Artist

by Juli Valenti

  Whatever she’d expected, or even imagined, of the man, seeing him bare-chested blew it out of the water. He was lean, every inch of his skin defined with muscle. Tell-tale scars, from what she assumed was a knife, slashed across the lines of his right peck, and two puckered circles were apparent among his abs. Maybe he is like his cut, too, though on the outside.

  “Come on, darlin,’” He ignored her blatant staring and reached for her once more, pulling her to him. The warmth of his skin on hers was torture, her nerves stinging from the stark contrast of his heat and faint desire coursing through her. “Jesus, we’ve got to get you warm, Artist.”

  Confusion flooded her again, not grasping his meaning until he’d guided them into the bath, both of them still wearing their jeans and boots. He pulled her against him tightly, sinking them into the hot water as needles pricked her skin and she began to shiver. Why was he so warm? And why was the water like daggers? It hurt.

  Large hands roamed her arms, her sides, moving up and down along her skin. Shivers escaped her, though whether it was the rollercoaster of temperatures or his touch, she wasn’t sure.

  “Shakespeare?” she mumbled between her teeth chattering. He must’ve felt it because his arms tightened around her, squeezing her tightly.

  “Yeah, darlin?’”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Gotta get you warm, darlin.’”

  “Why do you care? ‘Pretty sure you hate me. Don’t blame you, that. Everyone else does. My mom, dad, Cori … everyone. It’s easy to do, I guess … hating me,” she breathed as her body relaxed against him. She was blissfully warm, the pricking in her skin easing and leaving lethargy in its place.

  “I could never hate you, Artist. And, I doubt any of those people hate you. And Corey? He’s probably a dumbass who never realized what he had.”

  She shook her head. “She. Cori is a she … my best friend. Though, putting lead in the boy she was dating sort of stole that title from me.”

  “Is that the ‘another douche’ you were talkin’ about? What happened?”

  Artist’s head lolled to the side and she nuzzled his chest. “You’re comfortable.” She placed a small kiss on his skin. “Don’t wake me up from this dream, ‘kay? I wanna stay here for a little bit.”

  Her eyes were growing heavy, and she let them close, more comfortable than she’d probably ever been. In Shakespeare’s arms, half clothed in hot water, she felt cherished. And, just before consciousness left her, she could have sworn he spoke.

  “You are a dream, Cecili. I just can’t tell if a good one or my fuckin’ nightmare.”

  Vivid pinks and oranges filled the room when Artist opened her eyes. She was comfortable, warm, and her muscles liquid. Deciding she wasn’t ready to face the day, she rolled, only to find herself facing another body. Instinct told her to jump up, to demand who the hell he was and why he was in her room, but she didn’t.

  How drunk had she been the night before? Did she let some asshole get her into bed, to use her and throw her away like a sweetie? Artist knew the ropes of the world she was trying to be in – she knew pussy was pussy, and the strings that were generally offered were ones she didn’t want attached. She’d promised herself when she became serious about the club, and having met the club sweeties, her dear friend Teagan included, she wasn’t going to fall down that rabbit hole.

  Not to say she didn’t respect the men she called brothers and their reasoning. Sometimes, after a long day of blood and death, one needed to be reminded life was worth more. That there was pleasure and intimacy more than the final embrace from a dying man’s eyes. Getting lost in a woman's, or man’s, body, even for a moment, can be worth more than money.

  Yet, she wanted more than that. She didn’t want to be used as a tissue and thrown into the nearest trash can. Neither did she want to be saddled with an ‘Old Lady’ title, forcing her to be nothing but an ornament to be taken out for special occasions, sex when the need arose. Worse than that, was the fucking of other women. No, it just wasn’t for her.

  So why was she in bed with a stranger? And, the more she took in the room, the sheets, she realized she wasn’t in her room either. Curiosity had her arm reaching out, moving the hair off the large man’s face. Surprise flowed through her as she realized she wasn't in bed with just any biker, but with Shakespeare.

