charge in a champagne glass bubble bath?

  “This place is ridiculous.” I gesture to the circular bed. I mean…why a circle? Are circles sexy? Oh, and there’s a mirror above it.

  Yikes. I don’t want to see myself in bed in a mirror. I know my boobs flatten under my arm pits when I lay on my back. I don’t want to see that. I’ll never get to sleep.

  Hell, my nerves are so taut, I’ll never get to sleep anyway.

  “Go to the bathroom, Kayla. Put on your bathing suit. You wanna do the champagne glass or the hot tub first?”

  Well. Since we’re here. And for some reason, I’m not having a full-blown panic attack yet. “Champagne glass. Obviously.”

  Charge grins again. “That’s my girl.”

  I change quickly into my two-piece. It’s red gingham, a classic cut with boy shorts and a halter top that nearly reaches my belly button. Sue lent it to me.

  I can’t help wrapping my arms around my middle when I go up to meet Charge at the tub. He’s filled it and turned the jets on, and I’m kind of grateful for all the foam and swirling. He won’t be able to see me when my suit gets wet and clings to my little belly pudge.

  He’s already in, but he reaches a hand up to help me to a bench across from him. His hair is loose, and there’s a bit of foam clinging to the tip of his beard.

  He looks chill. Content.

  He takes a swig and then passes me the open bottle of champagne.

  “No glasses?” I ask.

  “Seemed like overkill. Considerin’ what we’re sittin’ in.”

  A giggle sails from my mouth. I didn’t even feel it coming. And then Charge is laughing, and I’m laughing so hard my belly aches, and I can’t catch my breath.

  This place is ridiculous. I swat the bubbles, and a mound flies up in Charge’s face, sticking in his beard and sliding down his upper chest.

  He doesn’t have a shirt on.

  Of course he doesn’t. But I’m just now noticing. I was so worried about my belly, I missed his broad, cut chest with dabs of foam caught in dark, wet hairs. Now I can’t drag my eyes away. He’s so pretty. So perfect.

  “Oh yeah? That how it’s gonna be?” Charge growls, teasing, scooping up a handful of bubble and dolloping it on top of my head.

  My giggles trail off, and Charge drifts toward me, guiding me onto his lap, and he doesn’t have a swimsuit on.

  I can feel him, hard, pressed into my butt cheek.

  He takes a little foam and boops it on my nose. “There. Now you’re perfect.”

  I roll my eyes. Tense a little. I know I’m not pretty. Nowhere near perfect. I’m so not in his league—looks-wise—it’s not even funny.

  “You don’t think so?” He frowns.

  I shrug.

  Charge leans closer, his lips skimming the shell of my ear, and he whispers, “Perfect.”

  Despite the hot water, a shiver runs down my spine, all the way to my toes.

  Then he tugs my scrunchy loose and runs his hands through my wind-mussed hair, scritching my scalp with his fingertips, sending even more shivers dancing down my arms and back. He buries his nose in my hair, and then he murmurs, “Perfect.”

  I shift, restless, hot. Not sure what to do with my hands. Not sure what to say.

  He strokes my back, soothing me. Going slow. And then he unties my halter, peels the front down until my boobs are totally exposed.

  The air is chill enough so that despite the hot water, my nipples are hard and achy. Raised nubs like the erasers of those big pencils kids learn to write with. Too big.

  I raise my hands to cover them, and Charge bats them away. Then he cups me, brushing his rough thumbs over my nipples, and I’m squirming, not from nerves but because between my legs is throbbing now. Pulsing.

  I whimper, and he growls low in his throat.

  “So perfect.”

  He bends down and captures a breast in his mouth, sucking and drawing the nipple in deep, and I’m turning and climbing him now, s
traddling him, arching my back, pressing him to me by the back of his head, because I want more, I want him to keep doing this and…I want him to do more.

  I grind down, chasing the feeling that’s lighting up the nerves between my legs.

  “You like that, baby?”

  “Shhh.” I hush him.

  I can’t believe I hushed him.

  But it feels like I have something in my sights, I’m so close, and I don’t want to lose focus, not for a second.

  He laughs. “Okay, baby.” And he slides his soapy hands up my back and then cups my neck, holding me still while he plunders my mouth, thrusting up where I ride him. I press down to meet him, and each roll of my hips stokes the want swirling in my belly.

