by Kim Jones
I take the thick black leather vest from his hands and take a moment to run my fingers over the threads. When I turn it over, a patch consisting of angel wings is sewn on the left side, and on the right Saylor’s name is stitched in white.
Before I met Saylor, I was just a Nomad. Now both of my worlds have collided and in my hand I hold the proof. Despite my attempts to shield Saylor from the violence of the club, she opened her heart and our home to Sinner’s Creed.
She never asked why they did what they did. She never passed judgment on their lifestyle choice either. She accepted them for the men that they were, not the patch they wore.
That diamond-shaped 1% patch I wear stands for something. It signifies that I am a part of the 1 percent of bikers that are outlaws. The 1 percent that isn’t afraid of breaking the rules. The 1 percent that serves as their own judge and jury. And that patch is worn over my heart, serving as the only thing that’s kept me alive, even when I felt broken inside. Everyone good in this world has a heart that pumps blood, and mine pumped venom. Until now. Now it is full, whole, and completely filled with everything Saylor Samson.
I turn to Saylor, who is all smiles and now fully dressed in leather. She’s beautiful. I want her to wear my patch, but more importantly, I want her to know what it means. And I want her to accept it as my vow to always protect her.
“I want to give you something,” I say, fighting hard to keep my emotions in check. She walks closer, her eyes shining bright as they land on the cut I hold in my hands.
“I think I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you all those years ago. I didn’t know what love was, but you showed me. You saved me, Saylor. You’re more than I ever could have hoped for in this life.” Her eyes well up and I have to take a moment to fight my own tears.
“I can marry you. I can give you any ring your heart desires. But to me, this means so much more. In my world, Saylor, men like me don’t find women like you. We’re born as rejects, throwaways, and victims of society. You’ve given men like me hope. You’ve proven that we are capable of love. And in return, I want to give you something that proves my love to you.
“This is not just a token of my love, but my vow to always be your man. I’ll protect you, take care of you, and devote my life to making you happy. Saylor Samson, will you do me the honor of being my ol’ lady and wearing my patch?”
She walks closer, running her fingers over the threads, pausing to trace each stitch in my name, the angel wings that signify that, even in death, she will be my angel, always riding on the right shoulder of her man. I don’t have to explain the significance of these patches; her knowing smile tells me she understands.
She turns and I slip the cut over her shoulders. She sighs at the feel of the heavy leather. When she turns to face me, tears fall down her cheeks, and her smile lights the world around us. I already know what she is going to say, but I long to hear the words.
“It’s perfect.”
—
The woman I love and the club I’m devoted to are no longer two different things. We are one. Her patches signify that she belongs to me, and that I belong to her. I am Dirk, Nomad National for Sinner’s Creed MC, and my soul mate is not just the woman I love or the light in my life, she is Saylor, property of Sinner’s Creed Nomad National Dirk. And now, my life is complete.
—
Saylor loved the ride and even though she was frozen when we got home, she asked if we could go again. Regretfully, I had to decline. I don’t know if Shady really forgot, or if he was just being a dickhead, but that bag didn’t consist of any leathers for me.
Our first ride together with our colors on would definitely be memorable. Saylor fell in love with the cut, and now that we’re home, she refuses to take it off. I’m still thawing out when she asks Shady to take our picture. She glares at me when I don’t smile, and I want to explain to her that I can’t, but she doesn’t give me a chance.
So the picture shows her looking exceptionally hot in leather chaps, a jacket, her patch, knee-high boots, and a black head scarf, and I look constipated. Shady thinks it’s a great picture. When my hands thaw out, I’m going to choke him.
Because Saylor is in such a good mood, I say yes to everything she asks that doesn’t consist of riding in freezing temperatures. So when she asks if I will eat spaghetti for supper, I say yes. When she asks if I’ll watch I Love Lucy with her, I say yes. When she asks if I’ll shower with her, of course, I say yes. And when we are laying in bed and she asks me to make love to her, I say yes, but this time I don’t tell her. I show her.
