by Nia Farrell
Another Saturday night in the life of Luke “Mad Dog” McLanahan.
Or it could be, if he wanted it.
The strange thing was, he didn’t know what the fuck he wanted, except that it wasn’t a play session with Cricket.
He was bored. Restless. Even Alura’s routine—and the possibility of a threesome—failed to excite him. Rather than stick around and hope it got better, he chugged the last of his beer, cut his losses, and headed back for Diamond Springs.
It was late enough in the afternoon, the temperature was improving after a high of eighty-seven. The lowering sun cast shadows that let him pass in and out of the shade, driving past forest and farmland. He’d only had one beer, but he popped a breath mint and took the back roads anyway. Chances of meeting a county mounty were slim to none, and more than one was in the Angels’ pocket to begin with.
He was less than halfway home when he saw a car stopped on the side of the road. Bright orange hazard triangles dotted the shoulder, and someone—a woman—was standing outside the vehicle. Folding her umbrella, she got back in her car and waited to see if he’d pass her up or stop to help.
He was tempted to do the first, but then, he imagined his sister, stranded, and how she’d feel, needing help and being denied it.
Fuck.
He slowed his bike. Curious as to what he’d be dealing with, he glanced to his right as he passed.
Of all the damned luck.
Sitting behind the wheel was Isabella Castellari.
He hadn’t seen her since she was fifteen, but Anna had shown him her picture during one of her attempts to get him to give her a ride. It looked like she’d be getting her wish after all.
Fuck a duck.
He pulled to a stop in front of her, parked his bike, and shut down the engine. No sense letting it run when he didn’t have any idea how long he’d be. If he was lucky, it might be something small that he could fix and send her on her way. If not…well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
Mad Dog approached her car, watching for that moment of recognition from seeing him three years ago. He hadn’t changed much. Isabella, on the other hand, was all grown up. Fuck if she wasn’t a stunner. She was dolled up and dressed to the nines. Somewhere, someone was waiting for all that to come.
Too bad. And too early to tell if their loss was his gain.
Mad Dog grinned at life’s irony. He could have been fucking Cricket’s brains out against the wall of the beer garden. Instead, he got to deal with the one woman he’d been avoiding.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Isabella Castellari. You’ve grown.”
The appreciative gleam in his eyes told her just how much he liked it.
Isabella bit her lip and worried it for a second. “Can you give me a ride home?” she asked, cringing when she saw his grin flatten.
“You think that’s wise?” He put his arm on the roof and hooked a thumb into his belt loop, drawing her gaze down to the front of his jeans. “That didn’t work out so well last time.”
She sat there, staring at the bulge of his dick. Sure, it was impressive, but you’d think she’d never seen one before.
Isabella swallowed hard and glanced up at him. “What?”
He sighed heavily. “I said, that didn’t work out so well last time.”
“My folks are gone. If you don’t want the neighbors to see, then drop me off at the gas station by the highway,” she said. “I’ll call my friend Anna to come get me.”
There was a God. No one knew about Richie, according to him. Not even Anna’s BFF. All that was about to change.
Instead of checking under her hood or pulling out his cell phone and calling for help, Mad Dog nodded his head. “Get your stuff, close your windows, and lock up. I’ll get you somewhere safe.”
Clueless as to what he planned, Isabella obeyed. Gathering her purse and locking the doors behind her, she followed him to his bike.
He only had one helmet. It was the first problem of what was likely to be too damn many. “I don’t pack a spare,” he said, “but you’re welcome to use it, if it will make you feel safer.”
She shook her dark head, making her long, raven locks swing. “I think I’d feel better if you wore it. I can duck my head if the bugs get bad. You can’t. Or shouldn’t.”
“Right.” He put on his helmet. Straddling his bike, he flipped up the kickstand, and turned the ignition key. The engine roared to life. “Climb on,” he yelled above the noise. “And watch the muffler. You don’t want to burn a hole in your hose.”
