Red Hot Bikers, Rock Stars and Bad Boys

by Cassia Leo

  “Do you want me to fuck you like this, from behind, while the whole world watches?” He wanted to bury himself in all her softness. And he wanted it to hurt. Her or himself, he wasn't sure.

  Her only answer was the expanding cloud of condensation as she panted. And then she rocked back. The slightest shift, but just enough friction, in just the right place. He ground against her naked ass, his cock throbbing in his jeans.

  She turned her head, pressing her flushed cheek to the window, and he couldn't resist running his open mouth up the column of her neck, chasing that frantic pulse, biting the lobe of her ear until she cried out, “Nobody can see.”

  “Shhhh. Everybody is watching. Let's give them a show.” He skimmed over her rib cage, her belly, and lower, until he could feel damp heat. She wasn't wet enough for what he had in mind. Not yet. He wanted to fuck her so hard she'd be bruised. Marked. Damaged. He circled her clit with his thumb, savoring every buck and twitch, and plunged one finger deep. The slick walls of her cunt clenched tight as he drew back. Almost ready.

  “Don't stop,” she moaned.

  “I'm running things.” He bit the sweet spot where shoulder met neck in admonishment, and reached for his belt buckle. Impatient, he yanked off the belt, pulled the condom from his pocket and shucked his pants. All the while keeping one hand tangled in her hair. Holding her in place.

  He considered having her put it on him with her mouth, but she probably didn't have that skill set. Though it might be fun to watch her try, to teach her, to corrupt her.

  Later.

  Sheathed, he positioned himself at her opening, rubbed the head of his cock over her slick folds, and then he thrust. One fluid movement and he was balls-deep in hot, honeyed heaven. Every drop of blood in his body raged toward his hard-on. Fuck. He drew back and thrust again. And again.

  God, she felt good, arching to meet him. He gripped her hip so tight his knuckles went white, pulling her back against him as hard as he thrust. He released her hair so he could grab her other hip, get more leverage, and she gasped. How tight had he pulled it?

  He wanted to break her, but all she did was bend and bend.

  *

  Chicago’s jagged skyline sprawled in front of Hailey, carving her, scraping her until she felt raw and bloodied. Even the thick-paned window pushed her, hurt her, but in a world of cold apathy, the man behind her pulsed hot and…almost caring. Almost loving, the way he stroked her body, worshipped it.

  She was reading too much into it; she knew that. The rock star, the player. He could have every woman in the city and already had, maybe.

  She was just the novelty item, a punch line he could use back in Vegas. I fucked a preschool teacher once. But her body didn’t get the joke. Her body was too busy melting in pools of lava at his feet, and what would be left at the end? The volcano didn’t care. It burst right down the middle and spilled itself until nothing was left.

  The flesh at her sex was oversensitive, abraded despite the liquid pooling there, readying herself, and he knew. His fingers were achingly gentle as they caressed slippery lips. He raised his hand to her mouth, and she opened automatically, her mouth more obedient than her mind. Sandpaper fingers smoothed across her tongue, leaving the musky scent of her own shame in their wake.

  Her moan couldn’t breach the rushing in her ears, but she felt the sound vibrate in her throat. Felt an answering groan rumble from behind her. Unhearing, unthinking, like animals let loose in the penthouse. Wild things, she thought with a voiceless laugh.

  A pinch started at the base of her neck, where it met her shoulder. He was biting her. With his teeth. She gasped. The pain radiated out to her breasts, down her belly, spearing her sex.

  “Oh shit.” And that she could hear clearly―her voice. Her curse.

  “Yes. That’s right, baby. Let me have it. I knew you were in there in your fucking cardigan. Fuck.”

  She bucked, moving her hips, rocking heedlessly, uselessly against the unyielding window. Only his body gave, the ridge of arousal twitching and the sleek muscles undulating and the kind man gasping. Strange thought. He wasn’t kind. Except when he bit her neck and pinched her nipple and her body clenched in helpless surrender, she felt his gift like a benediction.

