Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  Fuck. She’d been a virgin and he had kind of—sort of—just licked her delicious pussy then just stuck his dick in her. And fucking came like a high school freak. He hadn’t been able to hold on to his load while she’d squirmed to make her pussy comfortable.

  Yet, she was still willing to give him more pussy.

  Unscrewing the gas tank cap, he shoved the nozzle in and put the pump on automatic.

  He hadn’t fucking jerked off so much in fucking years. No, make that fucking ever. He always had cunts to come in, but he didn’t want to use Bailey as only his cum receptacle. Well, the condom would be the actual vessel but the thought was the same since it involved her pussy, too.

  She was sweet and he’d already abused the fuck out of her trust when he’d fucked her. He hadn’t even fucked her right. Fuck, his quick come. After eating her pussy, he should’ve played with her clit a little, licked her more, and stretched her hole with his fingers.

  But, no, he’d been so overcome with her scent and taste, he’d had to fill her up, not caring about jack shit. Not K-P’s wrath. Presumably, the man had still been alive at that time.

  He hadn’t cared about protection, emotions, or repercussions.

  Fucking nut-thing.

  Just like he hadn’t thought about anything but taking her pain away when he’d found her in K-P’s room the day of his funeral.

  Did all of this mean Mortician had fallen in love with Bailey? Stupid fucking bet aside, Bailey was a problem. However, if not for the bet, Mortician would ignore how crazy she made him—how young she was—and make her his old lady.

  He still could. The bet didn’t prevent him from having a woman. No matter how he justified this shit, though, taking a bitch and putting his patch on her was one thing. Taking Bailey and doing the same was another motherfucker altogether.

  He ticked off the checklist of all the reasons why having Bailey was such a fucked-up idea.

  Hadn’t he sworn never to get involved with a young bitch?

  Check. Bailey was a young bitch.

  Annnddd hadn’t he said he’d never get addicted to one bitch’s pussy?

  Check. Check. He wanted Bailey so bad he was about to lose his fucking mind.

  The most important point? Hadn’t he fucking promised—sworn, bragged, boasted—he’d never, ever became jealous over some girl?

  Check. Check, and fucking check. Yet, he intended to find Ulner…Mortician didn’t know which was a worse crime. Stalking Bailey or having his tongue between her legs and his dick in her mouth?

  Stalking won by a small margin because no motherfucker had a right to terrorize a girl. That shit earned Ulner a death sentence right there.

  But Bailey had never taken his dick in her mouth and the fact that she had Ulner’s—a dickhead name for a dickhead—blinded Mortician with rage.

  Nostrils flaring, Mortician realized the tank was full. After collecting his one dollar and seventy-three cents, he got on his bike and sped towards the subdivision in North Vegas, deciding to give Bailey tonight to put things into perspective.

  He’d take tonight to put their relationship into perspective. He’d pay this fuckhead a visit, then go and fuck his night away.

  He intended to do his job and then ride out to one of the whorehouses he visited whenever he dropped into Vegas. These fucks were trying to make the club look like a bunch of bitches. Besides, motherfuckers had been a fucking problem in the past, although they’d been quiet in the past few months. They were a small-time drug selling outfit, trying to move into the big time and they were willing to fuck over the club to do it.

  This shit with the Torps and Lowman distracted the club or so Tevest and company thought. Mortician was there to show Tevest differently. Another fucked up motherfucker with a fucked-up name.

  Mortician snorted, fed his ride a little extra gas and throttle, zooming forward. In a shitty mood, he decided he’d have a chat with Tevest then stomp him until he was close to death. Mortician wouldn’t fucking kill the asshole. If Tevest lived, he’d have some type of permanent damage as a reminder and a warning to other motherfuckers. If Tevest croaked, oh-fucking-well.

  Arriving at the average-sized, middle-class house forty-five minutes later, Mortician parked his bike under a tree on a side street, three blocks from his destination and walked the rest of the way.

  Silence surrounded the house, though that meant fuck all since the place had a basement, the place where Tevest holed himself up most of the time. Motherfucker should’ve blown his ass up long ago and save Mort the fucking trouble. Then, he wouldn’t have had spent time with Bailey.