There is a candle flickering in the room, providing the perfect lighting for my plans. I want to give her what her body craves, what her words ask for, and what her heart desires. And I want to do it with an intimacy that neither one of us has ever experienced.
“You’re sure?” I ask her, already knowing that she is. She nods, her eyes wide and her breath ragged. It’s like the first time all over again, but so much better. Saylor lays next to me in my T-shirt and a pair of panties that I’ve yet to uncover.
I kiss her forehead, cradling her face in my hands, then kiss her lips softly. She is already writhing beneath me and I know she shares the same thought I do; it’s been too fucking long.
I kneel between her legs, lifting one up so I kiss the instep of her foot. My tongue trails its way up her right leg to the inside of her thigh, then across to the other and back down to her left foot. Her skin is satin beneath my tongue, the lack of hair making it smooth and responsive to my touch.
When I slide my hands to grip the sides of her underwear, I find lace. Having to see the way her body looks in it, I push her shirt up her stomach and look down to find the tiniest scrap of material covering the swollen lips of her pussy. “Fuck, baby.”
I slowly pull them away from her, revealing the part of her my mouth and my cock crave. Her knees fall open further, and I now have a view of the soft, pink flesh that is wet and desperately awaiting my touch. My thumbs spread her wider, exposing her more as I run my finger up and down the length of her pussy. I can’t even pull my eyes away from the sight of its perfection. Even when Saylor moans and calls out my name.
“You have the prettiest pussy,” I tell her, and when she squirms, I know my words embarrass her, but they make her horny as hell too.
“Please, Dirk. Please.” Even now, she still can’t ask. And I still won’t make her. I lower my head between her legs, putting my hands beneath her ass and lifting it so my tongue has access to all of her. She struggles slightly, but when I tell her to relax, my breath blows over all her most intimate and sensitive areas, and she stops fighting me. Nothing about this moment should embarrass her. There is not a part of Saylor’s body I don’t want to devour, and when I do, there won’t be a moment where she don’t enjoy it.
My tongue makes long, circular strokes between her lips—drinking the wetness of her arousal and replacing it with my saliva, which builds from its taste. She is the sweetest, most satisfying thing I have ever put in my mouth. When she sinks further into the mattress and I feel her pulsing, ready for release, I move my tongue further south—invading the forbidden area.
When she screams in pleasure and convulses around me, my tongue pushes deeper inside her, prolonging her orgasm and flooding my face with her sweet release. While she’s still trembling with the aftershocks, I move my tongue to the entrance of her pussy, pausing to swirl it inside her before working my way up to her clit, then her stomach, until I reach the swollen peaks on her chest. I lift her up, removing my T-shirt from her body and placing a kiss on top of her head before lowering her back down and letting my gaze fall to her chest.
I torture her small, hard, pink nipples with my tongue until her hips buck in demand of my rock-hard cock that’s pressed against her pussy. I balance my weight on my arms, covering her body with mine but not enough to hurt her.
“I love you, Saylor Samson,” I tell her, fighting back the tears that I feel burning in the back of my eyes
. This time, making love to Saylor—my heart, my reason, my property—has more meaning than any other time I’ve been with her. It’s not because it might be the last. It’s because this time, I feel like I’m making love to my wife. It’s like that patch she wore so proudly today sealed some holy matrimony between us.
“I love you, Dirk Dixon,” she tells me, and when she runs her hands up my arms and neck to curl her fingers in my hair, I feel the heat of fire in their wake. “I want you inside me,” she says, lifting her hips to me once again.
I place a hand between us, positioning myself, then rest my forehead on top of hers. With a slow pace I didn’t know I was capable of, I push inside the tight, hot confines of her pussy. Just the heat is almost enough to make me come, but I dig deep and find the control to give her what she asks for. I’m halfway in when her eyes close and her breathing becomes heavy.
