by Zoey Parker
He was not wrong.
“Who set you on my tail, man? I gotta go beat somebody up.”
He laughed. “Yeah, good luck with that. Bull called me at the shop, told me I’d better get my ass over here and talk some sense into you before you fuck everything up even more. You gonna go take out our president, now? That’s a great fuckin’ idea, bruh. I’ll be ringside.”
I shook my head. We both knew I would not be doing anything to Bull. I had far too much respect for the man, and gratitude for all that he had done for me in this past year. Not to mention that it is not in our MC culture to dis—or piss off—the prez.
“Listen, man. Let it go. You’re about to marry a gorgeous woman. Let yourself enjoy this. Don’t think about six months from now. Think about Ellie, and think about Peter, and about what this will do for both of them in the long run. You are being a fucking hero to that woman, so act like one. Even if you’re not feelin’ it. She’s been through enough lately, ya know?”
He was on point. “Yeah.” I nodded.
I slowly resolved myself to make tonight about her. Help her have some fun, a night off from the many stresses that had been dragging her down for well over a year now.
Tonight was going to be a long fucking night.
# # #
Formal MC events do not involve tuxedoes. We were all in our kuttes, black pants or blue jeans, and long-sleeved white or black linen shirts. Some of the guys had put up a white canopy out on the lawn, and the bikes were all lined up facing each other in two rows, leading from the clubhouse to the canopy, like a guard of chrome. Bull was presiding, Grath was my best man, and everybody else was circled around us and the canopy.
Waiting there for my bride to walk down the aisle, it felt really strange to be the center of attention like this. I actually felt—I didn’t know what. I wanted Ellie to get her ass out here ASAP, so I wouldn’t be alone as the focal point anymore. Let her have that. But waiting on her, as I was, I was actually starting to fidget.
Okay. Yeah. I was nervous.
After what felt like long hours of standing there, waiting, Shredder, our very own lead guitar soloist, finally began playing a recognizable wedding song or piece or whatever it was. Everybody hushed and turned toward the compound to watch as Ellie made her way through the aisle of bikes. She walked alone, but she needed no accompaniment. She looked…
Beautiful. So goddamn beautiful.
The silky white dress, veil over her hair, et cetera—all the basic bridal stuff—but none of that mattered, not to me. She was blushing, of course, probably from all the eyes on her. It made her eyes brighter, her face softer, her lips fuller. Not that she needed it—she was always gorgeous, even first thing in the morning when she could barely open her eyes and walked around like a zombie. But today, now, on this occasion, I was blown away.
This woman was about to marry me. Me.
Unbelievable.
And suddenly, I knew I couldn’t hold onto my anger with her any longer. I could barely hold a thought, except for an impatient wish that she would walk faster, get herself to my side sooner. I needed to look into her eyes and see her expression, see what she was thinking, make sure she really wanted this, too.
Hell, I wanted her to want this—me—for more than just the money. But reality bites, man. No way would either of us have been there, were it not for Peter and that trust fund.
Maybe I ought to have been thanking her grandmother.
Ellie finally arrived, and I took her hand, which was soft and light as a feather. Her hand was shaking, so I gave her a squeeze for support. She immediately intertwined our fingers, and I figured that was a good sign—she wasn’t pissed off about the way I had laid into her this morning.
Just remembering those moments had me getting a semi. Damn. Every time I touched her and she responded was a kind of bliss and torture combined. I’d steered clear the past few days for a reason, but that was not going to be possible for the next several hours. I had no idea how we would survive the next six months.
I tried to focus. Tonight was just tonight. Live in the now. Moment to moment. Plenty of time to think about the next day when it came. That would have to be my ongoing strategy, and I had no problem with it. Actually, it had long been my general MO.
Peter was the one who had me thinking differently, recently. His very existence required planning ahead, and I hadn’t even realized how much my thinking had altered because I was thinking of him and his needs, and Ellie’s needs in association.
Was I seriously already becoming a family man? Was that what this all meant?
I didn’t have time to let myself dig into all that philosophy, not right now.
Now, I had an unbelievably beautiful woman holding my hand, standing up with me, and needing my help. I’d give her everything I had, tonight.
Even if it killed me.
# # #
We had a fucking great night.
The ceremony went off without a hitch. Ellie was nervous, but she got through it, even smiling at me shyly most of the time. She blushed as she spoke the vows, of course. It turned me on. As if that was any surprise.
When it came time for me to kiss her, I was fully committed to enjoying the moment, so I went for it. Why the fuck not? Pretty sure I surprised her, but she didn’t protest in any way—if her grasping my hair, opening her mouth, and rubbing her tongue on mine with the same amount of passion as I put into it was any indication.
I don’t know for how long we were mashing, but by the time I lifted my head, all I could hear were whoops and clapping and laughter coming from all directions. There was no holding back my smile.
