by Nia Farrell
Really, what was worse than dying?
Crap.
She didn’t need to ask. She thought of some things on her own. None of them were good. Some of them were horrific.
His probably fell somewhere in between.
Mad Dog rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled heavily. “Before the first four Demons were hit, we were ordered by Visconti to stand down. That did not fucking sit well with the Angels at church, but we did it because we agreed it was better to let him handle things. And so, we sat tight. Visconti waited for Sig and his crew to get back from Minnesota. Once they did, he hit them hard. But then a call came in to the clubhouse, saying that Reaper was alive and the Demons were going to strike back, starting here. Well, you know Jelly Bean. It’s no secret that he likes his Candy. An attack on Paradise Found meant that she and everyone else—customers and employees—would be in harm’s way. There was no fucking way that we could let that happen.”
He took a swig of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck,” he murmured. “I should have seen it. Should have waited. Investigated. Figured out how many Demons were left and tracked them down. Instead, what do I do? I lead my men out here. We’re loaded for bear when we get in a firefight with the Demons. It turns out, there are only two. They keep us busy until they can’t. But while the bullets are still flying, my friend Michael calls me and tells me that my mom’s been taken. As soon as the threat here is neutralized, we rush back to the clubhouse to find three dead, two wounded, and Mama Mare gone. Fucking Reaper took her. He’s planning to use her to try to get to my sister Rose, as payback for Sig. An eye for an eye. Her only daughter for his only son. Thank God, Michael and Rose don’t fall for it. Instead, they stay snug in the safehouse. Now we just have to find Mama Mare.”
“The club here—was anyone hurt?”
“Nah.” He shook his tawny head. “It was before hours, early enough that only two other people were here. Jaxson and a beer distributor’s rep hunkered down behind the bar and waited for the all-clear. Just guessing, I’d say that he got a lot more than her business card that day.”
Isabella ran her fingers over his tattooed forearm and slanted a smile at him. “Maybe he made her a daiquiri.”
Mad Dog fastened his gaze on her cleavage. “Maybe she let him eat strawberries off of her.”
She dropped her voice an octave and pressed against him, massaging his biceps with her breasts, timing her words with her strokes. “Or maybe…she let him…eat her….”
“Fuck.”
He dragged her back into the strip club. The bouncer had seen the last of the girls to their cars and was getting ready to lock up for the night.
“You staying or going?” he asked them.
Mad Dog looked at the dimly lit interior. “Staying. I’ll douse the lights, lock up, and set the alarm when we’re through.”
The bouncer grinned from ear to ear. “Have a good one, boss man.”
Isabella looked from the bouncer to Luke. “Boss man?”
Mad Dog towed Isabella behind him until they reached the long, mahogany bar. The polished brass foot rail and brass bar stool legs cast glimmers of gold in the existing light.
“Our manager, Lee Rimmer, runs the place,” he told her, flipping switches and illuminating the stage, “but, yeah, technically, I’m the boss. Uncle Jack runs Daniel’s Den. Flynn McGee runs Angel Ink, and Gabe Ryan runs the music shop. There’s one more business that we own, and Mama Mare keeps tabs on the beauty shop that we’re partnered in. We have properties rented to other businesses, too. Ever been to Baker’s Dozen?”
“Yes,” she said. “Best donuts in town.”
“We’re their landlords. Here we go.”
The last switch that he flipped lit the runway’s stripper pole.
Mad Dog set his nearly-empty bottle on the edge of the runway and vaulted up onto it. Bending at the waist, he reached for her and fanned his fingers. “Come on. Up you go.”
“Luke…”
He cocked a brow. “Isabella. Don’t make me repeat myself. You won’t like the consequences.”
Rather than test him, she grabbed his wrists and let him pull her onto the stage. Remembering the routines that she’d seen, she walked to the end of the runway, trying to imagine what it would be like to perform in front of a room full of strangers. Men who wanted to see her dance and fantasize that her body was moving underneath them.
The thought was at once creepy and titillating.
“What are you thinking?” Mad Dog asked her.
She cocked her head and angled a glance at him. “That I’m more voyeur than exhibitionist. I can’t imagine stripping for strangers.”
