Dizzy: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Prequel

by Cate C. Wells

  “What if I say no?”

  He chuckles. “I don’t know. Call it a night, I guess. We could watch a movie. Your ass has had enough.”

  It has? The pain is a dull throbbing. I can hardly stand the feel of the denim of Dizzy’s pants on my tender skin, but love the feel of his arms around me, so I only squirm, I don’t fight to get up.

  I also love the way he holds me as if I’m the most precious thing in the world, and how he’s as infatuated with staring at me now as he was when he had a lot more to see.

  “You want to watch a movie, baby?” He rubs his rough hands up and down my arms.

  No. I want to see what happens next. I shake my head, brushing his beard back and forth.

  “All right, then. Alley-oop.” He rises, lifting me with him, and then he sets me on my feet. “Go model my new clothes for me.”

  He jerks his chin toward the bags and settles himself against the headboard, legs spread, a wild-haired outlaw well-pleased with himself. I can see the bottoms of his huge bare feet.

  He’s a picture. Torn, faded jeans. Thighs like tree trunks. Broad shoulders, massive biceps. Green plaid flannel that’s been washed a thousand times. Thick, wavy black hair and beard. Dancing brown eyes. I bet some women look at him and want to clean him up. Comb and cut his hair. Buy him a crisp new shirt.

  I love the way he looks. Like a mountain man or a lumberjack. He looks like he works hard, and he knows what he’s doing.

  He winks at me. I roll my eyes.

  I rummage in the bag, pulling out a bulky burnt orange sweater with leaves around the hem. I thought it was festive, considering the season. My third-grade teacher wore sweaters like this all the time. I tug my T-shirt over my head, and slip the sweater on, checking Dizzy from the corner of my eye. He’s watching.

  The TV is on behind me, but his gaze tracks my every move.

  I consider bottoms. Jeans are out. I don’t want anything to touch my sore ass. I slip on a cute pleated skirt I bought in dark brown.

  “Okay. Show me.”

  Dizzy cracks open a beer he must have brought with him and takes a sip.

  I feel silly. “You can see it.”

  “Twirl.” He gestures with his bottle. “Do like those models do.”

  “I feel stupid.”

  “You look pretty as hell. Show me. If I like it, you can keep it.”

  I think he’ll let me keep all this anyway. He’s teasing. His lips are curved up. He’s enjoying himself.

  He’s so much more at ease. Way more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. Me, too. Did the spanking do that for him? Like it did for me?

  I don’t know anything about this. I saw that movie with Dee. The one with the red room and the whips. That girl didn’t look like she was having much fun. Except for the helicopter ride. She seemed to dig that.

  I cock a hip, rest my hands on my waist, and sashay in a circle. The skin on my ass feels tight, twinging each time I take a step. I bet it’s red.

  “Do you like it?” I ask. My face heats. I glance at him from under my eyelashes. I’m not used to being the center of attention. Not at all.

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah.” It’s cozy. It reminds me of back to school time. I always loved the day after Labor Day. Breakfast and lunch five days a week. Air conditioning. And my teachers always liked me. I think it was my lop-sided smile. People often take a shine to me because of it. I think that’s why Chaos agreed to give me a ride.

  “Put it in the keep pile, then. Next.”

  I’m warming to this game.

  I sort through the bag, looking specifically for a dress I grabbed at the very last moment. It was on a rack of homecoming gowns. All I saw was a poofy, electric-blue skirt and rhinestones, and I snagged it.

  “How about this?” I hold it to my front.

  Dizzy raises an eyebrow.

  I take off the sweater and skirt, fold them carefully, and set them on the bench at the foot of the bed. Goose bumps rise all over my body. I’m naked, and he’s staring.

  My nipples stiffen to achy points. My pussy throbs. I really like him watching me.

  He takes a sip of beer with his soft lips. I loved kissing him in the laundry room. I hope he kisses me again. To be honest, there’s not much I don’t love about him.

  I lower the dress over my head. My hair’s a mess at this point, so many wisps and flyaways. The dress is slinky. Spaghetti straps. Plunging neckline. And so many sparkles. It hits me high on the thigh, and poofs out almost to my waist. It’s awful.

