This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Reaper’s Property: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Valley Reapers MC) (Claimed by Him Book 4) copyright @ 2017 by Kathryn Thomas and E-Book Publishing World Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
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Contents
Reaper’s Property: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Valley Reapers MC) (Claimed by Him Book 4)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Books by Kathryn Thomas
Brute’s Property: A Motorcycle Club Romance (The Blazers MC) (Claimed By Him Book 3)
Bad Boy’s Property: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Lost Disciples MC)
Biker’s Property: A Bad Boy Biker Baby Romance (Chrome Horsemen MC)
Possessive: A Bad Boy Second Chance Motorcycle Club Romance (Sons of Chaos MC)
Tangled with the Fighter: A Bad Boy MMA Fighter Romance
Tangled with the Biker: Bad Devils MC
Pregnant for a Price: Kings of Chaos MC
Bride for a Price: The Misery MC
Baby for a Price: Marino Crime Family
Wife for a Price: A Hitman Fake Marriage Romance
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Reaper’s Property: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Valley Reapers MC) (Claimed by Him Book 4)
By Kathryn Thomas
Breaking her will be my masterpiece.
I like tattoos, whiskey, fighting, and f**king.
She’s too pure and innocent for my world.
But as soon as I had a taste of her perfection, I knew:
I won’t rest until I own the rest of her.
HAZEL
The bad boy biker caught me in the shadows, and I let him into my life.
My art was my safe house, but he turned it into an inferno.
There was no reason to believe him.
But then he wrapped his hands around my wrists, crushed me to the bed,
And made me plead for more.
I can’t struggle or move.
Can’t help but nod every time he presses his bearded lips against my ear and growls,
“I own you now, darling.”
LOGAN
I didn’t mean to bring my nightmare to her doorstep.
She wasn’t cut out for the outlaw life.
But that all changed when I tasted her.
Consumed her.
Made her the fiery sun at the center of my universe.
Now, a lunatic is blaming us for his shattered life.
He wants us in the ground.
He wants to steal her away.
But no one takes anything from me.
Not without a fight.
And I plan on fighting real f**king dirty.
Chapter One
Hazel
The hissing sound the can made when I sprayed the paint onto the bricks was music to my ears. There was something about art, about expressing myself with images rather than words and actions, that made me feel like a part of me was understood.
I had been doing graffiti since I knew what it meant to put lines and colors together to create an image. Art had been my language for as long as I could remember, the only way to talk in a world that had forgotten how to listen.
When I finished my tag, I stepped back to study my handiwork. It was one of my best tags yet if I had to say so myself. I looked around, pulled the bandana over my face down and wiped my cheeks with my sleeve before pulling the bandana back into place. I stepped closer again and signed my tag with my code name, Emerald. The graffiti world knew me by my code name. The only person who knew that I, Hazel Lynn, was also known as Emerald, was my agent.
Lisa was the kind of agent that believed in me as a person, not only an artist. In a world where graffiti was known as the language of vandalism and women didn’t belong, she made sure that my voice was heard. She showcased me in shows where someone might notice my art. She stayed positive when I was sure I wouldn’t amount to anything other than a woman who had outgrown the rebellion of a teenager with a spray can, and she made sure that I stayed on track with my passion. Because without passion, what did we have?
I stepped back again, ready to wrap up when I noticed another tag nearby. The walls under the bridge were popular for real graffiti artists to get themselves noticed outside shows and it was a collage of talent and rage. There was often new work, but one new piece drew my eye above the others. It was so similar to my style I wondered for a moment if I hadn’t done this one before. I walked to the tag and pressed my fingers against the brick wall, touching the paint lines. It was so fresh that I could still smell the paint, and it was definitely not mine.
Someone was copying my style. Someone was trying very hard to do what I did, exactly the way I did it, and suddenly I was pissed off.
Copying someone’s style wasn’t the mark of an artist, no matter how well it was done. To be unique, to find a personal style, was at the core of being an artist and copying was a cheap way to say you had found talent when all you had found was the ability to replicate. Someone was trying to use my style and show it off as their own. Someone was trying to pretend they were good enough. Someone was trying to use me as their ride to fame.
I thought about messing up the tag – doing something to it that would make it ugly. But that wasn’t how the game was played. I could put up my own. I didn’t need to sabotage someone else’s work to prove something. Even if that someone’s work was almost sabotaging mine.