She wore a simple black sheath that hugged her curves and made mounting his bike a challenge. “Turn around,” she said. “Please.”
He shook his head and stayed exactly where he was. “This is no time to be shy, Isabella. You don’t have anything that I haven’t seen before. I’m leaving. If you want a ride, hike it up and get on. Otherwise, get back in your car and pray that no sick fucks come along behind me.”
Looking down, she pulled on her skirt until the hem was barely covering her ass, treating him to the sight of long, luscious legs and thigh high stockings. Bright red garters matched the color in her cheeks.
“There,” she snapped, swinging her leg and getting on behind him. “Happy?”
At the moment? “Very,” he quipped. “Put your purse between us and scoot up tight enough to hold it. You lose it, I’m not turning around.”
Huffing, she plopped her purse in her lap and edged forward, until those luscious legs were hugging his hips. Reaching around him, she hooked her fingers in his belt loops and hung on for the ride.
He thought about opening it up and showing her what his bike could do, but he didn’t want to scare her witless. He pushed it a little, driving sixty-five until they got close to town.
He didn’t take her to the gas station. There was no need. Anna and Richie had been fucking in the clubhouse lounge when he left. Chances were, they were still there.
She tensed when he passed the gas station turn-off and kept going. He didn’t stop until they had pulled into the Avenging Angels Clubhouse parking lot, lined with bikes and flanked with vehicles. “Get off and stay close,” he ordered, giving her no choice but to obey.
Isabella dismounted. Pulling down her skirt, she shouldered her bag and followed him into the clubhouse.
The air was heavy with more than tobacco smoke and rife with the smell of sex. In the clubhouse lounge, every piece of furniture was occupied by Angels getting blow jobs, eating pussy, or banging one of the club sluts.
Mad Dog’s brother Richie was sprawled in a chair. Anna was kneeling between his thighs, giving him head.
Seeing them, the color washed out of Isabella’s face, and she turned away.
Now she knew. Anna wasn’t giving rides tonight to anyone but Richie.
Chapter Three
It was an asshole thing to do, and he knew it.
Like a deer caught in headlights, Isabella just stood there, numb with shock. Thinking to snap her out of it, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her after him.
“Come on. You’ve seen enough.”
She went with him, unresisting until he opened a door and pulled her inside. His room wasn’t much to look at, but it was clean, and private. Once she composed herself and was safe to ride, he could take her home.
Isabella took it all in with a sweeping glance. A small flat screen TV sat on a scarred maple chest of drawers. The desk beside it held a printer and a laptop computer. On the far side of the room were two doors. One opened to his closet. The other was to a private three-fourths bath, one of the advantages of being the Vice President.
Mad Dog shut the door to the hallway. She stiffened at the sound of it and bit her lip, brows knit, looking like she wished that she was anywhere but here, alone with him.
Too bad.
She cleared her throat and asked, “Is there somewhere I can wash up?”
It was an evasive tactic. If she couldn’t leave, she’d try to put distance between them.
&
nbsp; Like he was going to let that happen.
“On the left,” he said, smirking. “Don’t get lost.”
As if she could. The stool and sink were opposite each other, with barely room to stand between them. The shower was better, spanning the other wall, big enough for wall-banging sex or water sports, if she was into that kind of thing.
He couldn’t deny that Isabella Castellari intrigued him. As soon as the bathroom door closed, he opened her purse and looked inside. The girl was packing a point-and-shoot camera, Mace, and a TASER, but no conceal-and-carry. She had the typical girly stuff. Makeup. A hairbrush. A comb. Covered rubber hair bands. A tube of ibuprofen tablets. Tampons, a pantyliner, and an overnight pad were discreetly tucked into a small cloth makeup bag. A clear zip plastic bag held a toothbrush, a travel sized tube of toothpaste, and a dentist’s tiny sample pack of floss.
She was either a fucking girl scout or she’d planned to spend the night with someone. With those red garters, chances were, it was the last one.