“You okay, baby?” I ask, as breathless as she is. I start to back out of her, when her hands tighten in my hair.
“It’s perfect. Don’t stop.” She pants against my lips, and I kiss her before I move deeper. When I’m buried deep, all the way inside her, I swivel my hips, catching her moan with my mouth until her hips jerk in anticipation for more.
I make love to Saylor for what could have been forever. Our bodies separated then joined again every time I drove slowly inside her. But my eyes never left hers. The feeling was too much. For both of us.
When Saylor’s eyes fill with tears, I watch my own fall on her cheeks. I don’t know why I’m crying. There is nothing sad about this moment. Some people cry because they’re upset, some because they’re happy, and I guess some cry when there is so much to say that you don’t have words to say it.
“I want you to come with me, baby. I need you to,” I tell her, because we have to stop. It’s not the burning in my arms from holding myself over her. It’s not the soreness of my stomach muscles from the countless strokes I’ve delivered. It’s the overwhelming feeling of everything all at one time. Love, desire, want, need . . . It’s a soul-shattering, heart-wrenching, burning passion that I can’t stand to experience anymore. I’ve never had a feeling as intense as this one. It’s just too fucking strong. And Saylor agrees.
I quicken my pace, slightly change my position, and drive harder into her. It’s exactly what she needs. My name fills the room in a cry of passion, and I feel her walls as they clamp down hard on my cock. And then I’m filling her. The sound that rips through my chest echoes off the walls in the room, and soon Saylor is comforting me as I cling to her and weep.
—
The following Monday, Saylor sleeps well past noon. When I ask her if she is all right, she smiles that sleepy smile I love so much and just tells me she’s tired. It’s enough to worry me and I call Dr. Zi, who offers no support.
“Honestly, Dirk, I don’t know what to say. She handled the treatments with fewer problems than I anticipated, and her miraculous recovery still has me confused. At this point, I don’t know what to expect. It seems everything that happens is just so unpredictable. My advice is just to let her rest.”
I promise the doctor that I will keep him informed and go back to lay with Saylor. The past week has been amazing. Mostly, we’ve just laid around the house and done nothing. We haven’t made love again, but she asks me to hold her a lot, so I do.
I’m still processing my mental breakdown from our last episode of lovemaking. I would do it all over again if she asks, but it doesn’t bother me that she hasn’t. I just know that if she does, I can’t let myself get that involved again.
It’s well after two when Saylor decides she is hungry and wants to get up. She’s not sluggish and doesn’t complain about any pain or discomfort. She’s perfectly fine. But it’s barely nine o’clock when she starts nodding off on the couch. When I ask her if she wants to go to bed, she says no and forces a smile to assure me she is awake. Ten minutes later, she is out so I carry her to bed and she’s too deep in sleep to protest.
Tuesday, Saylor tells me that she feels weak, and that she struggles to get her limbs moving to do what her brain tells them to. Losing her mobility wasn’t supposed to happen until later, but she shows no sign of any other problems. I call Dr. Zi again and this time he offers something that is somewhat useful, but not what I want to hear.
“I can’t give a full diagnosis without examining her, but if you want my professional opinion I’ll give it to you. The only conclusion I can come up with is that another tumor has formed on a different part of her brain. That part being her parietal lobe, which affects her movement. Now, this is all in theory. If she wants to come in, I’ll take a look and give you a better analysis.”
I tell the doctor that I’m sure she doesn’t want that, but I assure him I’ll mention it. When I hang up, Saylor is standing behind me, leaning on the wall for support.
“I’m not going back,” she says. Her movements might be weak, but her voice is strong and adamant. So I don’t argue, I just tell her what she wants to hear.
“Whatever you want.”
27
“I WANT TO have a sleepover Friday,” Saylor tells me Wednesday night. I ask her who all she wants to come and her answer is simple.
