Artist

by Juli Valenti

  “Not a fan of restraints, hm?” he asked, moving closer and wrapping an arm around her waist. “Good to know … glad you like it. Ready now? Or want to stargaze with no stars a little longer, darlin?’”

  “Nope, no tying this girl down,” she answered, lifting on her toes to place a kiss on the side of his mouth. “And yes, I’m ready, smartass.”

  After pressing his lips softly to hers, Shakespeare released her and they climbed onto their bikes, the sound of their engines deafening in the quiet street. He pulled out first and she followed suit, remaining in her usual place, slightly behind him until he glanced back at her and gestured with a hand. Surprised, Artist pulled beside him, grinning when he met her gaze. It was odd, this new thing that flowed between them, but she didn’t question it. Having him texting her while she was working, showing up, sans fighting of course, waiting for her when she got off – a girl could get used to such things. And riding next to him? As an equal, rather than behind him as a lesser, well, the day was certainly shaping up, despite the problems with the Reno chapter and their sweeties.

  While they rode together, Shakespeare was technically leading, Artist following his queues when turning or accelerating. It didn’t surprise her when they pulled into Redemption Reigns. The small diner was one of the only places to eat in town, period, and the only one guaranteed to be open this late. Eugene, the cook, was a member of Hells Redemption once upon a time, and he and his wife, Mrs. Norma, had officially labeled the place as one to welcome both HR and Bishops Reign.

  The building was decent size, though anyone who didn’t know what it was, even with the sign the couple had hung months ago, wouldn’t think to stop. Everything was nondescript, nothing anyone would think twice about or remember. It worked well that way, warding off unwanted patrons and welcoming the regulars. Only a couple cars were parked in the lot, and no motorcycles, meaning they’d most likely be the only riders in the place, which suited Artist just fine. The last thing she wanted was a run in with Crisp – as tired as she was, her brain-to-mouth filter would be broken toward that ass. And, given Shakespeare’s declaration of mine, chances are, this time, he’d jump in this time.

  Not necessarily a bad thing, Artist thought before she could stop herself, immediately chastising herself for the thought. She didn’t need her VP fighting her battles. Standing behind her, having her back, always, but not taking the punches for her. Or taking them for himself and his pride.

  “Shakespeare! Oh it’s good to see you!” a voice called as they entered, moments before a small old lady appeared from behind a wall, drying her hands on her apron. “Poet, and now Titan, come often. You, though, it’s a treat.”

  “Hey, Mrs. Norma,” he said easily, leaning down to wrap the woman in a hug before backing away. “You remember Artist, right?”

  “Vaguely,” she answered, her eyes narrowing on Artist. Steeling herself, she refused to squirm under the older woman’s gaze. “Even if I didn’t, though, not hard to see. You must be Titan’s sister, right, dear?” As if a switch was flipped, Mrs. Norma’s lips pulled into a welcoming smile and she extended her arms to hug her as well.

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s right,” she told her politely as she separated and Shakespeare took her hand, melting her insides. He squeezed her palm gently and she smiled.

  “Mrs. Norma, it’s been a long day. Artist just finished an almost seven-hour tattoo bender, and you’ve heard about the shit that went down with our girls. Can we eat?”

  “Of course, Shakespeare. Go ahead and sit anywhere. Two specials, tea, and coffee?”

  He glanced down at Artist, who nodded, before he said, “Sounds like heaven.”

  Shakespeare led her to the corner booth, the one even Artist knew was Poet’s usual seat in the restaurant, and sat beside her rather than across from her. Placing an arm around her shoulder, she allowed herself to sink against him. He smelled good, like man and soap and a slight hint of aftershave, and he was warm. Resting her head against the side of his chest, she listened to him breathe a moment before he spoke softly.

  “So how did the rest of your tattoo go? Bastard didn’t try anything, did he?”

  Artist chuckled, entertained by how quickly the man beside her went from intimidating VP to adorable, possessive lover. She’d spent the last hours inflicting pain on another man, but he made it seem like she was a waitress at a strip club or something, just waiting for an unwanted invitation.