She’d tucked her e-reader in as well. Maybe she planned to read her partner a kinky bedtime story, then act it out. Powering it up, he opened it without a password and hit the file marked books.
Well, well, well.
He flipped through page after page of downloads. Nearly every cover had tattoo models posing as bikers and sluts, with titles aimed to tease and titillate.
The bathroom door opened. Isabella stopped in her tracks and cringed when she saw what he was doing.
He grinned, unapologetic. “Seems little sister has a thing for MC’s. Who’d have guessed?”
Isabella’s jaw tightened. Clenching her fists and squaring her shoulders, she stormed across the floor. “They’re just books,” she snapped. Grabbing her reader from him, she shoved it back in her bag. “Fiction. Just because I read it doesn’t mean I want it in real life.”
Really?
For three years, he’d kept his vow of silence about the night that he and Crash had rescued Krissy and Rose from the Blackwater Demons MC. His sister hadn’t been touched, but Krissy sure as hell had been used as a fucktoy. She’d made them swear to not say a word of where she’d been, or she’d tell everyone that Rose was there by choice. When he and his brothers had taken Krissy home, the rumor—started by her or one of her nosy neighbors—was that she’d spent the night with the four McLanahans.
Now Rose was as good as married, Krissy was gone, and little sister Isabella stood there, defiant, probably judging him like every fucking teacher he’d ever had, looking down on him because he’d grown up in a clubhouse, finding him unworthy because he wore a cut, not a suit.
Well, fuck that.
It was past time to set the record straight.
“Krissy did,” he drawled. “She wanted gang banged. Trouble is, she hooked up with the wrong club. She’s lucky we came along when we did. You might not have seen her again.”
Talk about taking the wind out of her sails. Isabella went limp with shock. Her legs started to buckle.
Mad Dog caught her and pulled her to sit beside him on the bed.
She stared up at him, searching his face, remembering that Saturday morning when she’d watched him pull into her driveway. He had delivered Krissy back into their parents’ arms, only to get a dress-down from their father.
And he’d taken it, to protect his sister from hers.
Those eyes of hers had a hundred things going on in them, none of them good. “What about Anna?” she demanded.
Mad Dog tsked. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not my brother’s keeper. Richie’s been seeing her for two months or so now. They seem…fond of each other.”
“Fond?” She barked a laugh. “Is that what you call it?”
He angled his head. “You don’t have to be fond of someone to give them a blow job. You don’t even have to like them.” He fastened his gaze on her mouth. “You just have to be willing…and understand the rules. Only one of us gets to bite, and it’s not you, Isabella.”
And now, for the moment of truth. How much like Krissy was she?
Locking his gaze on hers, he reached for her breast and squeezed it, hard enough to leave bruises. He wasn’t going to cut her any slack, but she needed to know what she was looking at, if she stayed a minute longer in his room.
“My rules. My way,” he growled, pinching her nipple and making her moan. “I like it rough, little girl. You have no idea. I doubt that you can handle me, but if you want to try….”
Isabella’s eyes searched his face. Seeing that he was serious, she wet her lips. “How rough?”
Mad Dog caught her chin and pushed his thumb into her mouth. “Rough,” he rumbled, feeling his cock harden in record time when she started sucking and teasing it with her tongue. God damn. “Spanking. Bondage. My belt, if you beg me for it. I like oral, and I like anal. Say the word, and I’ll take you home. If you stay, you’re gonna get ridden hard and put away wet.”
He pulled his thumb from her mouth and fisted her hair. “Go or stay?” He pulled downward, forcing her face up to meet his.
“Stay.”
He slammed his mouth down on hers in an elemental claiming of lips and teeth and tongue. She tasted like the minty bubble gum she’d been chewing and had likely tossed in the bathroom waste can.
He undid his belt, unfastened his pants, and pushed her face into his lap. “Take me out and suck me dry. You’d better swallow every drop.”