  Heart thumping, she took him in, shirtless, and the fringes of memories started to pour through her. Him, pulling her through the clubhouse. Getting sick in the bathroom. The sound of his voice and rumble of his chest against her face in the bathtub. Had he held her? More so, had he undressed her? The cool, soft sheets against her bare legs indicated he had … unless she'd somehow done so herself.

  “Mmmm,” Shakespeare groaned, flinging an arm over her hip and pulling her into him.

  Artist froze, unsure if he was awake or asleep. She took him in, noticing the differences in the hard man before her. During the day, during her training, Shakespeare drove her nuts – his attitude larger than the state of Texas. He was an asshole who was always right, always demanding more from her. There were days she fought to restrain herself.

  But as she took him in, he looked … soft. Almost gentle. Nothing like his badass biker personality. He didn’t seem capable of killing a fly, let alone pulling a gun on a man, though she knew he had. In fact, she knew he was ruthless, never hesitating, especially when another brother was on the line. Shakespeare was sharp as nails, and just as deadly – maybe that’s why she felt so safe now and why she wasn’t running for the hills.

  Unable to help herself, Artist lifted slightly, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, surprised they were as soft as they looked. His grip tightened on her hip and he stirred, his eyes opening. He examined her for a moment before inching forward, capturing her lips against his. He kissed her the way he trained, hard and unforgiving, giving her no room for anything but submission to him. And she let him.

  Shakespeare drew his tongue across her lip, seeking entrance, and she gave it. He tasted like morning and man, and damn, it was good. His erection pressed into her, hard against her stomach, and she moaned, betraying her desire. This is wrong, her mind told her. But it feels so good, she thought back.

  “This is wrong, Artist,” he murmured, echoing her thoughts before deepening the kiss. His hand grazed her skin, from her hip to her stomach, caressing her bare skin.

  “I know,” she whispered back, goosebumps following the wake of his touch. He reached her breast and hesitated before squeezing, forcing a moan from her throat.

  “Fuck, don’t make that sound, Artist. I’ve gotta stop touchin’ you, but you keep makin’ noises like that and I can’t make any promises.”

  “I’m not sure I want that promise.” The words were true, or, at least, half true. Her mind was demanding she stop him, stop letting him touch her and stop enjoying it. Her body, on the other hand, said the opposite. That side of her told her if he stopped she’d hurt him. The extreme contradiction of her thoughts only a moment before were not lost on her, though … it was Shakespeare.

  The large man groaned, rolling her on her back and straddling her. He managed to keep his weight off her, his hands roaming her body, his eyes blazing. Her VP was wide awake now.

  “Christ, Artist. You’re fuckin’ beautiful. And in my bed. All warm and soft and fuckin’ perfect. You’re a prospect. You can’t be in my bed,” he told her, leaning over and capturing one of her nipples with his teeth, tugging softly. “Poet’ll have my ass. You deserve better,” he continued, moving to the other and doing the same, causing her back to arch off the mattress.

  Artist lifted and caught him off balance, managing to roll him onto his back. She straddled him and mirrored his actions, nipping at one nipple before turning her attention to the other. “You’re my VP. You’re an asshole, one who doesn’t give a fuck about anything but rules and training. And…” she trailed off, running her fingers down his chest and through his happy trail. She slipped her hand into the waistband of
his boxers and gripped his cock, hard. “You really need to stop fucking talking.”

  Chapter Three

  Heart pounding in equal parts excitement and something she couldn’t figure out, Artist gripped his length, enjoying the gasp that followed. The sound traveled straight to her stomach and brought a smile to her face. She drew her hand up and down, watching his face, the lines near his eyes tightening with each motion, though his gaze never left hers. They were locked in an endless stare as she explored his body and he let her, giving her control.

  It was different, knowing she was calling the shots, regardless of how long he let her. He was always sure, ever the alpha male during their encounters, yet not in that moment. In that moment he was hers to command; she could see it in his expression mixed with caution.

  She let her hand continue to stroke him as she leaned forward, stealing a kiss. Her hair draped around their faces; she intended for it to be a small thing, a quick taste, but Shakespeare had other ideas. His hand lifted, grasping her cheek, holding her in place while deepening the kiss. And, as quick as the one single motion, he was in control once more.