“I won’t have you do that just yet.”
She couldn’t hide the look of terror that flashed across her face.
Mad Dog saw it but shrugged it off. “Not yet,” he repeated. “Maybe never. Eventually, as my submissive, you’ll be naked in the clubhouse lounge. Right now, though, it’s just the two of us. You,” he rumbled, “and me. No customers. No barkeep. No DJ or dancers or waits. I’m gonna go put on some music. When I come back, you’re going to dance for me. Like Candy and Alura and Summer Rain, you’re gonna lose those clothes a piece at a time. You’re gonna work that pole until I want you so fucking bad, I’m dying to be inside you. When I can’t stand not having you a minute longer,” he rumbled, “that’s when I’m gonna lash you to it and take you where you stand.”
Her pussy gushed, right then and there. The heat in his eyes was searing.
Mad Dog strode to the back of the stage. A minute after he disappeared, the speakers came alive with Beyoncé’s “Dance for You.”
Isabella did what he asked. She danced. She stripped. Shoes, socks, jacket, shirt, jeans. She let him appreciate her underwear a little more before she slid down the straps of her bra. Reaching behind her to undo the back, she squeezed her breasts, then peeled away the cups, exposing her hardened nipples.
Mad Dog palmed the front of his jeans and rubbed his growing erection.
Unfastening her garters, she took off her belt, then wrapped herself around the pole to peel down her thigh highs, left, then right. She rubbed against the pole. Only the crotch of her panties separated her from the smooth, rounded metal. Clasping the pole with both hands, she straightened her elbows, lowered her grip, and leaned away with her head thrown back and her pigtail dangling. She ground against it, imagining it was Mad Dog’s cock.
Holding on with one hand, she wrapped her lips around two of her fingers and fucked her mouth with them.
Mad Dog stalked towards her, hands on his belt, undoing the buckle and pulling the leather free of the loops. When he reached her, he pinched her nipple and twisted it, making her gush again.
“Stand up,” he grated, his nostrils flaring.
Isabella straightened, hugging the upright metal with both hands to steady herself.
“Back against the pole. Hands above your head.”
The first song ended, giving way to Warrant’s “Cherry Pie.”
Isabella raised her arms. Mad Dog caught her wrists in one hand and pinned them to the pole. Lowering his head, he took her mouth with a bruising kiss. He was breathing heavily when he broke it off and stepped around to her back side. Bringing her wrists behind the pole, he lashed them together with his belt, running his fingers down one of her arms as he came to stand in front of her.
He didn’t stop there. He traced the mound of her breast, then repeated his actions on the other side. Splaying his hands, he captured her tits and flexed his fingers. His grip bit into her flesh, and she whimpered.
“Please. Oh, please….”
He smiled hotly. “Not yet.”
Mad Dog sculpted the lines of her body with his hands. Her breasts, her ribs, her stomach, and abdomen. He traced the tops of her panties with his fingertips, then knelt at her feet and pulled them down and off.
“Please,” she panted. “Please, Luke. Fuck me.”
“Mad Dog,” he gro
wled, still kneeling. “And you’ll wait for it, like a good cumslut.”
He traced her seam with one finger, back and forth, parting her folds and wetting his hand on her juices. Finding her slit, he pushed a finger into her vagina and started pumping, short strokes at first, then longer, faster, harder. He worked in a second finger, found her G-spot, and brought her to the brink in just a few strokes.
“Don’t come yet,” he ordered.
Isabella bumped the pole with the back of her head and denied her body what it craved.
“Hang on as best you can.” He lifted her legs over his shoulders and stood up, bringing her hips up with him. Unable to grasp the pole, Isabella tightened her arms, pulling on the belt to create tension, hoping it was enough to keep her in place.
Mad Dog wrapped his arms around her thighs and pulled apart her vulva. He lashed her exposed clitoris with his tongue, teased, and tormented it. Fastening his mouth over it, he sucked in harshly and bound them together, pulling the first orgasm from her despite herself.
“I’m sorry,” she keened. “I couldn’t help it. I can’t help it. I’m gonna come again. Luke!”
He stuck a thumb in her ass and sent her into a series of orgasms, catching her juices and lapping them up while she bucked and shuddered and writhed, her body craving more.
