“You mean me and Jamie. You blame me and Jamie for your sordid life of crime.” I glared at him, though whether or not he could see my expression in the darkness was anyone’s guess.
“No, that isn’t…” He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as though he had gotten a terrible headache. “I just want to make sure you’re taken care of.”
“I told you before, I don’t want your blood money. Jamie and I are fine. We’ve been fine. I can get by.”
“Don’t you get it? I don’t want you to just get by.” He reached for me in the darkness, then he took my hand. I don’t know why I didn’t pull away, but I didn’t; I let him lace his fingers with mine. “I want you to have every goddamn thing in the world.”
I stared at him as my eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, and I could just barely make out his fine Romanesque features. I remembered so clearly what it was like to fall in love with him, like I just fallen in love with him, like our whole lives were still ahead of us. His eyes were green and gold like a nebula, a swirling miasma of constellations. I knew now why I had stayed away so long: to be in his presence was to have all of my senses utterly overwhelmed.
“Come back.”
I pursed my lips and gave a shake of my head, but he wasn’t hearing it. He tugged me toward him until he could hook an arm around my waist and draw me fully into his chest. I didn’t resist him then — I couldn’t. I had used up all of my willpower staying away from him in the first place. Now that I was home, I was his.
“Lucas.”
He lifted a finger to my lips to silence me. I peered up into those eyes that I loved so well, and he bent his head forward until his lips met mine. His hands came up to my face then, and he cradled it gently as the kiss grew in intensity. My fingers gripped the front of his shirt, and I realized somewhere in the back of my mind that I had been excited by the bit of violence I’d witnessed. And what did that say about me? Perhaps there really was no room to judge Lucas. Perhaps, somewhere in the deepest part of myself, I was just like him.
Kissing him felt like coming home. I pulled away ever so briefly to tug my tank top off over my head, and before I’d even tossed it aside, his hands found my breasts. He cupped them tenderly at first, then, in a burst of brutish force, tore my bra away to expose my hardened nipples to the cool evening air. Leaning down, he took one nipple into his mouth, flicking it gently with his tongue. I moaned and tossed my head back so that my hair tickled the skin between my shoulder blades. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this was a terrible idea. I knew that being with him in this way would make leaving him all the harder. And leave him I would.
His fingers fumbled then with the button of my jeans, so I reached down to assist him, wriggling free of the tight denim. I kicked my way out of my sneakers and sat on the seat in front of him, clad only in my panties while he remained fully clothed. I relished his eyes on me, reveled in the hungry expression he wore on his face, like a jungle cat stalking his prey.
“Spread your legs.” And I don’t know what it was that made me obey, but I did as he bid me. When I spread my thighs, he reached forward and pushed my panties aside, one finger probing my entrance. “You’re already wet for me.”
“Yes. Always.” He shoved his finger deep into me then, eliciting a moan from behind my lips. Although it was cramped in the truck, he maneuvered himself on top of me. I could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against my thigh as one finger, and then two, slid in and out of my wet and swollen sex.
“Do you want me to fuck you?” He kissed me again, his tongue finding mine, exploring the cavern of my mouth. But this was all familiar. Nothing could be more natural than for a wife to lie with her husband, right?
“Yes,” came my breathless reply — I wanted him in a base, animalistic way, and my desire pulsed between my legs. He drew his fingers out of me and licked them clean, humming his delight at my taste. I grinned, abashed, and reached out to undo the button on his jeans and tug the zipper down. He lifted himself off of me then and opened the driver’s side door of the truck, climbing out. I lifted my head to watch him, worried he would put a stop to our entire escapade, but instead he tugged me toward him so that I was lying on the seat underneath the steering wheel, my legs hanging out of the open door. He turned me over so that my face was pressed against the old, worn vinyl of the seat, and I could feel him run his hands up the backs of my thighs. He yanked my panties down over my ass until they slid past my knees and he forced my legs wider apart so that I was completely exposed to him.