  Moving faster than she thought possible, he flipped her, forcing her to her back. Bouncing slightly against the mattress, she couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her, making him tilt his head. Green eyes peered into hers, the corner of his lip turned up in a small smile.

  “What?” she asked, her voice airy and breathless.

  At first she didn’t think her VP would answer, instead merely shaking his head and capturing her lips once more. His hands trailed the bare skin of her sides, to her hips, before he pulled back.

  “I fuckin’ love that sound. But, what are you doin’ here, Artist? Shouldn’t be here, not with me. You’re definitely not a sweetie, not just another piece to take. Can’t give you anythin’ but my cock.”

  This time it was Artist who pulled back, as far as the bed would allow. She peered up at him, confusion filling her at the almost melancholy hint in his tone. Shakespeare was never anything but sure of himself, confident, as unmoving as a mountain; at least, in her eyes. But hearing his words made her rethink her evaluation.

  “I seriously doubt that, Shakespeare,” she said softly, tracing the stubble along his jaw. “And while I’m fuzzy on how I got here, I’m still here because I want to be. If all I can have is your cock, then I’ll fucking take it.”

  As quickly as the vulnerability in the man above her appeared, it was gone. The VP she’d known, and mostly appreciated, was back. Fire blazed behind green as he dragged his hand down and into her panties, finding her already wet for him. She’d meant it when she said she wanted to be there with him, and she wanted him, not later, but right then. Still, he stole her breath as he teased her clit first, then inserted a finger inside her.

  A moan built in her throat, and as if he read her body, he captured her lips again, swallowing the sound before it was formed. She arched into his hand, demanding, her fingers tangling into his hair. In answer he added another, curling them as he explored her body.

  “Fuck me, Shakespeare,” she demanded into his mouth, releasing him and pushing at his boxers. Artist wasn’t sure if he'd listen but she wanted more, she wanted to feel his skin against her, in her.

  To her surprise, he listened, removing his fingers and slipping them into his mouth while his other hand awkwardly helped her. Her eyes were locked on his mouth, watching as he removed the remnants of her from his fingers before he pulled her panties down, letting them fall off the side of the bed alongside his boxers.

  “I’m on the pill,” she added as he glanced at the side table and lifted an eyebrow. It looked as if he was going to question her, or say something, but he didn't.

  Bringing one of her legs up, he rose to his knees, positioning himself at her opening. The heat of his erection pressed against her had her closing her eyes.

  “Open your eyes, darlin,’” he demanded and she did, carnal lust written all over his face. “And hold on. You want me, you're gonna get me.”

  Using one hand to guide his cock, one to hold her open to him, he plunged into her, hard. A shout left her throat before she could stop it, but he didn’t hesitate. Shakespeare pulled back and repeated the motion, filling her.

  “Fuck, Artist,” he groaned. “So tight. So fuckin’ wrong. Pussy ain't supposed to be so fuckin’ perfect.”

  “Don’t stop,” she breathed. “Fuck me, Shakespeare.”

  “Shit. Yeah.”

  Her VP did as she asked, thrusting into her fast, then changing his pace. He was a quick study of her body, learning her breathing, forcing her to the edge only to change movement and pulling her back before she came. Sweat was beading on her forehead, trailing down her neck and between her breasts. Abruptly he withdrew and rolled them, seating her on his dick and lowering them both back down to the bed.

  “Ride me, darlin.’ I want to fuckin’ look at you.”

  Artist lifted, allowing her body to adjust to his size as she took him completely once more. Shakespeare did more than just watch, his hands caressing every inch of skin bared to him, catching the droplets of water running down her skin. His eyes burned as the sound of their bodies filled the air.

  Cold air abruptly rushed into the room as his door swung open and three brothers filled the doorway. Shakespeare below her cursed and tried to sit up, but she didn’t move, remaining where she was atop him. Artist stopped fucking him, but was unable to keep her hips from straining forward; it felt too damn good.