  She fell, through the window and down the rabbit hole. Lost to darkness except for his arms around her, one on her waist and the other teasing the dregs of orgasm from her clit. She shuddered in relief.

  Still here. Only three days with him, but she was still here.

  His rough grip pulled her back to earth, where she tumbled to the feather-soft bed, drying her sweat and arousal on bleach-white sheets. He didn’t join her. Standing at the edge, he pulled her legs up and pressed them apart.

  His grin was strained. “We can do better than that, don’t you think?”

  She barely had time to consider what he meant. Her climax? Had been amazing. The best ever. And he wanted another one, a better one. How were they going to get it? His mouth answered her, pressing against her slippery sex.

  Her mind rebelled against the idea. His angular face with its even, neatly groomed layer of scruff. The little tongue piercing that glinted when he said certain words, like lick and slowly. He was a masculine form of pretty that didn’t need to dirty itself in the slick folds down there.

  And God, the black eyeliner. Would it smudge? It seemed like a real possibility the way he nuzzled her, unabashedly finding every slick, damp hollow while her hips thrust upward with a mind of their own. Pleasure coiled within her, taking over every impulse.

  Her hand fluttered uselessly above the dark crown of his head. What was she doing? Not pushing him, never that. Not holding his head in place. Just frantic, just panicking. Until he grasped her hand and pressed it against the bed―without lifting his head or slowing his torment.

  And then he found her clit with a pleasure so sharp it seared her. His piercing, she realized, and it did pierce her; it lanced her. That small, smooth ball of silver rained down ecstasy on her weak and untried clit. The previous pleasure blew away like cotton clouds, replaced by a dark storm and a strike of lightning where it hurt the most. She cried out, vague sounds of ah ahhh ahhh, and he answered her, groaning, grunting against her aching flesh.

  Wild things in commune and she could barely understand. All she had were observations, the tanned curve of his shoulder where it propped up her knee. And things she couldn’t see, like how wet she was. She could feel the wetness and hear it.

  Too wet.

  Embarrassment flushed hot across her skin, and it would only be worse when she came. She wouldn’t be conscious enough to guard herself. She’d gush all over his face, and then what? No, no. Her thighs tensed, belly clenched against the impending climax as if she could stop it, as if she had control. A hundred miles per hour toward the edge of a cliff and she slammed on the brakes. And fell right over the edge, tumbled over, headlong. Listening to the echoes of her own shameful cries, sighing in relief as she landed, impossibly light on a plush, pristine surface.

  His mouth didn’t let up. It just slowed. As if her pleasure hadn’t been the goal at all. It was the slippery musk she left on her thighs; that was his prize. He lapped it up, slow and hungry, until every part of her had been cleaned with his tongue. And she, boneless and spread-eagle on the bed, offered him anything, but this was all he took. Only then did she realize, right when he broke the contact, that they’d been holding hands all that time. He finally pushed himself onto the bed and rolled beside her.

  She lay like that, drifting. It might have been minutes or hours. Maybe she would have stayed that way forever, except she felt him vibrating next to her. That was the only way to describe it: vibrating. Was he laughing? Crying? Both possibilities seemed horrifying. Her eyes squeezed tight, unable to even watch her humiliation, to find out what she’d done wrong. But on a particular jolt, she had to see. She turned her head, and―

  He was touching himself. Stroking himself. When his fist met the base of his cock, the skin peeled
back to reveal a curved, glistening head. On the upstroke, he turned his wrist, like twisting the lid off an old-fashioned Coke bottle. He was rough with himself, she realized.

  “Can I―” she started. “Do you want me to―” She made a little motion with her hand and her shoulder and hips, not even sure what it was supposed to mean. Was she miming sex now? Was she truly that ridiculous?

  “No,” he gasped out. And then, as if to make sure she understood, he gave a short, quick shake of his head.

  No? Part of her recoiled from the blunt rejection. He didn’t want her. She’d managed to disappoint him just by having a messy orgasm all over his tongue.