  I’m losing my breath. I think I’m losing my mind. Shouldn’t I be scared? Triggered? I reach into my head, but for once, there’s really nothing there but a greedy, demanding little voice. Get it. He has it; he wants to give it to you. Get it.

  “Charge,” I gasp.

  “Humm?” He nips at my lower lip and then squeezes my ass, rocking his erection harder against the seam of my bikini bottom. The legs are too tight for me to push them aside, and I want to.

  He takes my mouth again, and I want to scream in frustration.

  I think he could do this all day.

  But I want more. I want there to be nothing between him and me.

  I draw back, suck in a ragged breath. I try to tug his arms so he knows I want to go further. Do what’s next.

  He raises his arms from cupping my ass to wrap gently around my middle. He sweetens the kiss, brushing lightly over my swollen lips.

  That’s not what I want. That’s not more.

  I groan, try pulling at his arms again.

  He drops them to the bench and nuzzles my nose with his. He eases his thrusts, and it hurts, honestly hurts between my legs to lose the pressure.

  This is not going in the direction I want.

  I think a moment. Check in with myself. Still not freaking out.

  So I push back, stand up, water sluicing down my sensitive skin, and Charge gives me a look of total, blinking surprise.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” His blue eyes darken with worry.

  “Nothing,” I pant. I grab his hand, and drag him to the steps. I don’t know how to do this—I sure as hell don’t know how to do this in a whirlpool tub. I’m not thinking too clearly, but I’ve got it in my head that to get what I want, what I crave, we need a bed. And I know where I can find a big ol’ circular one.

  Charge finally gets what I’m doing, and he lets out the most amazed, amused chuckle I’ve ever heard from him.

  “You want it now, baby?”

  I don’t bother answering. He knows. He’s leading me now, down the stairs to the bed by the fireplace. He unzips my bikini bottom, peels my top all the way off, and I’m trying to get closer to him, hide my pudge and touch him at the same time.

  I’m so distracted, I can’t say which impulse is stronger: modesty or getting some of this amazingness that’s all mine. His skin is hot from the tub, damp, and when I touch him, his pecs and abs jump like with a jolt of static electricity. He’s murmuring, telling me I’m perfect, asking me if I’m sure, grabbing my ass with both hands and massaging the cheeks, lifting and circling, totally erasing the remaining ache in the small of my back from the long ride on his bike.

  “Oh damn, it’s like fuckin’ Christmas,” he pants into my mouth. “You’re amazing. You want this bad, baby, don’t you?” The question sounds oddly not rhetorical. Does he really not know? Is he worried, like I am, that the past will rise up and turn all this beautiful ugly?

  “Yes,” I breathe as I reach down, stroke his hot length as it twitches, insistent against my palm. “I want you so, so bad.” I’m not afraid. I’m here in this moment, with Charge, and I can’t stop smiling.

  I push him onto the bed, and he falls, pulling me with him until I’m straddling him, naked as a jaybird, and he’s huge beneath me, his broad shoulders and thick thighs and massive hardness that nestles up the cleft of my ass.

  He’s raking his eyes up and down my front. Taking in all of me. I flush hot. Squirm. I don’t like this. He can see everything. My stretch marks. The sag I got from carrying Jimmy. My smile falls.

  Charge notices right away. “You don’t want to be on top, baby?”

  I shake my head. No.

  He doesn’t argue or ask why. He rolls me onto my back, and rests his cock against my hip bone. He takes my lips, gently, nibbling and tugging the top, then bottom, smoothing my hair.

  I love how he kisses. Like it’s a destination; he has nowhere else to go.

  “I love how you make me feel, baby,” he murmurs. “You’re so soft. So fuckin’ perfect for me.”

  He’s so big, he covers all my flaws. I look up into the mirror on the ceiling, and all I can see is his ripped shoulders, his carved ass, flexing as he rocks against me, and the long muscles on the backs of his thighs. And I can see my face when he moves down to lick my breasts again, and I’m flushed, drunk-looking, my lips swollen.

  I look young, I think. And happy.

  I guess I am.

  I don’t usually realize it.

  I feel heat pooling between my legs with every stroke of Charge’s tongue on my skin. He nibbles my sides, my tummy. I shriek, giggle, and he uses the moment to slide his shoulders between my legs.

  I’m open to him now. My throat dries. I’m nervous again. Scared. Excited.

  I look down. I don’t know what he’s doing. I tap on his head, and he raises it, blue eyes twinkling.