The head of his cock found my slick, waiting opening and he thrust himself into me, filling me up with the full length of his manhood. I let out a cry, and heard him grunt as well, a noise that almost sounded like relief, the kind of sigh that coming home after a long day of work might elicit. I smiled and gripped the seatbelt buckle as he began to buck his hips, pulling out and then plunging himself as deeply into my pussy as he could manage.
“Harder,” I murmured, and he obliged, grabbing my hips and fucking me with fervor. His body slammed against mine, our skin slick with sweat and friction, and he reached forward to curl his fingers around my throat. He squeezed: not enough to cut off my air supply, but enough to show me how fully he possessed me.
All at once, he let out a cry and bent over me so that his forehead came to rest on the back of my shoulder. I could feel his cock throb as he came inside me, and I thrilled at the sensation.
A few sets of headlights passed us, me naked and bent over with Lucas’ softening prick still inside of me. Finally, he pulled away and I could feel his hot come dripping down my thighs.
“I missed you,” he gently intoned, and I stood up and turned around to face him. He picked my clothes up for me from where they’d landed — on the ground, on the steering wheel, on the dashboard — and handed them to me. He leaned forward and kissed me, a sweet, sensuous kiss that said more about how he felt for me than anything else could.
I put my clothes down and hopped up onto the seat. “I’m not done with you yet,” I said, and he smirked as I put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down to his knees in front of me.
“Someone will see you,” he said as I slung my legs over his shoulders.
“Let them watch,” I replied.
I gasped when his deft little tongue touched my clit, and sighed when he penetrated me with two fingers. Even after the years apart, he knew how to work my body, and it wasn’t long before I felt my orgasm begin to build. I opened my eyes and looked down the length of my body to watch him lick my pussy. With his brows raised, he looked up at me, sending a shiver down my spine even as the muscles in my cunt began to contract with my orgasm. I let out a cry and reached down to tangle my fingers in his hair. He carefully withdrew his fingers, pressed a kiss to my pubic mound and stood up again, peering down at me.
“Goddamn,” he growled appreciatively, and reached up to slide his two dripping wet fingers into my mouth. I licked our juices off of them and felt warm under the blanket of his esteem. “You are so fucking beautiful,” he said.
***
Dressed and on the road again, we went back to being Lucas and Harper, the separated lovers with the three-year-old son and the complicated history, and we didn’t say much when he pulled into the driveway of my parents’ house.
“Well,” I said lamely as I opened the door and climbed out of the truck. I left my bloody sweatshirt, deciding I didn’t need to dwell on the bizarre evening after it was over. Except, perhaps, for the moment Lucas and I were joined again.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” he said, and followed me up the cobblestone pathway to the main entrance of the house.
“Thanks for…,” I began, and tilted my head to the side, peering up at him, “the orgasm.”
He laughed and drew me into a hug, rocking me gently back and forth. “Any time,” he said. “Really. Truly. Any time.”
When I opened the door to the house, I immediately saw my mother s
itting on the stairs in the dim light of the foyer. Lucas peered around me curiously and stepped into the house behind me, immediately sensing something wasn’t right.
“Mama?” I said, and she looked up at me with blue eyes ringed in red from weeping. “What’s the matter?”
She sniffled, and pressed a wadded up tissue to her nose. “Your father is dead,” was all she could manage to say.
I felt my heart drop into the pit of my stomach, felt the world seize up and freeze around me. I was anchored to nothing; I felt like the earth might shake me loose and I would go flying up into the outer atmosphere. But Lucas took my hand and weighed me back down again, and when I looked at him I saw my own pain and fear and panic and grief reflected back at me. I had lost my father, yes. But he had lost a friend, a colleague and a father as well. But more than that, the passing of Peter Harrington meant something much bigger for Lucas Whalen: it meant that Lucas was now the President of the Iron Banshees.
Her Biker’s Touch
(MC Fight Club: Iron Banshees: Book 2)
By Juniper Leigh
Copyright 2014 Enamored Ink
Her Biker’s Touch
I was relieved to find that my bar, The Golden Harp, was open late. The place was a downright after-hours dive, and I was more than happy to avail myself to the seemingly endless supply of gin. I occupied a stool at the far end of the bar, my hands resting on the gleaming mahogany, my chin resting on my hands.