  But another part of her was simply confused. Any man, and a famous, sexy rock star at that, didn’t lick a girl to orgasm and then just masturbate beside her when he was finished. And that definitely couldn’t be normal sex-contract procedure, even if she didn’t really know what that would be. He could perform almost any act on her, and the way he was watching her breasts as he touched himself, she knew he wanted to. So why didn’t he? A sudden tenderness filled her as she watched sweat bead on his brow.

  She brushed it away. “If you want to…do that, it’s fine. I’ll just help, okay? I’ll be right next to you and help.”

  His lips pursed; his brow furrowed. Even while he fought with himself, his hand didn’t stop. He was fighting with himself and jerking himself off, and she wondered if those were the same things.

  “Okay,” he gasped.

  She reached out and paused, uncertain. Her hands hovered above him, like some sort of dirty healer. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Touch me,” he ground out, still working, still stroking.

  She put her palms on his chest. Just placed them flat against bunched, sweaty muscles, an ironing board to unruly wrinkles.

  “With your mouth,” he grunted, and she leaned forward to place a kiss on a pale brown nipple.

  “Lower.”

  She pressed her lips to his abs. Her eyes met his, and without really planning it, a challenge passed from her to him.

  His lids lowered. “Do you want me to make you?”

  She could never tell him to do that, not in three days, not in a million years. All she could do was bow her head and pray he would do it anyway. His other hand tangled in her hair, grasped it at the base, and guided her mouth to where they both wanted it to be.

  *

  His jaw ached. His cock ached. Everything ached. She was so much fucking work—exhausting—and he couldn't get enough.

  He tugged the silky blonde strands tangled in his fingers and resisted the urge to pull her up to his sticky lips, to bury his face in her hair. Hair that he knew smelled just like the baby powder he sprinkled on his hands before a show.

  There was nothing coy about her, nothing calculating. But she blinked at him with her clear brown eyes, said those things, and manipulated him just the same. Maybe if he filled that mouth with his cock, he could break the spell. Maybe he was kidding himself.

  She touched him with just the tip of her tongue, tasted him, slipped a bead of precum into her mouth and moaned. A live fucking wire, a shorted-out amp. He felt that flick shoot to his balls, along his spine, right to the top of his head. Jesus. The wet slide of her mouth as she swallowed him was warm and welcome. Slow. She wanted to help. It was like his cock found a home.

  “That's it, baby. Take it all.”

  He pushed her down until she made a muffled choking noise, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat, her lips still not at the base. She didn't balk or pull away; she just relaxed into it. Took it. And then she swirled her goddamn tongue, like a question. He hissed the answer through clenched teeth. “Yesssss.”

  This was not the plan. The plan was to jerk off with her mouth, use her like a masturbatory sex toy, a living Fleshlight. Fuck her face until she didn't want to look at him.

  He wasn't in control anymore.

  Spinning on a razor edge of bliss, rocking his hips, he trailed his hand down the side of her face. Caressed her hollowed cheek with his thumb as she worked over him. Her naked body bent to the task, her pale shoulders a stark contrast to his tanned skin. He smoothed her hair back so he could see the gorgeous mess he'd made, her lips pulled tight, her eyes watering.

  She smiled.

  He let his head sink into the pillows. Let the pleasure claim him, just this once. When her searching hand found his balls, cupped them, that was a question too.

  His body answered for him. The orgasm rocked through him like a violent quake. She took it all. He held her there, just to make sure.

  ***

  Chapter Seven

  Saturday morning

  Hailey stretched, feeling the warmth of sunlight on her face…and a hairy leg beneath her foot. That brought her up short.

  She sat and took stock. A cushy, oversize bed that bore close resemblance to a cloud. An endless view of blue skies through the tall windows. And a rough-hewn man sprawled beside her. She knew there was an explanation for all this. It hovered just beyond her thoughts. But at the moment she couldn’t remember the specifics, and right here, this felt like heaven. Or a highly sexualized version of heaven.