No. I was better.
The rumble of bikes passing overhead sounded like thunder. The engines slowed before cutting off, and I froze. A moment later, I heard voices.
“That’s a lot of art,” someone said, whistling through his teeth. Two men were coming down from the road, using the concrete steps that led under the bridge.
“This is where it’s at, bro. I’m telling you, you’re not going to get finer art if you walk all the museums in Cali.”
I had time to get away. I ran to the end of the slab of concrete beneath the bridge, jumped down the two feet drop into the dirt a
nd hid against the side of the bridge.
“And these are new?” the first man asked again.
“Yeah, looks like someone was just busy here. This is still wet.”
“We must have just missed them. Pity, I would have loved to see someone in action.”
A chuckle. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s still vandalism to do this shit. No one is going to stick around and admit to what they’ve done.”
There was silence for a while. I had to stay until they left. The concrete steps were the only way up to the road from down here – unless I was willing to crawl through the bushes. Which I wasn’t. I had to wait them out. From the sounds of it, they were walking around, studying the rest of the work against the walls.
“This one looks a hell of a lot like that fresh one,” the first guy said again.
I rolled my eyes. My paint was fresher than the copycat’s tag so it would look like I was the one copying it.
“Yeah, not everyone has talent. Easier to copy. This one is so much better. I’m not surprised someone wanted to copy it.”
What? Were they suggesting the copycat tag was better than mine? I bristled. It was bad enough that I was being copied, and now I had to deal with being called the imposter?
Fuck that. I climbed up onto the concrete slab again and stepped into view.
Chapter Two
“Sometimes, a lot goes into the artwork you so easily judge and write off,” I said.
I still wore my bandana and both men turned to look at me. They were both bikers; large, muscular, intimidating. It wasn’t hard to see who was superior. He was taller, and he oozed power, authority. Sexuality.
“And who are you?” he asked. His black hair was buzzed short, making his eyes stand out. I couldn’t help but stare. His eyes were like ice and just as cold.
“You’re not the only one that can appreciate art down here.”
There was no way I was telling them who I really was, which tag belonged to me.
He folded his arm, and his friend laughed. I looked at the other guy. Dark hair, dark eyes, not much of anything if it weren’t for the leathers on his back and the all-consuming presence of his leader. “She’s got an attitude, I’ll give her that much.”
And with one sentence I lost all respect for him – talking about me like I wasn’t there. Bikers were womanizers, nasty as fuck and hard to like by any standard, but respect was a sore point for me. Women weren’t just sex on a stick.
“Shut up, Hollis,” the leader barked out, and Hollis closed his mouth. Good for him.
Blue-eyes walked toward me. I fought the urge to take a step back. His presence slid over me like a whisper, and I shivered. There was something about him that commanded submission. But I wasn’t going to bow down to this guy. Who the hell was he?
When he stood in front of me, I swallowed hard. He was gorgeous. High cheekbones, nose straight as an arrow and a look in his eyes that told me he got what he wanted. He let his eyes slide up and down my body like a physical touch, and I shivered again. Maybe what he wanted was me.
I shook off the thought; I wasn’t going to be meat for an arrogant asshole, no matter how hot he was.
“You come here often?” he asked.
I nodded, mute.
“So, you know who Emerald is?”
My blood ran cold when he said my code name. God, it sounded good on his tongue. What was it about this guy? How did everything become increasingly sexual with him this close to me?
“The artist that did that tag,” I said, gesturing. I didn’t sound like a breathless idiot, either. Point for me.
“Right. The copycat.”
Anger tackled me again, fueling my confidence and ripping me out of the lust that hung like mist around this man.
“Actually, Emerald is the original. That tag over there, by someone called Rabbit, is the copy.”
Hot-and-handsome lifted his eyebrows. “That’s a far stretch.”
“Why?”
“Rabbit is obviously better.” He was shooting me down. But this was a game I knew. I was a woman in a man’s world, and I could walk the walk.
I laughed sarcastically. “There’s no accounting for taste, I guess.”
Hollis chuckled in behind him, muttering something under his breath.
“Are you challenging me?”
It was my turn to look him up and down. I tried to be big about it. I was trying to hide my nerves.
“No,” I said. “I’m just not going to agree with you. Is that a problem?”