  “Do you like it?” I smoosh my upper arms together, try to create some cleavage, and fail miserably. I do duck face to complete the effect.

  “I hate it.”

  “Well, I wanna keep it.”

  I don’t know where this sass is coming from. Back home, you got what you got. If you decided to be a brat, you got slapped upside the head. I never bothered pouting. It didn’t help. If Mama didn’t have the money—and she never had the money—that was that.

  I heard plenty of pouting once I got the job at the Gas-and-Go, that’s for sure. Fay-Lee, lend me five dollars. Fay-Lee, let me put ten bucks in the tank. Tell your boss you must’ve miscounted someone’s change. I never picked up the habit myself, though.

  “You serious?” Dizzy asks.

  “Yeah.” I smooth my hand down the sparkles. It’s the kind of fabric that feels flammable. Truthfully, it’s hideous, but it reminds me of Carol’s prom dress. She used to let us play dress-up with it before she traded it at a swap. It was the fanciest thing I’d ever worn. Well, until now.

  He lifts a shoulder. “You ain’t gonna wear it outside of the house.”

  “So says you.”

  “So says me.” His lips curl. “Put it in the keep pile, then, if you like it.”

  He can’t be serious. This dress is hideous. I wait a second, but he doesn’t say anything, so I put it with the sweater and skirt. I check the tag before I look through the next bag. Two hundred and forty-seven dollars. Holy crap. That’s way too much for a joke.

  “You don’t look at the tags. I worry about that. Not you.”

  Oh, I love this game.

  He deserves a reward.

  Even though my ass burns. Why aren’t I upset about that? I’m not. Not at all.

  I really want to see what it looks like. I dig through two bags until I find what I want. I only bought one. They aren’t practical.

  It’s a white lace thong. There’s a matching lace bra, too, with a tiny bow and a rose bud between the cups. I hold them up.

  Dizzy grins, as happy as I’ve seen him. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  I pull on the bra and hook the clasps. Then I slip on the panties.

  Dizzy swirls his index finger. I turn where I stand, pausing when I catch sight of my ass in the mirror above the dresser. It’s rosy red, especially against the white lace. I crane my neck. There are red fingerprints on the very tops of my thighs.

  “You like what I did to you, baby?” His voice is low. Growly.

  My belly swoops. Already, I’ve soaked the panties.

  “Yeah.” I know it’s wrong. I’m not supposed to be proud of my red bottom. It doesn’t make sense. But that’s as close a word as I can think of to describe what I’m feeling. Proud.

  And that’s messed up, isn’t it?

  “What are you thinkin’? What put that frown on my pretty girl’s face?”

  Dizzy misses nothing.

  I turn away from the mirror. “I don’t know. Are we—are we supposed to be doing this?”

  He tenses, his jaw tightening. “Do you want to stop?”

  “No. But—” I come prop a knee on the foot of the bed. “This isn’t what people normally do. Right?”

  “Guess not.” He’s frowning. Shit. I ruined the moment. “What do you think?”

  I gnaw at my bottom lip. “I don’t want to stop. I like it. But all my sisters, all my girlfriends—they’d lose their minds if they knew.”

  He glances pa
st me to the door, and his jaw tenses. “We don’t have to do anything. You can keep all the clothes. I wasn’t actually gonna take any back anyway. We can watch a movie.”

  He’s disappointed, but he’s tryin’ damn hard not to let it show on his face.

  “I don’t want to watch a movie.”

  His eyes return to mine. I can’t hold his gaze. I keep sneaking peeks at the huge cock tenting his jeans.

  “What do you want, baby?” he asks.

  I check the door. There’s no lock. Just two laundry baskets. I can leave whenever I want. There are windows, too. Three big ones with heavy teal curtains and white sheers.

  And Dizzy, sitting against the headboard.

  My pussy’s achy.

  I want him.

  He’s hard. There’s a bulge in his jeans. A big one.

  “You wanna fuck, baby? You want me to make you feel good?”

  I nod.

  He leans over and grabs a foil packet from the bedside table. Then he unzips his pants. His cock springs out, ruddy, thick, and veiny. He wasn’t wearing underwear. He slides his jeans down a few inches, not much. Now I can see the dark thatch of hair at the root of his cock.