  “It was good. Impressed even myself with the line work. That Bishop is gonna have the most kick-ass ink in New Mexico. And,” she added, “to answer your question, no. Train was too busy whimpering to cop a feel.”

  “I know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Wouldn’t blame the guy though … but I’d still kick his ass.”

  “Down, boy. For a man who wanted no strings, you’re certainly tying them pretty tightly.”

  Mrs. Norma moved glasses and a carafe from her tray to the table, before hurrying off to the kitchen before her VP could answer. Once she was out of earshot, she waited for Shakespeare to say something in return, but he didn’t.

  “I’m only kidding, ‘Speare,” she added, needing to fill the sudden uncomfortable silence between them. She didn’t like the V in his forehead, showing he was lost in his own thoughts.

  “Artist,” he started, stopping for a moment as if to find the words. “I got shit to give a woman, especially a woman like you. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, smart as hell, and damn good with a gun. You ain’t another club sweetie, wanting a quick lay in exchange for a ride. You do everythin’ the men do – work out, train, work, longer hours than most our brothers – and are still ready to ride when you’re needed. I ain’t got any delusions of grandeur.”

  “I don’t need shit, VP. I don’t need a declaration of love, if that’s what you’re thinking right now,” she told him honestly, turning in her seat to face him. “I don’t want you for your bike, or for your status, or for shit. I’ve been spending every damned day with you for the last six months, usually with a lot of me swearing and cursing your ass for pushing me further than I wanted to be pushed. But that doesn’t change shit – I want to spend time with you. I want in your bed. And I don’t mind the label, so you can stop now, ‘kay?”

  Shakespeare was saved from having to answer her by Mrs. Norma once again, this time bearing two plates with what looked like massive amounts of biscuits and gravy and sausage. Artist’s mouth was watering, the hunger from lack of food previously forgotten now roaring back to life. Her stomach growled loudly and she dug into the plate the minute it hit the table. He stared at her as she swallowed quickly, shoveling another forkful into her mouth, before following suit, chuckling softly.

  “Beautiful and a healthy appetite. Sexy as fuck.”

  Chapter Six

  Dinner, or midnight snack, or whatever they could label the meal they’d eaten, passed quickly. After the brief uncomfortable silence and awkwardness had passed, and after Artist had stuffed enough food in her mouth to feed a small army, they talked. For the first time since she’d arrived, since she’d begged Poet to let her prospect, since Shakespeare had taken over her vigorous training routine, they talked. Not about the issues at hand, the constant roller coaster of shit going down in their world, but rather about things. Things they liked to do, even the basics of what their favorite colors were. He seemed especially interested in her – every piece of information he could get.

  Once they’d finished, the large clock on the wall showing it was after two in the morning, they’d climbed on their bikes and ridden back to the clubhouse. Again, she rode beside Shakespeare rather than behind him, but this ride was harder than the last. She was exhausted, but her stomach, while full, was in knots. The last time they’d slept together, there had been no room or time for doubts, only desire and want. Even at work, when he’d pinned her against the wall, she hadn’t thought twice. But, the short ride seemed to stretch for ages, giving her mind plenty of time to have mini freak outs that were com
pletely irrational.

  What if I’m not good enough? What if he’s thinking this is a bad idea?

  Glancing over, she couldn’t read his expression, and when his face turned to meet hers, she forced a smile that betrayed her stupid thoughts. The man flat out told her he wanted her, so why was her subconscious going on and on. It was easy to know. The horrified look on Cori’s face flashed through her mind and she blinked repeatedly, as if the action could wipe it away. Artist started counting, demanding the picture away, tracing the lines of the road and trees as they passed in her head in an effort to push it away.

  Don’t go there. Not tonight. Not ever.

  Luckily the gates to the compound came into view, and her mind was once again distracted as she waited for Shakespeare to input the code and they swung open. She could’ve pulled in with her eyes closed, the motion ingrained in her from doing it so often, and she was startled when he yelled over the roar of their bikes, “Behind me!”