“Don’t stop,” she begged him, desperate with need.
Mad Dog smiled. “Darlin’, don’t you know? We’re just getting started.”
Chapter Eleven
After a particularly fierce orgasm, Mad Dog knelt and slid Isabella’s legs off of his shoulders. She hung on the stripper pole, bound by leather and lust.
He stood, towering over her, and reached for the front of his pants. His fingers pushed the button through its hole, found the zipper pull, and drew it down, metal teeth snicking as the two sides parted ways. Freeing his erection, he stroked his shaft and licked his lips, as hungry for her as she was for him. He hooked one of her legs over his forearm to spread her wide and used his free hand to guide his cock to her pussy. Seating himself, he took hold of her buttocks and rammed inside, tearing a scream from her throat that quickly changed into whimpers, then moans.
The song changed again, and life mirrored art. He took her like an animal, showing no mercy when she begged him to stop, grinning when she begged him for more. He drilled into her like a fucking machine, determined to mold her to his will.
He kept it up through one song, then another, and another. He didn’t switch gears until he was ready to chase his own finish.
Mad Dog jacked his hips, changed his angle, and hit her G-spot, ripping another orgasm from her in an endless stream of them. “I’m gonna come,” he gritted, shifting himself again and pumping away. A few more strokes and he pulled out, breath hissing between his teeth as he stroked himself to completion.
Ropes of cum shot onto her chest and abdomen, streaking her skin with streams of white that dripped and ran toward her groin.
He looked down to admire his handiwork, smiled, and whispered in her ear. “This,” he said, “is mine. Whenever. Wherever. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Mad Dog unfastened his belt and freed her wrists. Sweeping her up in his arms, he carried her backstage, through a labyrinth of halls, and kicked open the door of what looked like a dressing room. Another door, and he set her down in a communal shower with four heads jutting from the wall. “Bring the water to temp and start washing. I’ll be back with your clothes.”
Isabella stood back, turned on the hot water, and let the pipes heat up, adding cold and adjusting it until it was a welcoming warmth. Stepping underneath the spray, she sluiced the ejaculate off of her front and let the water run clear before she turned her attention to her private parts. Using the wall-mounted liquid soap, she washed her pussy and her anus where Mad Dog’s thumb had been. She was just finishing when Mad Dog came back in the shower room, buck naked.
He was half-hard again.
He shrugged a muscled shoulder. “What can I say? That underwear of yours is sexy as fuck, on or off of you. Your panties are soaked, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I noticed,” she quipped. “It’s kind of hard not to. You have that effect on me.”
He looked at his groin. “Same here. Do you have more to do, or are you done?”
She stepped to one side. “I’m clean. It’s all yours.”
He stepped under the spray and turned the hot tap until the water was steaming. “Ah,” he sighed, enjoying the rush for a moment. Once he’d lathered up, he made quick work of it, rinsing clean in a matter of minutes.
“I was gonna do one more stop after this, but I let myself get distracted. I’m gonna save the last of the story for tomorrow. For now, it’s my room or yours, Isabella. Your folks are gone, right?”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “But the neighbors aren’t. I’d rather my parents not get a phone call tonight telling them that their daughter is a whore, because, sure as shit, that’s what will happen. Can I stay with you, Luke? Please, Sir?”
“Jesus, Isabella. You know how to stir the beast. Yes, you can stay with me, but I might have to tie you up and take my belt to your ass, then fuck it. Are you gonna be okay with that?”
Just that fast, he had her pussy tingling and swollen, readying itself for his possession. “I guess.”
He arched a brow. “That’s not very encouraging, Isabella. Do you need to go home and think about if you’re up for this?”
“No! Please! I’m okay with it. I just…I just don’t know how well I’ll handle it. The belt scares me a little, Luke. Okay, a lot—but, honestly, I’m more afraid of disappointing you.”
Reaching, he wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her to him. “If there’s anything you can’t handle, use your safeword. If I’ve got you gagged and you can’t talk, you’ll use a hand signal, or drop something that I’ve given you. Either way, I’ll stop. I guarantee I’ll push your limits, but I’ll never give you more than you can handle. Deal?”