  He’s way bigger than Rylan Dorset and those couple of boys I experimented with in high school. Longer. Thicker.

  My breathing goes shallow.

  He rips the packet open and unrolls a rubber down his cock.

  I don’t know if he’ll fit.

  But I wanna try. I wriggle my thong off and kick it in the direction of the hamper.

  “Come here.”

  I kneel all the way on the bed. His eyes are glued on me. On my face.

  I shuffle forward on my knees until I’m beside him. He cups my neck, draws me in. Kisses me. I melt.

  “Here we go.” He places his hands around my waist and lifts me until I straddle him. His cock is hot against my lower belly. If I want him inside me, I need to rise up and take him. Do it myself.

  His fingers skate up my back. He unhooks the bra and pulls it free. Then he cups my breast. He’s so big, all of me is in his hand.

  “Gimme this,” he says, and I arch my back. He drops his head and takes my tit in his mouth. He sucks and draws, lapping my nipple with his raspy tongue. It’s so good. Hot and wet and demanding.

  The best part is how serious he is. He’s not trying to warm me up. He’s devouring me. It’s like feasting on my tits is even better for him than it is for me.

  That’s how all this is. Whatever feels good to me seems to rev his engine twice as much. As if there’s a direct connection between my pleasure and his satisfaction. It’s crazy.

  He suckles, tongues my nipples until I’m whimpering, grinding down, sliding my pussy along his cock, smearing the condom with my cream. I want more.

  His hand rests flat against the small of my back, and he turns his attention to my other tit, sucking hard, tugging until I cry out, releasing it with a pop.

  This is torture. And I can stop it.

  He gives my tits a break and brushes kisses along my jaw, gathering my hair and holding it in a ponytail with one fist. “Ride my cock, baby,” he rumbles in my ear. “Come on.”

  My clit throbs. I grind, but he stays frustratingly still, his lips gentle, even though he’s panting as if he’s in pain. He kisses my scar. The tip of my nose.

  If I want it, I have to take it.

  And I want it. I really do. For the first time in my life.

  I grab him by the root and wrap my fingers around his girth. Even through the rubber, he’s hot to the touch. I rise up on my knees. He’s so big; that’s not gonna do it. I have to kind of squat over his lap.

  I don’t know how to do this. I’m fumbling, and then his hand is on mine, aiming, and I feel him press at my entry. He’s huge. I don’t take him automatically. He’s too much.

  The fingers of my other hand find my clit, and I rub furiously as I spread my thighs, tilting and wiggling. I want him inside me. I buck and rock, working myself down, inch by inch, impaling my pussy on his thick cock. He grunts, his face contorted, his eyes desperate. He’s sweating, and he smells like musk and man.

  I want to touch his bare skin. I want to rake my tits through the wiry hair on his chest. I unbutton his shirt, frantic, and he helps me, tossing it onto the floor, peeling off his white undershirt. And then my palms find his rock-hard shoulders, and I hold on as I take more of him, moaning as he stretches me.

  “I’m so full,” I moan.

  “Does it feel good?” he growls, breathless.

  “Yes.”

  Oh Lord, it feels so good.

  His stomach muscles are bunched tight, the strain showing on his face. He’s letting me set the pace, and it’s costing him.

  Finally, I take him all the way, and he breaks. He bucks, fucking into me, lifting me and drilling my pussy. I’m on top, but he’s in control. Every stroke is the best feeling, and I want it, every inch, I want him to use me, slam me down onto his cock over and over, and make me take it.

  There’s the wet, sticky sound of slapping, and it’s so dirty. And hot. I’m gonna cum.

  My pussy’s spasming, pure pleasure coiling in my belly tighter and tighter, a wave looming, ready to wash me away. I can hardly play with my clit, he’s pounding me so hard. My hair has fallen in our faces, tangled in his beard.

  “Does this feel good, baby?”

  “Yes,” I sob.

  He grabs my tender ass, digging in, lifting me and slamming me down as he pistons, faster and faster. It hurts, and it makes everything feel even better. I don’t want him to ever stop, and I can’t bear a single second more.