“Everyone.” I’m guessing everyone is Donnawayne, Jeffery, Rookie, Carrie, Shady, and me. When I ask her to confirm this, she says yes. So I call them all and they assure me they will be here Friday afternoon. My job is to make sure there is plenty of food and clean towels in the bathroom. I can do that.
Saylor’s ability to walk has been diminished to only a few steps every day. And those have to be assisted. I haven’t let her out of my sight for fear of her falling.
Her arm movement is better, but after dropping and shattering several glasses, she demanded I get her some cups with lids. Sometimes she gets frustrated at herself. Sometimes we make jokes about it and laugh. But I’ve yet to see it sadden her or get her down. She seems to have a solution to everything. An electric scooter inside the house is where I drew the line. Not that I minded her having it, I just didn’t want her to break her neck.
No one has been informed of Saylor’s current issues, and I wonder if I should tell them without her knowing. But she can still read my thoughts, so she answers my unspoken question.
“You can call Shady and let him know about me. Tell him to tell the others. I’m sure Donnawayne and Jeffery are gonna fuckin’ lose it.” It still makes me smile when I hear her cuss, but not as much as it does to call Shady and tell him he has to break the news to the drama queens.
Saylor’s hair is starting to grow back. It’s just a little blond fuzz on top of her head, but it’s there. When I asked her if she wanted me to shave her legs, a peaceful look came over her face and she smiled.
“There’s not any hair on my legs.” Because I’m an insensitive idiot, not only do I ask why, but I do it in a condescending way as if the thought of her not having hair on her legs was ridiculous. I’m kicking myself, but Saylor is unaffected. She just laughs and shakes her head. Then gives me an explanation that I wasn’t expecting.
“Because I prayed that it wouldn’t.”
—
It’s finally Friday, and although there is no place I want to be than in Saylor’s company, I can’t help but feel a little excited about having some male company.
Shady walks in first, shooting me daggers before turning on that big-ass goofy grin for Saylor, who is sitting on the couch. While he says hello, I hug Rookie and Carrie, thanking them for coming.
When Donnawayne and Jeffery walk in hand in hand, I nod. But their red, swollen eyes tell me they didn’t take the news well, and that has me saying fuck it and hugging them too. It’s just a one-armed hug, but it’s a milestone for me. The sad looks fade and smiles are replaced when they see Saylor.
Everyone is happy and nobody mentions or complains about the amount of time it takes Saylor’s arms to embrace them in a hug. When I hear her laugh and watch her eyes light up at the faces she loves, I can’t help but stand in
line and patiently wait for a hug too.
—
“Hey, baby,” Saylor calls to me from the pallet party in the living room. I’m popping popcorn in the kitchen, upholding my promise to be a good host. I go to her, leaning down over the couch so I’m in her line of sight. She yelps at my sudden appearance, then laughs and pokes her lips out for a kiss, which I give to her.
“What’s up, beautiful?” I ask, and her eyes sparkle at my words. I’ve told her she was beautiful many times, but I’ve never addressed her as if her name defined the word. Maybe I should have.
“Um.” Saylor smiles, forgetting what she was going to say. Her cheeks redden and she laughs, still stunned by my words. “I was wondering if I could borrow you a minute. You see, it seems that I have to pee.” I give her my best smile, and I know if she could, she would reach out and touch me. So I take her hand and put it on my cheek.
“You know me too well,” she says so only I can hear. I kiss her palm and shoot her a wink, then scoop her in my arms and lift her over the couch. “Well that was subtle.” She laughs, her head falling back as I carry her down the hall.
This is something I’ve delighted in, carrying her in my arms, and something she enjoys too. After all we’ve been through, there is no more room for embarrassment or shame. I just do what has to be done and she lets me. There is no sacrifice on my part when it comes to her. It’s my duty, and one I enjoy doing.
I deposit her back on the couch with a thud and Donnawayne frowns at me, but Saylor laughs.
“Oh, don’t be so serious, hon. I’m sure if you asked nicely he would do the same to you,” she tells him and everyone laughs. Everyone but me, of course.