  Of course, that was the downside instead of the upside.

  Mortician growled at the thought. “Fucking bitch ass,” he complained, cursing his heart, although it might’ve been his dick.

  Removing the plastic gloves from his pocket and pulling them on, Mortician made quick work of the lock on the front door. He exchanged the lock pick for his .380, got the silencer and attached it, then crept inside, prepared for unexpected shit and cursing Bailey all the more. If she didn’t jumble his thoughts, he would’ve already had all this prepared.

  He stood still to adjust his vision to the pitch-black surroundings. He couldn’t see much but he could make out shapes well enough not to bump into anything, so some random fuck wouldn’t get the draw on him first.

  He couldn’t allow that to happen, with Bailey all alone in the city and expecting his safe return tomorrow. What the fuck had he been thinking asking her to come with him?

  That was the fucking problem right there. With Bailey, he never fucking thought. He just fucking acted. K-P would probably haunt the fuck out of him if anything happened to her. And if Mort ended up dead like…like K-P?

  Fuck, even worse. He’d subject Mort to eternal ass-beatings and being called a roach or a runt. K-P was always the first to tell him to think things out. He always insisted they use their brain first and then back it up with muscle. Sometimes, shit required both.

  But, with Bailey, Mort had been thinking with his dick muscle.

  Fuck.

  Oomph!

  Distracted, he bumped into a table and cursed. Something crashed to the floor and Mortician froze.

  Less than a minute passed before footsteps came from different directions. He was out in the fucking open, so he only had time to crouch low.

  Bailey had struck the fuck again.

  An overhead light flicked on and—at least—two motherfuckers made some kind of fucked up noises of shock or fear. One thing was for fucking certain, this little ass table wasn’t fucking hiding him.

  Growling in frustration and watching one motherfucker go for his side, Mort fired, the man’s head splattering against the white wall. He turned his gun to the asshole on the other side and fired, hitting him in the shoulder.

  “What up, Tevest?” Mortician said with a smile.

  Tevest was the classic example of a brainless motherfucker. He didn’t have an alarm system and he didn’t have his place wired with cameras. Still, he had no time to gloat at the lack of security. Tevest might’ve had more backup in the house, other than the dead ass. He backed to the window where old-fashioned, heavy drapes hung. Good, quick hiding spot.

  Why you fucking around, Mort?

  Good question. He could’ve shot Tevest and already been out, but Mortician had four bullets left. If no one else showed up, he’d just gift Tevest with all of them in different parts of his body.

  Tevest groaned and writhed on the floor.

  “Remember last time, motherfucker?” he asked. “I fucking told you I have to come to this bitch again and you was a dead motherfucker?”

  “Mortician, please,” Tevest begged on a sob.

  “Fuck off. I’m not interested in fucking excuses.”

  The snick of a door opening and closing caught Mortician’s attention and calm settled over him. The kind of calm he got only when he was about to take a motherfucker out. The kind of calm he got during his meat shack duties.r />
  “In here!” Tevest screamed. “He’s in here behind—”

  Mortician’s bullet shut Tevest up.

  Stepping from behind the draperies, Mortician opened fire, adding two more bodies to the list of the night’s casualties before he got the fuck of out there.

  Chapter Seventeen: A Little Elvis Motherfucker

  Once Bailey checked her and Lucas in, she went to their room, resisting the thought to leave. The trip had been more grueling than she’d imagined. While she’d enjoyed the open road, she wasn’t accustomed to it, either.

  She needed to sleep for a day or two. Or three or four. Then make a decision about her next move.

  She shuffled forward and plopped on the bed, letting her backpack fall beside her.

  Who was she kidding?

  The man didn’t lack company. Women swarmed around him and he just ate the attention up. He’d been a perfect gentleman and it left her unsure if she should be grateful, insulted, or humiliated.

  Sighing, she decided to take it with a grain of salt. She’d already known their time together wouldn’t last. Before he’d invited her on his run, she’d accepted it.