It took two hands to pull him out, but she didn’t back off when she saw what he was packing. Not every woman wanted to try to handle ten inches.
“I’m not a fan of gag reflexes, so unless you can deep throat something this size, just suck what you can until I come, then keep on sucking.”
Isabella licked his glans, catching the drop of precum at its tip, swirling her tongue around his crown, teasing the sensitive point underneath that earned a low growl from his throat. Keeping her teeth behind the curl of her lips, she opened wide and took him in—or as much as she could, wrapping her fingers around the rest and jacking him with her hands. His balls tightened. His cock swelled, impossibly larger. “Take it,” he snarled, and exploded in her mouth, shooting round after round of cum down her throat for her to swallow.
God damn, that felt good.
Now that the edge was off, he took his time unwrapping her. Reaching behind her, he drew down her zipper, hooked his fingers in the neckline, and slid it off her shoulders, revealing a red lace bra to go with her garters.
“Stand up,” he ordered.
She obeyed.
He pulled her between his feet and finished lowering her dress, letting it pool around her ankles. “Step,” he said, pulling it clear as she did.
He tossed it on the far side of the bed and sat back to admire the view. Her lingerie was all red, bright pops of color against that exquisite skin of hers. As sexy as it was to look at, he wanted to see her naked more.
“Take off your shoes.”
Balancing precariously, she slipped her heels off, left, then right, and kicked them away.
“And the garter belt.”
Isabella undid the clasps and tossed the belt on top of her shoes.
The stockings went next, leaving only her red lace bra and panties.
Mad Dog remembered her toothbrush and arched a critical brow. “Who were you planning to see, little girl? Usually, women who go out matching like this are looking to get laid.”
Isabella cringed. “My date ended early,” she said, clearly smarting. “He thought I was like Krissy.”
Shit. He was no better than that asshole.
He swiped a hand across his face, trying to erase the sting of guilt. “He’s seen her, then?”
“Probably.”
“Finally, something we have in common. You’re not her keeper, either.” Mad Dog’s lips curled in the parody of a smile. “I guess it’s hard, being sister to the reigning Queen of Porn.”
Isabella told him, deadpan, “You have no idea.”
“Well,�
� he drawled, “rebound sex is sweet revenge. Lucky you, I’m willing to be your consolation prize. Come here.” He hooked a finger in the front of her bra and pulled her to him. “Take this off. It’s too pretty to rip off that rocking body of yours, and I need a taste of those tits.”
Chapter Four
Isabella reached behind her and unfastened her bra. The straps fell, dropping over her shoulders and sliding down her arms. It would have fallen to the floor if it hadn’t hooked on his erection.
Splaying his hands, the biker of her dreams lay claim to her breasts, squeezing, measuring, molding them to his whim. Lifting the left one, he fastened his mouth over it, suckling, then biting, catching the nipple between his teeth and lashing it with his tongue. He shoved his right hand between her legs. There was no hiding her arousal.
“Soaking wet,” he growled. “What’s got you that way?”
This. Him. Years of wanting and being denied, a prisoner of her desires.
He slid the crotch to the side and worked his way to her opening, pressing against it, then pushing inside. “Jesus, you’re tight. So fucking tight.” He pulled out his finger and put it in his mouth to taste her. “I can’t wait to stick my dick in that sweet pussy of yours. Panties off, then lie on the bed.”
She lay in the middle and clutched at the covers. She didn’t know much, but she knew better than to hide from him. He branded her with the heat of his gaze, from her C-cup breasts down to the nest of raven curls at the juncture of her thighs. “No bondage this first time, and no biting,” he said. “Scratch me if you need to, but every mark you leave earns a stripe from my belt. I really should gag you, but fuck if I don’t want to hear you call my name when I make you come.”
Oh, God.
He took off his cut and laid it reverently aside. He kicked her legs apart with his knees and settled himself between them, his hands curled around her thighs, his mouth hovering above her secrets. He seemed determined to discover them all.