Ellie was grasping onto my head and back and seemed a little wobbly, so instead of doing the normal thing, I bent down and picked her up and carried her down the aisle of chrome, back to the clubhouse. Everybody trailed us, and the party started rocking immediately. There was a lot of loud music, champagne—I had a glass because I figured I should—disgusting stuff—and beer and top-shelf everything.
Despite all of her nerves during the ceremony, my woman loosened up soon afterward. We danced, laughed, and ate a ton of great barbeque. The Iron Bandits threw us one hell of an amazing party, and I knew they did it for me, for Keith, and for Ellie. I had good people.
And now, Ellie did, too. That, in itself, was important.
The only thing I was having a consistent issue with—the whole night long—was the raging boner that pressed hard against my jeans just from being near that woman. I couldn’t blame her for it, but by the time the party was winding down enough for us to go home, I was desperately searching for ways to put some distance between us. Proximity was getting to be torture, and even though I was all for living in the now, I also had to be mindful of our arrangement, and our promises to not give in to our explosive sexual chemistry.
Ecstasy, meet Agony.
Chapter 18
Ellie
Jack was so dreamy.
He was beautiful, and tall, and strong, and he smelled sooo good. I loved watching his face when he laughed—he didn’t do that often enough. His smile was a mile wide, and his eyes sparkled, and his whole being just lit up. Standing next to him, dancing with him, sitting on his lap—apparently this was de rigeur for ‘old ladies’—a set to which I could now claim membership. Not sure how I felt about that, but the ladies in it were cool, so my first impression of the concept might have been wrong—all of this proximity to Jack had me more wet in my panties than I had ever been in my life. It was all I could do not to jump his bones.
I blamed him. He had started it this morning, leaving me high and…not dry at the coffeemaker. Then all throughout the ceremony, when I was so nervous, he held my hand and smiled at me, looking appreciative and strong and so handsome. And that kiss! And then he carried me down the aisle! I mean, come on. All night, I just wanted to crawl all over him, suck on his lips and tongue, kiss and breathe in his neck, touch him all over…. It was ridiculous. I was ridiculous.
By
some unknowable holy power, I had managed to restrain myself from acting on any of my baser instincts. I was doing my best to respect the lines we had drawn in the sand regarding the marriage contract and the no-more-sex-ever clause.
I had darned well better be earning top points in karma for all of my incredibly difficult work on this Herculean task. And those points, I decided, would all be put into Peter’s health box. It would all be worth it, for Peter.
Speaking of, Peter was being treated to a night of best-ever babysitting and extreme mama love from all of the old ladies who were mommies themselves.
Lena—who was partnered with Shooter, a veteran badass who had a prosthetic leg and a fiercely awesome sense of humor—had brought along her family’s favorite babysitter, Nell, to oversee all the loving, and to protect my little one from any overzealous handling. She guarded him while he slept, and kept him company in an upstairs room far enough away from the party to keep him safe and sound.
The mommies in the house were taking turns going up there, loving the opportunity to cuddle with my little bean, and they reassured me over and over again that I was not to worry about him until I was sober.
That meant that I could get my drink on and have a real night out, enjoy the party and all that went with it, and know that my baby boy was in fabulously loving hands. I hadn’t felt this free since…I don’t even know when. Maybe the night that Peter was conceived. Huh. That was significant, but I couldn’t really pinpoint exactly why, in my current state of semi-inebriation.
I wasn’t drunk. But I was certainly buzzed, and feeling high on life. I felt amazing: happy, light, and …around Jack? Jack was making me feel beautiful. Damn, I wanted to kiss that man.
# # #
As a wedding gift and to welcome me to the club, they had all pitched in to get me my very own kutte to match Jack’s, who they all called Jack-o—I still did not know why. It was a minor point, I figured, even though I now had a black leather road vest that read, “Property of Jack-o” on the back. Seeing as it was given to me with the expectation that I would be moved and honored and actually thrilled by such an appellation, I had smiled at all of them, and looked quizzically at Jack when I tried it on.
He started laughing so hard he almost squirted beer out his nose.
I decided now was probably not the best time for us to have a little come-to-Jesus about this patriarchal macho crap that the MC was apparently all about. Still, I said my thank yous to everybody with a genuine smile at their obvious intention of generosity and welcome. After all, they had rolled out quite the red carpet for me. I was deeply moved, and grateful. I wore the vest the rest of the night, right over the bridal gown. And—truth, here—I started to love the feel of it on me.
At some point in the night, after several hours of great times, Jack looked at me with some level of determination in his eyes, and indicated that it was time for us to begin saying our thanks and goodnights.
He made quick work of it, actually—just lifted his chin and called out a general, “Iron Bandits,” raised his fist in the air for a second or two, then grabbed my hand and pulled me behind him toward his bike.