  No one had expounded on Lucas’s role as club enforcer or exactly what it entailed, but the day she met him, she’d gone online and researched outlaw bikers. She’d even found programs on YouTube. Just like the word enforcer suggested, Lucas meted out punishment for those who got on the clubs bad side. He enforced the rules.

  What shocked her more than that, though, was the culture. She didn’t understand the biker world and she no longer understood herself. She wanted to belong to Lucas but not for the sake of status. Women were everywhere she turned whenever she was at the club. It didn’t matter that most of them were just sex objects, the ones who hung around wanted in a biker’s bed. They wanted the status of being a biker’s old lady.

  Bailey wouldn’t abide cheating. She couldn’t stomach it. What was hers belonged to her. Period.

  Getting to her feet, she roamed to the window and peeped out at the lit up night. The prettiness beckoned her to explore. Take a break from her hurt, grief and overanalyzing. She needed to think about her lessons and finding a school to enroll in since she’d withdraw near the end of the semester.

  Her second withdrawal from a school in less than a year.

  She groaned. Her mom hadn’t yet graduated, either. She’d changed majors so many times, no one knew what degree she chased at this point. But, at least, Roxy stuck to one school and usually finished the semester out. Problem came in when she let two and three years—a couple times longer than that—pass by before enrolling for the next semester. Her mom had already outlasted two school deans and three football coaches, all without obtaining a degree or sticking to one major.

  Bailey leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes, remembering the last time she’d seen her father’s face. He and Lucas had just fought over her when she’d made it worse, not meaning to do so. Her dad had sworn to do so many horrendous things to Lucas. She’d been the one to call him in the first place, though, and tell him about Lucas’s impending visit.

  She hadn’t been thinking clearly. She’d just been too giddy at the thought of having Lucas alone in her apartment with her and hadn’t wanted it ruined if her dad decided to visit.

  Now, in the wake of his death, realizing she would’ve exchanged her precious time with her dad for Lucas, hurt her. If she had it to do over again, she’d call her dad and ask him to bring a pizza where one half was overloaded with onions and her half had pepperoni. They’d both drink a Mountain Dew and call her mom to check in.

  They’d talk about The Princess and the Frog for the gazillionth time because her dad swore it was Bailey’s favorite movie and she hadn’t had the heart to correct him. They’d talk about the firefly’s death and his Evangeline. They’d discuss New Orleans, her mother’s birthplace and, according to the movie, where dreams come true.

  They’d talk about Dinah. How fragile her state-of-mind was. Her dad always insisted one more tragedy would send her over the edge and he’d been right. Dinah was all but catatonic. Bailey had tried to comfort her, but she’d been unreceptive.

  She considered her phone, thinking about calling her mom and checking in. If Roxy asked where Bailey was and why she’d postponed her trip, what could Bailey say?

  Mom, the man I’m in love with invited me on a run with him.

  That would work really well.

  Or how about…I slept with a man and swore to him there’d be no strings attached. Or as Lucas put it, sweating his dick.

  Yeah, Bailey could just imagine her mom’s reaction to that. Roxy wanted more for Bailey than three failed marriages and five children without fathers around to help raise them. Bailey’s dad had been the closest thing her brother and sisters had to a father figure.

  Still, Roxy would be so furious. She’d blame Lucas, not Bailey, which was the problem in the nutshell. Her mom would hunt him down and cut him. Or try to cut him. Or, she and Lucas would cut each other.

  Roxy was fine until she got pissed. Then, she turned…

  Hood…

  Gangsta…

  Rough.

  Okay. Scratch calling her mom. She moved away from the window and decided to shower and wash her hair. Once she finished, she’d decide if she’d eat and then go downstairs to find some entertainment or if she’d just crash for the night.

  By the time she finished drying her hair, she was almost too exhausted to do anything but sleep. However, her growling stomach protested, though, so she ordered room service, offering a decent tip to the server. No way in the world she’d need all the money Lucas had given to her.