He looked fierce for a second before his face split into a smile and I was done for. If I thought his Mr. Serious routine was hot, that smile blew me away. His eyes stripped me naked, and a thought flashed through my mind – I wish.
God, where was this coming from?
“I’m Logan,” he said, holding his hand out to me.
I looked at his hand and over his shoulder at his little disciple. Hollis blinked at me. Apparently, I had done something right.
“Hazel.” I took his hand.
Big mistake. Electricity ran from his hand to mine like a current. I looked up at his eyes, and they were drowning deep. I could lose myself in this guy if I weren’t careful. He was already sucking me in. I took my hand back, fighting the urge to rub it on my jeans. I still wore the mask, but I suddenly wished I could show my face. I wanted him to see me.
As if he knew what I was thinking, he turned to Hollis.
“Watch the bikes,” he said.
Hollis looked surprised. “What?”
Logan pinned his man with a stare. Hollis grumbled and climbed the concrete steps. We were alone now. I wasn’t sure if it was better, or worse. As if he couldn’t leave well enough alone, he stepped even closer to me. My breath hitched in my throat. Logan took my bandana between his thumb and forefinger and pulled it down. Cool air rushed over my skin, and I took a deep breath as if I had been drowning and this stud had pulled me up for air.
“You reckon this Rabbit isn’t worth it?” Logan asked me. His voice was rough as if we weren’t talking about art.
I swallowed, and when I spoke, I sounded more stable than I sounded. Miracles did happen. “Define worth. If I see any of Rabbit’s pieces at the Wilburton Show, then I’ll believe that it’s worth my time, but until then, Rabbit rules Amateur Hour.”
Logan lifted his eyebrows. “What do you know about the Wilburton show? You’re an artist?”
The Wilburton Show was one of the underground shows. Not everyone knew about it unless they were in the right circles.
“I guess you can say so,” I said. “No one comes down here to sightsee, right?”
Logan didn’t answer me. His eyes were on mine again, his face serious. The sexual tension between us was so thick it was hard to breathe. He was a total stranger, but I wanted him. God, I wanted him. Logan lifted his hand to my face. He ran his thumb over my lower lip and stripped me of all my inhibitions. I gasped, and he kissed me.
It was urgent right away. I needed him to touch me. I needed to feel every inch of him. I wanted him to fuck me.
Logan drove me backward until I was up against the wall. He pinned me against the concrete with his body, and I felt the thick ridge in his pants as he ground himself up against my hipbone. I gasped into his mouth. Logan’s hand, large and capable, was on my neck. He could crush me if he wanted to, but he didn’t want to. He wanted much more than that.
He tugged my shirt up, one hand on my bare skin. He yanked the cup of my bra down, and his fingers were on my breast. He pinched my nipple, hard and straining, and he tugged on me until I moaned. So help me, I wanted more. I wanted it all. Logan was a stranger, and he was about to fuck me under a bridge. It was nasty, and it was hot, and I wanted it.
Logan pressed the length of his body against mine, stopping my shirt from dropping down again. He moved his hand down to my jeans and unbuttoned and unzipped them. I wriggled, helping him work them down my legs. When they were around my ankles, I kicked them off along with my shoes.
Fuck public indecency. This was about to get a whole lot hotter.
Logan undid his pants and pulled out his cock. He was bigger than I’d thought, judging him by his pants. His dick was hard and eager. I put my arms around Logan’s neck, and he lifted me with his hands around my thighs, supporting my weight like it was nothing. I wrapped my legs around his waist, and he lowered me onto his cock.
When he penetrated me, I gasped again. He slid into me all the way, splitting me open. He leaned me against the wall again and fucked me. He pumped in and out of me, bucking his hips, and I gasped and moaned with every thrust, trying to keep quiet and failing. I lost all sense of space and time, lost in the ecstasy that this man brought with him. I was completely at his mercy. I was letting a stranger have his way with me, and I loved it. I loved every second of it.
Logan fucked me harder and faster. He held me up against the wall, and I had the idea he’d done this before. No one fucked like this without practice. But I didn’t care. I got lost in the rhythm. I was on fire; every nerve ending was alive and a raging inferno built at my core. It spread the longer he fucked me, consuming me. The orgasm shattered me, and I cried out, coming undone at the seams.
Reaper’s Property Page 1