  “You’re taking my cock like a good girl, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I gasp.

  “Ride my cock harder, dirty girl. Take it all. Come on.” He’s grunting in my ear, his quick breaths hot on my neck, and I’m coming, waves of pleasure cresting through me, my belly tightening, and I throw my arms around his neck, holding tight as I shake and tremble, shoving my face into my upper arm to stifle my screams, my mind blown to pieces.

  He drills into me once, twice, bottoming out as he swallows a triumphant shout. Then he wraps me in his arms, pressing me to his sweaty chest. His heart pounds against my bare tits.

  We catch our breath together, skin to skin.

  Eventually, as the air begins to feel chilly, he eases me to the bed and tucks me beside him under the covers. I can’t move my legs. Or form words.

  He goes to the bathroom, cleans up quickly, and when he comes back to bed, he brings my water bottle. He crawls in beside me, but over the covers, lounging on his side, all self-satisfied.

  “Drink. Finish it.” He holds it to my mouth. I gulp it down. I’m parched.

  He smooths my hair out of my face and smiles.

  “Hey, beautiful girl.”

  “Hey.”

  He lost his pants in the bathroom. He’s completely naked now, tan, ripped. Gorgeous.

  He stretches out beside me and cups my jaw. “Are you okay?”

  I hum. It’s a happy sound.

  “Go to sleep now.”

  I’m almost there.

  But what about the boys? What if they find me in their dad’s room?

  That breaks through my post-sex fog. I struggle to sit. Dizzy shakes his head and splays a heavy hand on my chest. “Go to sleep.”

  “What about the kids? I should go back to Parker’s room.”

  “Nope. My woman sleeps in my bed.”

  “Your woman?” A burst of warmth, so bright I can hardly believe it, explodes in my chest. I’m Dizzy’s woman?

  “You doubt it? Fuck. If I need to prove it again, you gotta to give me a few minutes. I ain’t twenty years old no more.”

  He chuckles and sprawls back on the pillows, switching the channel to a different car show.

  “You need food?”

  I yawn. For first time in my life, I don’t think I could eat. “No.”

  “Warm enough?”

  Yes, between my s
till-burning ass and the human heater next to me. “I’m okay.”

  “Go to sleep.” He sips his beer.

  My eyes drift shut, and I curl up against his side, his arm curved around me.

  I feel safe.

  Cared for.

  I know life is never this easy.

  But I’m gonna leave worrying about it for morning.

  8

  DIZZY

  When I was a kid, I knew I wanted a Shovelhead for my first bike. My first ride was a chopper, a rebuild that Big George guided me through. A beautiful ride. I laid her down in an early ice storm when I came back from my first deployment, and she wasn’t salvageable. My next bike was a Shovelhead, too.

  But when Parker came along and I needed a truck, I didn’t know what I wanted beyond American-made.

  Dad and I went up to Baldwin, on the state line, where there’s a strip of dealerships and no sales tax. We started at the first place we came to. We’d narrowed it down to three different models beforehand.

  The minute I sat behind the wheel of my truck, I knew it was the one. Dad insisted we test-drive it and take the other models for a spin. To be sure. But I was sure. I went along with it. Dad was good company. Funny as shit. But we could’ve called it a day and gone fishing. I was sold the minute I slid into the driver’s seat.

  The closest feeling I can compare it to is when I held Parker for the first time. And Carson. They were mine.

  So is this girl curled up beside me, snoring softly, nestled under my arm. I know that ain’t the way it’s supposed to be. Shit, there are whole magazines for folks who need all the specs and reviews before they even go to test-drive a vehicle. But I know. Fay-Lee belongs to me.

  It’s gonna hurt like a bitch when she decides she wants to leave.

  I kiss her on the forehead and ease out of bed. I need to check on the boys, get them ready for bed. If I let ‘em, they’ll stay up all night.

  Parker can come back up to his room. Fay-Lee is stayin’ in my bed. No sense in him bunking downstairs for another night.

  I grab another beer and some chips on my way to the lower level. I’m starving. What I really want is meat. I thought I had some deer jerky left, but I search the shelves and can’t find it. Carson must’ve finished it off. Oh, well. It was good. Can’t blame him.