  After eating her sandwich and brushing her teeth, she curled up on the bed, closed her eyes, and popped them right open again. Her fatigue suddenly took a leave of absence. As sleepy as she’d been before, she was just as unsleepy now. She made a face and blinked, glancing at the clock. Nearly three hours since Lucas had left her.

  Just as the thought paraded through her head, the door opened and he sauntered in, crashing to a stop when he noticed her in bed. They stared at one another and she didn’t hide her admiration of the muscles bulging beneath his cut and T-shirt. His lips were chiseled, the curve of his jaw angling into a bold chin. His nose was just right, perfect for his face and she had firsthand experience how the stubble on his face felt between her legs.

  She flushed, her body on fire for him. Still, she wasn’t sure where he’d gone, so she asked, “Your date end early?” She kept her tone as light as possible.

  “Didn’t go on a fucking date like you think, Bailey,” he grunted.

  “If you didn’t sleep with some woman, what type of date did you have?”

  He glowered at her. “My dick not been in no bitch since he went in you. I went on a date to fuck up a stupid motherfucker.”

  She gasped, the pleasure of his fidelity—the insanity of the idea—evaporating. “You killed someone?”

  “Club business not up for discussion.”

  “You tell me you’ve just fucked up someone and you expect me not to have a reaction?”

  “Stop saying fuck. All it do is make me think of fucking you.”

  Thanks to Meggie, Bailey understood there were situations that couldn’t be discussed. She referenced that and focused on the here and now, realizing, from Lucas’s hungry look, he wanted her as much as she wanted him, so an idea came to her. She shoved the covers aside, revealing the short night shirt she wore before opening her legs and showing her bare bottom.

  The thick slashes of his eyebrows that offset beautiful eyes drew together and his lids closed, lashes sweeping down for a second. His nostrils flared and he swooped to her. He didn’t put his mouth on her, though. He came over her, the hard, male part of him already out. Kissing her harshly, he sank into her, stretching and filling her. He grunted.

  After two thrusts, he stopped, breathing hard. His heartbeat pounded between them. He glared at her as if she’d done som
ething wrong and she licked her lips, throbbing deep inside every time his manhood jerked.

  Instead of speaking, he brought his hand between them and massaged her clit, moving inside of her again. He held her gaze, transfixing her, stroking into her and pulling out, his fingers playing her clit and building tension in her body.

  Just when she neared her climax, he pulled out of her and got to his feet, leaving her open, vulnerable, and trembling. Her body needed succor, so she brought her own fingers to her clit.

  “Don’t,” he called to her from across the room. A cabinet opened and slammed. The sound of a bottle being opened cut through her haze. She breathed in deep, felt her belly ring, and fingered herself again. “Don’t touch your pussy, Bailey. I mean it.”

  His husky command bounced in her brain and she squeezed her eyes shut, not thinking, caught up in the moment and curious to what he’d do to her. She lifted her hips and pushed two fingers inside of herself. Before she could really get into it, he’d flipped her over and slapped her butt, twice on each cheek, his big hands stinging her.

  A moment later, his lips skimmed the places he’d hit before covering her center and sucking her. She clutched the bedclothes. “Lucas,” she cried out at his relentless tonguing. Tiny tremors pulsed through her and she moaned. One lick away from her orgasm, he stopped.

  She fell forward and face-planted, pounding the bed in frustration. Out of her teary peripheral vision, she noted him walking away again and scrambled to a sitting position, smoothing her nightshirt so she was covered. She folded her arms and winced. Her nipples were aching, hard and sensitive.

  He reached the counter again with the mini bar and opened it, pulling out a small bottle of Absolut. He downed it in one, long swallow. “Call room service and order me a fifth.”

  “No,” she said sweetly. “Although, I’m willing to work out a deal with you.”

  Clenching his jaw, he glanced away from her, his biceps flexing with tension. Her breath caught at the thick muscles of his thighs, his hard, flat stomach, his long legs braced apart. Tats decorated the wide canvas of his chest. Bailey wanted to lick every inch of him, starting at the hardest place on his body, currently rising from the thick nest of pubic hair.