  “Oh shit, sorry, Artist,” Cyrus said, averting his eyes to the ceiling while Tonka and Fallen openly stared. “We were looking for Shakespeare.”

  Her eyebrows rose and she glanced down at the man beneath her, who stared up at her for a moment, appreciation mixed with apprehension in his lust-filled eyes. Grinding her hips forward again, she smiled and he gripped her hips, stilling her.

  “You found him. What the fuck y’all want?” he called, unmoving and unable to see the brothers’ jaws dropping.

  “Um…” Cyrus fumbled for a moment, his gaze still trained on the ceiling. “Um. Got some shit going down, gonna need you. Artist too. Poet's waiting.”

  “Tell Pres we’ll be out in a couple.”

  Artist watched as Cyrus nodded and opened his mouth but shut it quickly. He grabbed Tonka by the cut and pulled him out with him, though Fallen lingered in the doorway.

  “Fuck yeah, VP. ‘Bout damn time,” he called to his brother before speaking to Artist. “And nice tits, bro.”

  “Thanks, Fallen. But, with all due respect, get the fuck out so we can finish. Or stay and watch … but shut the damned door – air's entirely too cold.”

  Gaze bored, she waited for the Sergeant to make his decision, clearly torn. Eventually he ducked his head, embarrassed by her offer, and she grinned down at Shakespeare as the door slammed shut.

  “Guess we’ve got work to do.”

  “You’re fuckin’ perfect, woman,” he murmured against her lips as he sat up and flipped them once more, and thrust into her again.

  After they finished, the two of them dressed. Shakespeare tossed her a thermal that, surprisingly, wasn’t ridiculously too large on her. She tugged her jeans on, noting they were damp, but she didn’t have time to change. Her cut followed, and Artist bent to slip her boots on, when warm arms wrapped around her waist.

  “Should’ve fucked you like this,” he murmured and she pressed her ass against him, loving the feel of his jeans straining.

  “You snooze, you lose,” she replied, laughing when a strong hand came down to swat at her.

  Dressed, she stood and watched as he shrugged his cut on and grabbed his holster from the side of his bed. Slipping it on, he drew the Glock and checked the clip before popping it back home. Artist waited, expecting him to move closer to her and the door, but instead he turned and rummaged in the wooden chest at the foot of his bed.

  “Here. If Poet’s callin’ you in, you’ll need it.”

  She accepted the s
maller leather holster, her thumb running across the words burned in it: Hells Redemption. It was supple, clearly well-oiled, though not worn. Confusion struck her as she idly wondered who could’ve owned it.

  “It’s yours. Had it made the day you got your prospect,” he answered her unspoken question.

  Lips turning up in a smile, she quickly removed her cut and put it on, knowing before it sank home on her shoulders that it would fit like a glove. Her VP did nothing halfway. “It’s perfect,” she told him, replacing her cut.

  “You’ll need this too – remember, no serials. Ever.”

  Chagrin ran through her that she’d almost forgotten the gun to actually put in the holster. But, as she took the Beretta from him, she shook the feeling. It entertained Artist that he’d actually listened to her, knew what gun felt more at home in her hands. If he’d given her a Glock like his or even a Ruger, like Poet preferred, she would have accepted it, but it wouldn’t have been the same. Firing the Beretta was as easy as breathing to her, a true extension of her hand and arm. The others just weren’t as comfortable.

  “I know. And thank you,” she finally said, holstering the gun and moving toward the door. His hand caught hers and pulled her to him, stealing a quick kiss. Her body demanded she sink into him, but her mind kept her in place – it was time to work. Not get distracted by him.

  “Let’s go, darlin.’”

  Poet was waiting for them as they entered the common room of the clubhouse. Fallen stood to her right, Cyrus on the couch, and several other of their brothers leaned against walls or other furniture. Artist noticed, after a quick survey, that only Crisp from Reno was in attendance, the rest of his men nowhere to be seen.

  “About damned time the two of you graced us with your presence. You do know it’s after four in the afternoon, right?” their President said, her face serious but her words teasing.