  So, listening to him, Artist followed close behind and, instead of parking in the back of the garage with the rest of the prospects – as was their usual place – she pulled in behind him. She knew her mouth was pulled into a wide grin, even as the ramifications of taking the spot played out in her mind. Parking wasn’t necessarily assigned, more like assumed, and the officers of the club took the most prime places, which made sense. Poet took the closest to the door, Fallen beside her, as she technically wasn’t supposed to do things without her ‘guard,’ and Shakespeare next to him. As someone who’s most frequent job was to wash the bikes, Artist knew she’d just taken Tonka’s place. The man wasn’t going to be happy.

  “He’ll get over it,” her VP said when she told him, which was all well and good for him to say, but he wasn’t the one who could get put on wash duty, again.

  “’Speare,” she sighed, her ass remaining firmly planted on the seat, “I really don’t want to have to clean the fucking bikes again because I parked out of turn. The back is only a few extra steps. It’s not that big of a deal. Seriously, the boys know when it’s my job. They go freaking off-roading and shit and then I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing fucking clay for hours. Really, I’m just going to back it up.”

  “Artist,” he breathed as he walked toward her and tilted her face to meet his gaze, “ain’t no one gonna punish shit. I told you to park your ass there, and so you will. Besides, after seein’ your tits, I’m sure he’d be more willin’ to ask you for a ride rather than clean his bike.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Never said it was. ‘Sides, he only saw them because your sweet ass was still ridin’ my cock. And Tonka knows his damn place, darlin.’ He already knows not to ask stupid shit like that.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured as he kissed her softly, his fingers entwining in her hair to hold her still. “All right, but if I get put on bike wash duty, you’re going to be out here with me.”

  Shakespeare chuckled deeply, the sound a rumble in his chest as she drew her leg from the side of the bike, sitting to face him. Using a knee he pushed first one thigh apart, and then another, before stepping between her legs. “Deal, but it ain’t gonna happen. Though we might need to wash my bike because before all’s said and done, I plan on fuckin’ you on it.”

  Heat exploded through her, images of her sprawled across his bike, his body against her, filling her, making her want him more. She stood and reached for his neck, pulling his lips back to hers. “I’m going to hold you to that,” she said against his lips, her free hand trailing his chest to the hem of his shirt and under it. He groaned and stilled her fingers, pulling her up and moving them backward to the door into the clubhouse, their mouths never breaking apart.

  They fumbled through the hallway, the two of them pushing each other against walls, their kisses deepening. It was a heat and desire that had simmered to a boil throughout the day, demanding they stoke the fire. Hung pictures rattled, fell, and neither noticed. When they reached the door to his room, he all but kicked it open.

  “Fuck, Artist,” Shakespeare groaned into her mouth, using his foot to slam the door closed again. “I fuckin’ need to be inside you.”

  Artist said nothing as she pulled off her cut, dropping it to the floor, and then the jacket, never breaking away from him. Her shoulder rig was next, though she placed it and the Beretta on his nightstand. He followed suit, his leather loud in the quiet of the room as it hit the ground. He removed his holster, placing it beside hers before reaching for her. His hands trailed up her hips, to the hem of his shirt she still wore before yanking it up, forcing her to lean back and let him slip it over her head. Warm, strong hands gripped her bare skin, her stomach, her breasts, and she moaned as his fingers pinched at her nipples.

  “So fuckin’ beautiful. Your tits are perfect, and your skin is so soft.”

  “I want to touch you,” she whispered. When he continued touching her, kissing her neck, kneading her breasts, she backed away and arched an eyebrow. “Shirt. Off.”

  Shakespeare grinned before whipping his gray shirt off and dropping it. She watched as his hands trailed to his jeans, and he flicked the button, popping it open and letting the zipper fall. Artist could feel her mouth drying and her thoughts scrambling, all but the want of touching him. Forcing her feet to move, she backed toward the bed, stopping when her ass hit the mattress. She’d expected him to follow her, to continue his wonderful assault on her body, but he didn’t. She looked questioningly at him.