  The man rolled to face her. Without opening his eyes, his hands reached for her―and found their mark. He pulled her down beside him, wrapping his arms around her, heavy and sweet. “Go back to sleep,” he mumbled against her hair, and yes, yes, this had to be heaven.

  But then she remembered. Her sister, pregnant. The band, the deadbeat. And the contract, signed.

  It was a puzzle, that contract. So formal and yet so…permissive. Like building up walls and then handing her a sledgehammer. Opening her eyes, she saw the side table where he kept the contracts and the lube. Very handy for sudden sex purposes. He’d had a stack of them. How many women had signed on the very solid, very puzzling line? Probably lots of them.

  He might not even have known it was her. Go back to sleep sounded a lot less charming. He didn’t want to cuddle; he wanted to hit the Snooze button on his human alarm clock.

  Gross.

  She felt gross. She wriggled from his grasp, needing to breathe freely again. He made a grunting sound and tossed and turned briefly before settling back into sleep. He really was pretty this way. Long lashes against tanned cheeks. The heavy eyeliner had faded from his lids, leaving him looking innocent. What a joke. No doubt he had tried everything once and then started over again, like the kinky man’s version of Around the World in Eighty Days. And she wasn’t a Paris or even a Chicago. She was a gas-station stop on Route 66.

  She really needed to get out of this room.

  At least Lock had the foresight to have her bag brought up last night. She slipped into the bathroom and took a shower, wondering why her skin could still remember the shape of his hands, his mouth, even when pummeled by scalding water. The clothes she’d filched from her sister seemed to fit her even worse today, without the puffery of righteous indignation to fill them out.

  A clumsy attempt at makeup completed the disguise.

  Hopefully she would blend in. If not, she thought wryly, she could always show them the contract. It was the cool-kids stamp of approval she’d never had back in high school. Of course then she’d owe Lock a bajillion dollars, so probably not. At least she had the little VIP card around her neck, for whatever that was worth.

  As she hit the button on the elevator, she realized she wouldn’t be able to return to the room without a key card. And Lock had the key card. Maybe she should wait until he woke up? Nah. She had come here for this purpose. And he’d said she had full access to his band and the hotel when he wasn’t using her.

  Like now.

  Downstairs, it looked like most people had cleared out. A cleaning crew had come and gone, leaving the lobby immaculate. No puke by the potted fern. No unconscious guy slumped next to it—she hoped he was okay.

  There was one relic from last night, as if to prove it hadn’t been a dream. A guy lounged in one of the fancy le
ather chairs. He was shirtless and shoeless, and his fly was undone. He cradled his head in his hand, clearly worse for the night’s partying.

  Frowning, she tried to remember the hints her sister had dropped about the guy she liked. We love the same music. No surprise there. He really gets me. Hailey sighed. He’s just in a weird place with his life right now, and a baby would mess all that up.

  Not much to go on, but hey, she’d found her righteous indignation again. This little road trip hadn’t been a well thought out idea. It was pure, unadulterated frustration. Hailey refused to sit around at home and do nothing, and this was all she’d had left. She marched over and plopped herself in the seat across from the guy.

  “Hi, I’m Hailey.”

  He scowled at her. “Why are you shouting?”

  “I’m not,” she said, but she did lower her voice. “I just wanted to introduce myself, because I’m new around here. You know, to the tour.” What did they call themselves? “The group. The…club.”

  “You don’t say,” he responded drily.

  “But you know, I really love their music. The band’s. It’s very…” She had a flash of a dark head wedged between her thighs. “Enthusiastic. And talented.”

  “So you’re here to fuck them.” A statement, not a question.

  “No.” She blushed. Now that she’d signed the contract, it was true. She was here to fuck Lock, for three days. Or were they on two and a half now? Something panged in her gut. She should probably find breakfast soon. “Well. Yeah. But I also wondered, since you’re part of the band posse—”

  “The what?” He snorted.

  Maybe not posse then. She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. Did you see a girl with the band? Blonde. Young.”

  He gave her a droll look. “I’m looking at one.”

  She flushed again. Damn it. “Not me. My…friend. She sold merch for a while.”