She searched his eyes and saw nothing but concern, and reassurance. “Deal.”
Mad Dog smiled and kissed her forehead. “Good girl. Let’s get dressed.”
Isabella was grateful for her bandanna and jacket. The temperature had dropped enough to feel chilly by comparison. She wrapped her arms around Mad Dog’s waist and snuggled close, using the width of his back to break the wind.
He pulled into the clubhouse parking lot, stopping and popping his kickstand in the spot that she guessed was reserved for him. Isabella dismounted and rubbed her butt. She wasn’t used to riding a motorcycle, and they’d covered quite a few miles tonight.
“Saddle-sore?” he asked.
“A bit,” she admitted. From riding and from being ridden. Between getting her cherry popped and taken against a stripper pole by someone his size, she was pretty tender.
Mad Dog took off his helmet and shook out his hair.
Isabella yawned.
“Sore and tired. Looks like I need to get you to bed. C’mon, princess.”
He put a hand on the small of her back as they walked. It was such a simple thing, but it made her feel…special. Claimed. Like he was possessive of her.
Like he cared….
The lounge was still full of patched members, prospects, sweetbutts, mamas, and old ladies. Jack Daniels—Luke’s Uncle Jack—was still in his same seat, nursing a glass of his namesake and discreetly watching the redhead working behind the bar.
Luke paused as they passed him. “Did they get her towed in okay?”
Jack swiveled his head. “She’s in. It’s Sunday, but I’ll take a look at it. I’ll call you as soon as I know something. If we’re lucky, I’ll get it running and your little girl can go home.”
“She’s no little, Uncle Jack. Not like Carly.” He nodded at the redhead behind the bar. “Isabella’s just a brand spanking new subbie with a whole lot to learn. Anyway, thanks for taking care of things.”
Jack lifted his glass. “Just make sure
you take care of things, pup. Keep it out or keep it covered.”
“Will do, Uncle Jack. Starting now. C’mon, Isabella. Time for bed.”
Isabella followed Mad Dog to his room. Seeing her purse, she felt a moment of panic and tamped it down. “Luke, I didn’t take my phone with us. I need to check my messages in case my parents called.”
“Sure. Do what you need to do…and then,” he said, “we’ll do what I need to do.”
She had twelve missed calls, most of them from Anna and one from her parents. Rather than lie to them, she text messaged the truth. “Went out. Forgot phone. Sorry I missed you.”
“I didn’t tell them about the car,” she said. “They’ll feel guilty for not being here, for leaving me alone and helpless, and then they’ll drive me nuts, overcompensating with check-up calls and texts. I can let them know, once I find out what we’re dealing with. Hopefully, it’s nothing major. If it’s something big, my Dad will want his regular guy to fix it. Arnold is the only one he trusts with our vehicles.”
“Uncle Jack should know something in the morning. If it’s no biggie, we’ll take care of it and you can save your folks the worry. Then it will be your choice, to tell them what was done when they get home, or let it slide.”
“You’re not suggesting that I lie to them, right? Because that’s not me. My sister Krissy, yeah, but not me.”
“I don’t want you to lie, Isabella. All I’m saying is, if it’s something small—a bad wire, a dirty connection, whatever—I don’t see the sense in making your folks worry about it, after the fact. You got help. You’re here, and safe. The problem’s getting taken care of. Even an alternator is small in the overall scheme of things. If something major happened, like a timing belt broke and screwed up the pistons, that’s different. That’s something that your dad will need to know. Meanwhile, you need to not worry about it. Put it from your mind. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.”
Isabella sighed. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I know me. I’m a worrier like my mom. Well, maybe half the worrier she is. Krissy never cared for anybody but herself, and I care too much sometimes. Anna left voice mails and texts, and I just—I can’t deal with her right now. I’m drained. I don’t have anything left to give her. Not that she deserves it, after lying to me, but we’ve been best friends since she moved here. I was being shunned because Krissy’s first movie had just come out. Anna ignored the warnings. She brought her lunch to where I was eating alone, and we talked. She was bright, and funny, and gorgeous. An exotic Persian face in a mostly white student body. We’ve been friends ever since.”