“Want me to call you a cab, sweetheart?” Lindsay, the bartender, asked. She wiped down the bar on either side of my arms and reached forward to smooth the hair off of my forehead. I peered up at her, bleary-eyed but awake, and shook my head.
“No,” I muttered, “thanks. Just another gin martini, please.”
“You got it.” I watched her move with smooth celerity behind the bar, totally in tune with where every glass, bottle and garnish was located. Lindsay was cute, slim, blond and perky, even at three in the morning, which was apparently how late I’d allowed it to become. She peered at me over the rim of her glasses as she slid my martini toward me. “You just let me know when you want to get home, and I’ll have a car here for you in no time.”
“You’re the loveliest,” I said.
“You’re the drunkiest,” came her smiling reply.
I managed to lift my head and take a sip from my martini glass, the world tilt-shifting until it came into complete focus. For a few moments, I had managed to forget that my father had just died; for a few blissful, splendid moments, I had forgotten the look on my bereaved mother’s face. But then it all came flooding back, and it hit me hard, over and over, until the only thing I could think to do about it was drink more gin.
Lucas had helped my mother up the stairs and into bed. She had fallen asleep with ease, clearly exhausted from spending the last two nights at my father’s bedside, but I sat with her a while and watched her toss and turn and knew that she would not wake up feeling rested.
Then, we had both looked in on Jamie, who slept blissfully unaware of what was going on around him, and I thought it would be fine to leave him with my mother for a few hours, just a few, while I treated myself to a drink or four.
Lucas had driven me to the bar, deposited me in the seat I had occupied all night, and disappeared into the backroom. He’d collected all of the lingering members of the Iron Banshees, which had served to clear the bar out all but entirely. Which suited me just fine, because it meant that the bartender could pay full attention to me and make sure my glass was never empty. And she helped me forget for a few minutes at a time — we spent the evening chatting about innocuous things like who did her hair, and where she grew up, what she wanted to do besides tend bar, and with whom she was sleeping. I told her precious little about my current circumstances, mentioning only that, yes, Lucas Whalen was the father of my son, and that apparently was all the information she needed not to charge me a dime for the copious amounts of gin I helped myself to. I even told her my name was on the deed, but she said she’d never seen the deed, so it didn’t matter.
And this is why I had stayed away from Hollybrook, had disentangled myself from the goings-on of the Iron Banshees. Because to live here, to be a part of this life, meant spending an inordinate amount of time in some shitty bar off of some shitty highway, drinking well gin and grieving the latest tragedy. But this time it was too much; this time it hit far too close to home. My father was dead, and this town and its godforsaken MC had killed him.
“Hey there, Doc.”
I hadn’t noticed Oliver approach, hadn’t realized he was here at all, until he spoke. I turned slowly and tried to lock my gaze on his face, but he was slightly out of focus.
“Ah. Mister Flynn, is it?” I said and offered what I hoped to be a charming smile, and not some terrifying joker’s grin.
“Oliver. Mr. Flynn was my father.” He slid onto the stool next to mine and curled his thick fingers around the stem of my martini glass. “Gin?”
“Yep.”
“Fantastic.” And in a gesture of surprising intimacy, he drank down the contents of the glass in two huge gulps.
“Hey,” I began to protest, but Lindsay already had another glass in front of me. I sipped from it: water. Boo. But it tasted sweet and crisp and I liked how it felt sliding down my throat. “Did you have your other fight tonight?” I asked, turning on the stool to face him.
“I did.”
“How’d you do?”
“How does it look like I did?”
I leaned forward and examined his face, which was largely in the same shape it had been in earlier, when I’d patched a deep laceration over his eye. I was proud to see that the stitches had held. For his part, Oliver was looking no worse for the wear. I nodded.
“Looks like you did pretty well.”
“I pummeled the poor son of a bitch.”
“Bravo?”
He bounced his broad shoulders in a shrug. “I’m not exactly doing it by choice, am I?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said.
“I thought Lucas would’ve mentioned, maybe. You two seem… close.”