  “I told you what I was going to do to this peach. Didn’t I?”

  I can’t answer. I just blink.

  I guess Sue was wrong about at least one guy with a man bun.

  I think he’s going to…go to town. But he doesn’t. He rolls to his side, next to my hip, and pushes my knee up and out. Then he grabs a pillow and tucks it under my butt.

  “Look up,” he says.

  I can’t. But I do anyway. And in the mirror, I can see…me. The pillow has canted my hips, and Charge has urged my knees so wide that my pussy is on display. And, oh Lord, he’s looking up, too. At me. In the mirror.

  “See how pretty you are,” he says, spreading my lips. On instinct, I try to close my knees, but he has an arm wrapped around the one closest to him. He easily nudges them apart again.

  “Look at how wet you are for me. A perfect peach.” He strokes his fingers down my folds, all the way from my clit to my asshole. He circles it, and I hold my breath. I’m not ready for…that. He chuckles, a sound that promises “later,” and dips a finger into my wet channel instead. I whimper.

  And then he bends forward and takes my clit in his mouth, sucking, and in the mirror I can see his head, the bunching muscles in his shoulders, and a red flush creeps over my whole chest.

  I squirm. I can’t help it. It tickles, and it makes me ache at the same time. I’m begging, complaining really, and Charge responds by flicking at my clit with his tongue, circling it, pumping a finger inside me, making the most embarrassing, wet noise.

  I don’t know if I can take it any longer, the intensity, the realness. But this is Charge. It’s okay. He’s okay. And then there’s the gathering want in my belly, the emptiness deep up between my legs. I want him. Need him.

  “Charge,” I mewl.

  “Do you want it, baby?” he pants, lifting his head. My juices are in his beard.

  “Y-yeah,” I stutter. “Yes.”

  He smiles, so wide, and wipes his face on the sheet.

  “You tell me if you freak out, okay, baby? I’ll stop. Don’t matter when.” He’s staring at me so intent, so serious. I know he means it.

  “Okay,” I agree, and I look down while he lines his cock up with the place that aches so much it’s pulsing with need.

  He’s big. Reddish purple. A vein juts down from the head which glistens with pre-cum.

  I’m glad I didn’t really check it out until now
. If I had, I’d have lost it. No doubt. It’s huge.

  “Still okay?” he checks in.

  I nod.

  “Give me the words, baby,” he grunts, pushed up on his arms, his biceps straining.

  “Still okay.”

  And he sinks into me, splitting me, slow but steady, and I try to breathe through it, in and out. I stiffen a little, and then he’s seated in me, all the way. There’s no space between his pelvis and mine. He’s inside me, to the hilt.

  My eyes fly up to his. And he’s smiling down at me. He’s bracing himself on his elbows now, so he’s closer. I can feel his beard tickle my neck.

  “Hi,” he says. And suddenly it really is totally okay.

  “Hi,” I reply, wiggling. I feel pinned, like a bug, and also full. It doesn’t hurt, but there’s pressure. Definitely pressure. I guess it feels good?

  I can’t really think about it feeling good. My whole attention is on Charge, how he seems zeroed in on my eyes, reading me so closely I want to cover my face with my hands.

  “Talk to me, baby,” he says.

  “About what?” I bite my bottom lip, and his gaze darts down. He’s missing nothing.

  “You feel good? Ready for me to move?”

  Oh. Moving. Yeah. I guess that’s part of it.

  I nod.

  He sighs, brushes kisses across my lips. “Words, baby.”

  “I’m ready,” I say.

  He groans—it sounds like relief—and then he’s stroking into me, slow but deep, and he’s worked his hand between us so he can circle my clit with a calloused finger. The achy heat is building again now, and inside me, he’s dragging against a place, high and deep, and each time he hits it, it feels so good. And I get wetter.

  Like really wet. Too wet.

  Gushing.

  Oh dear Lord no. I’m not peeing myself. Not now. No, no, no.

  I pee sometimes when I sneeze; the doctor says that’s not uncommon after having a baby. I should do Kegels.

  But I don’t do Kegels. Why haven’t I been doing Kegels? This is the worst moment of my life. I want to heave Charge off me. Run and hide and never, ever come out.

  “Oh, fuck yeah baby,” Charge grunts. “I should have known my Peaches would be a squirter.”

  A squirter? What is that? I’ve really stiffened up, and if not for the flood between my legs, I think Charge would have a hard time getting inside.