  “I want to see you, darlin.’ Take ‘em off. All of it.”

  “But I haven’t gotten to touch you,” she all but whined and he smiled, his full, heart stopping smile.

  “You will. Now get your ass naked … or do you need help?”

  Her fingers were already fumbling to unhook the button on her pants, but her attention was on him, on his body, the dexterity in her fingers failing. Frustrated, she blew out a breath. “I need help.”

  Artist hadn’t thought his smile could have grown bigger, but it did. “With fuckin’ pleasure.”

  Her VP’s expression changed from lustful to downright animalistic. It was hot, so hot it stole her breath away as he approached her, his eyes narrowing in on her. His gaze roamed from her stomach to her breasts, to her face. He dropped to his knees in front of her, removing first one boot, then another easily, before burying his face between her legs. Shakespeare closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  “Fuck, Artist. You want it before I even really touch you.” With that, he stood and tugged her up by the waist of her jeans. She watched as he all but ripped the button off her jeans and peeled them down her legs, extending a hand upward for her to hold as he pulled them off. Her panties followed, though even with them on she was already exposed. The small scrap of lace did nothing to cover anything.

  “Lay down,” he demanded, his eyes glued to her body, the fire in his gaze so intense she could feel it like a caress against her skin. Goosebumps covered her as she did as he told her, climbing up onto the bed, the sheets still rumpled from the night before; but she wasn’t cold, the exact opposite. The lust she had for Shakespeare cranked up another hundred degrees when his hand disappeared down the front of his jeans, fondling himself as his eyes caressed her body. A moment later his pants were gone, like they’d never been there, his erection impressive, straining. Again his hand grasped at it, his grip moving up and down, and she squirmed on the bed. It wasn’t fair he got to touch himself; she wanted to do that.

  “Shakespeare,” she pleaded, needing him to do something, but when he only continued to stare, she took things into her own hands. Literally. Trailing her fingers down her breasts, her nipples, farther, she teased her clit before dragging one through her wetness. His eyes widened as they met hers before darting back to her hands. He watched, his grip on his cock moving in time with her fingers as she pressed one inside her, arching her back and moaning.

  In an instant, he was there, knocking her hand aside and replacing it with his own. As he inserted one finger in h
er, then another, she groaned. His hands were so much larger than hers, stretching her, the sensation delicious. When his thumb pressed on her clit and he thrust his fingers, she arched again, her body easily lost in his touch. The warmth of his breath brought her back down on the bed, her gaze snapping back to him. He momentarily glanced up at her, watching her face as he ran his tongue through her folds before capturing her clit in his mouth and sucking.

  “Oh shit, ‘Speare,” she moaned loudly, gripping the sheets in her fists.

  “That’s right, Artist. You’re goin’ to come like this, and then on my cock,” he murmured, his fingers never stopping their movement, his tongue tracing her most sensitive spot. The fact that she was already tightening, already so close, between his words and his touches, was almost embarrassing. Except she couldn’t have stopped herself even if she wanted to, which she didn’t. And when she came, she screamed his name. But he didn’t stop, he continued to press his fingers in just the right spot, his mouth sucking and his teeth nipping gently, forcing her to ride her orgasm out until she couldn’t stay still. She thrashed against the mattress, half trying to get away from him, half wanting more.

  Shakespeare finally relented and climbed up the bed, positioning himself. He kissed her, his lips pressing gently but firmly on hers, and he entered her. She gasped as her body accepted him, her walls still quivering and tight from her orgasm. His weight above hers was what she’d wanted the entire time, and she let her hands roam his back, his shoulders, as her body met his slow rhythm. This time, compared to their first, was slower, less frantic. He was gentle, an extreme contrast to his demanding, strong touch when he was fingering her. He moved as though he had all the time in the world, as if she was something delicate, breakable, and extremely precious to him. Normally she’d press for more – harder, faster – but he’d sated her, almost as if he’d known she’d need it.