And I don’t know what it was that made me conceal the true nature of my relationship with Lucas. But for whatever reason, I looked up at Oliver and said, “We used to be. Not anymore.”
He nodded and glanced over at Lindsay, who was engrossed in a call on her cell phone. Noting her distraction, Oliver reached over the bar and snagged a couple of beers. He popped them open on the side of the bar and placed one in front of me. “Not as harsh as gin, not as boring as water.” He flashed a dimpled smile at me, and I found myself grinning back.
“Cheers,” I said, clinking the neck of my beer bottle against his.
“Cheers,” he echoed, taking a swig. “So, what on God’s green earth are you doing here so bloody late?”
And it all came flooding back, in that instant, the crushing weight of my reality. I parted my lips to give some cursory explanation, but all at once, my face deflated into tears. I felt his warm, steady palm land on my shoulder and give it a companionable squeeze. And when I’d managed to get some semblance of a handle on my weeping, I looked up at him and he smiled, unfazed.
“Not to worry, Doc,” he murmured, “nobody brings anything small into a bar in this town.” I wiped at my cheeks with the back of my hand and leaned into the comfort of his touch.
“I’m not a doctor,” I muttered, plucking a cocktail napkin off the bar and blowing my nose into it.
“Hm?”
“I said, I’m not a doctor.” I wadded the napkin up and stuck it in the empty martini glass. “I’m a nurse. Well, technically I’m not even that, yet. I’m still in school.”
“Christ, I’m glad you didn’t tell me that before you sewed me up,” he said, grinning, “But you had me fooled. You’re a natural.”
“Really?” He bobbed his head in a nod, and I couldn’t help but mirror his broad, warm smile.
“One time, when I was a lad,” he said, leaning close
to me, “I was visiting family in County Cork. I must’ve been, oh… six, seven, maybe. But I was a wild thing, and my cousins were no different, so we could find all manner of shenanigans to get up to, and this one afternoon, we were playing King of the Hill, right? Except instead of a hill, it was a fence, and an old one, at that. Long story short, I was king of the fence, until my cousin Robbie threw a rock at me and knocked me off.”
“Whoa, your cousin threw a rock at you?”
“Aye, hit me in the face, right here.” He pointed then to a small, jagged scar underneath his left eye. I would have noticed it before, but it had probably been obscured by the blood of the new wound. “So I’m bleeding from the face, where the rock hit me, and bleeding from the back where I hit my head on a tree root when I hit the ground, and I’m all manner of groggy and aching. And my auntie takes me to the local physician, and this man, I swear, is stinking drunk as he stitches me up. This a board-certified doctor, apparently. You did a better job than he did, is all I’m sayin’.”
“I appreciate that.”
The back door opened with a bang, and a string of Iron Banshees traipsed through the bar, single-file, all bearing similar expressions of grim determination. I watched them file through absently, and could hear the purr and hum of motorcycle engines after they’d exited out the front. Lucas was the last to move through the bar, and he paused by me and Oliver.
“I thought you would’ve taken a cab home by now,” he said, leaning in between me and Oliver.
“I’m not finished drinking.”
“Yes, you are.” He turned, then, and locked his eyes on my companion. “Make sure she gets home safe.”
“I can take care of myself,” I protested, but the look Lucas shot me shut me up right quick.
“No, you can’t.”
“Don’t worry,” Oliver said, placing a proprietary hand on my knee, “I’ll make sure she gets home safely.” Lucas saw him put his hand on me, and I saw something shift behind his eyes, something small, nuanced, but pronounced. He leaned in, perhaps meaning to plant a kiss on my mouth, but I turned my head and he caught my cheek instead. He examined me a moment, but ultimately pulled away and exited the bar without another word. I could hear his bike as he peeled out onto the road — apparently he was leaving his truck here — and felt myself relax when I was sure he’d gone. Perhaps that had something to do with the fact that Oliver still had his hand on my knee.
MC Fight Club: Iron Banshees: (Complete Series: Parts 1-5) An MC Fighter Menage Romance Page 3