I didn’t even get a chance to say goodnight to Peter—or anyone else, for that matter—but since I was less-than-sober, he probably wasn’t missing out on much.
Considering the near-full length of the mermaid-style silk hugging my legs, Jack deposited me on the back of his bike side-saddle style, lifting the bottom of the skirt so it wouldn’t get caught in anything and stuffing it between my thighs and the seat. Then he climbed on in front of me, grunted, “Hold on to me tight, babe,” and we were off.
This was new to me, and all I could think about during that ride was that there was nothing like feeling the air and the freedom of the road from the back of a bike, in a wedding gown and a kutte, with the hottest man in the world attached to my front side. My cheek pressed against his back, and I could not have stopped the smile that took over my face, even if someone had offered me a million bucks.
When we arrived back at his place—officially, for now, our place—we were both quiet in our thoughts. I was suddenly feeling shy again, not sure of what happened next. I guessed we might just separate into our two bedrooms, and call it a night.
But that didn’t feel right. Tonight was a big night. It meant something. And I didn’t want to say goodnight, not yet.
We were still standing out by the bike, just facing each other for a minute, and I spontaneously put my hands on either side of his neck and pulled his face down to mine, intending just to kiss his lips, in acknowledgement of the moment—well, that seemed as good an excuse as any.
He let me, and for several seconds it was a sweet, light, gentle kiss.
Then he groaned.
And we both immediately opened our mouths, our tongues came out lashing, and we were suddenly in a mad clasp of need and desire.
He tasted like whiskey and beer and heaven. His arms pulled me tight to his body so I could feel his hardness press against my belly. I grasped his hair and the back of his neck, trying to crawl up him for a better angle—the man was tall!
He read my need, and swung me up in his arms again, not even breaking the kiss. I don’t think I would have let him, had he tried. The next thing I knew, he had brought me inside and to his bedroom and set me down by the bed. It was then that he broke our delicious tongue-play.
“Are you okay…”
I smirked at him, dropped my new kutte to the floor, loosened the gown by the side zipper, and shimmied it down my body. I was left in a beautiful panty-and-bra set of white lace, and a kick-ass pair of white cowboy boots that Lena had lent me.
His jaw dropped, his pupils dilated, and he said, “Fuuuck.”
I took it as a compliment.
His hands roamed my body, from my collarbones down my arms to my hands, from my waist up to my breasts. I took the opportunity to peel his kutte off as well, and to unbutton his dress shirt and divest him of it. He spent some time appreciating my breasts and nipples through my bra; I spent some time tasting his neck, his chest, whatever I could reach.
He pulled himself away from me a few inches and unclasped my bra, peeled it off of me, and tossed it aside. Then with a growl he grasped my ass in both hands and dove for a nipple, sucking and nipping it, pinching and twisting the other for fair play. I gasped and writhed and threw my head back, wanting more.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
“More. I need more, Jack.”
“What do you want?”
“Everything.”
The conversation brought me back to some level of consciousness, and I put my hands to work undoing his belt buckle and button-fly. Finally I got them open, and pushed both his jeans and boxers down over his hips, feeling the definition of his abs and that incredibly sexy V as I went. He allowed it for a minute, then took over again, lifting and lowering me onto the bed so he could rid himself of the last of his clothes, me of my boots, and he joined me on the bed. I watched, appreciative of the show, then as soon as he was about to settle himself on top of me I pushed him over and straddled his middle.
He grinned a little and raised an eyebrow. “You want something specific, Ellie?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Show me.”
I did.
I slid down his body, leading with my hands and following with my mouth, from his pecs to his nipples, giving them a fair amount of attention. He groaned, so I figured he liked that. His hands were still full with my breasts, which I liked.
Eventually I remembered to move along, sinking further down across his eight-pack—eight-pack!—to his belly button, to that phenomenal V of muscles on either side, and trailing my fingers through the sexy line of soft hairs that led to the glory that was his amazing, beautiful cock. He stood at full mast, long and thick, and if I hadn’t already had him inside of me once before, I would have begun to worry.
As it was, I knew I could take him, and I marveled at the phenomenon that was his
entire body. I was practically giddy, but also too turned on to lose track of my goal.
I wanted to taste him. I wanted to explore the feel of him with my tongue and mouth and hands. I wanted to know what made him groan, or grunt, or push for more.
I wrapped my hand around his base as well as I could and pulled up to the head, watching his face as I did so. His eyes were closed and he tipped his head back. “Yeah. More.”
I happily complied. Rolling my thumb across the slit at the top of his cock, I spread the drop of pre-cum around, then rolled my hand back down to the base. My mouth finally descended and I licked the slit, then used the tip and the flat of my tongue to play with the head, explore the soft, silky texture of his skin, taste his cum, feel his size with my mouth.
