Keeper: Avenging Angels MC Book 2

by Nia Farrell

  Mad Dog said nothing, just listened to her talk.

  Isabella searched his face, trying to read him.

  He was doing the same thing to her. “Yeah, well. I have serious issues with liars. I can put up with some shit, but I expect honesty from someone who’s with me. Tell me, Isabella, what are you thinking right now?”

  “That I’m going to have trouble sleeping, between Anna, the car, my parents—but also because I’m still so sore. I was thinking that I need something to make me forget about everything else so that I can get some rest…and wondered if you’d be willing to distract me…?”

  For the second time that night, her red panties ended up on the floor.

  Chapter Twelve

  He slept in the nude.

  Isabella sighed to see it. That magnificent body of his, all sculpted muscle and intricate ink, revealed for her bedtime viewing pleasure.

  Once she’d brushed her teeth and emptied her bladder, Mad Dog had undressed her, stripping off her borrowed clothes, peeling off her lingerie, and undoing her braid to let her hair fall long and loose. He hadn’t tied her up, or used his belt, but he had fucked her ass again, finishing where no seed would fall on fertile ground.

  He cleaned them both up. Returning the washcloths and towel to his bathroom, he came back to bed, wearing only dog tags and ink. Lying on his back, Mad Dog put his head on his pillow and rolled to his side so that they were eye-to-eye.

  “Did I distract you enough?” Reaching, he pushed the hair away from her face so that he could study it.

  “I think so,” she whispered. “We’ll see.”

  “I’m not used to sleepovers,” he admitted. “Not since Afghanistan. Sometimes I dream that I’m back there. Not often, thank fuck. I’ll try not to wake you if that happens.”

  PTSD?

  Isabella hadn’t seen any symptoms of it, but maybe Luke’s was mild, with fewer triggers to set off an episode. He’d seen the face of war. That was bound to do things to a man.

  “Wake me,” she told him. “I might not be able to chase away the ghosts, but I’m pretty sure I can help take your mind off of them.”

  “Ah, Isabella.” He crooked a grin. “Fuck me if you aren’t a keeper. Get some rest, babygirl. Tomorrow’s gonna be a full day.”

  She slept all night, until a little past her usual wake-up time of seven AM. Stretching, she opened her eyes and squeezed them shut again, feeling a moment of panic when she realized that this wasn’t her bed or her room.

  It was Mad Dog’s. Who didn’t do sleepovers. Who’d had her dance and strip for him. Who’d taken her virginity and then some, and given her the most mind-blowing climaxes of her life. Not that she had a lot of experience with orgasms. She didn’t own a vibrator or a dildo. Having a porn star sister had served as a cautionary tale about young women who explored their sexuality. She didn’t want to end up like Krissy, whose adult films were shown in seedy movie houses, sold on DVDs, and streamed on the internet. Men around the world knew what her sister looked like when she fucked. Isabella couldn’t imagine anything worse.

  “Morning, sleepyhead.”

  She cracked open one eye. Jesus. Mad Dog was already up and dressed. She wondered if that was his nature, or a holdover from the years he’d served in the Marines.

  “Good morning,” she returned, her voice husky with sleep. Denied the sight of that magnificent chest, she sighed and hugged his pillow.

  “Put on some clothes, and I’ll take you to breakfast. You can wear your dress, or wear Rose’s duds, or we can swing by your house for you to change first. If you don’t change before, you’re changing after. That dress won’t do for what needs done today.”

  What needs done today….

  Isabella’s brain retrieved her mental list of daily tasks. First thing on it was feed the cat and clean the litter box.

  Crap.

  “I need to go home.” She leaped out of bed, found her pile of clothes, and started throwing things on. “The cat. Shit, I forgot about Sophia. She probably stress-peed on something when I didn’t come home last night. She’s not used to being left alone. She’s already nervous with mom gone. Crap, crap, crap.”

  Stuffing her feet into the borrowed shoes, Isabella searched for the ones she’d worn here. “My purse. Dress. Ah, heels.” She named each as she found them. “There. That should be everything. Ready when you are.”

  “After you catch your breath, babygirl. Slow down. We’ve got all day. That’s better.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss across her lips. “Let’s go take care of Sophia.”

  It was early enough, many of the neighbors were still in bed when their windows rattled them awake. Oblivious to the parted curtains and curious, judging eyes, Mad Dog parked in the driveway, helped Isabella off his bike, plucked the Sunday paper off the sidewalk as they passed, and followed her into the only home that she’d known.

  Sophia met her at the door but took off when she saw Luke.

  “She’s shy,” Isabella told him.

  “She’s a fucking dog,” he said.

  “A Maine Coon. Twenty-five pounds plus fur. Krissy wanted a cute, long-haired kitten. She lost all interest in her when she kept growing. She’s kind of mine now.”

  Setting her purse on the entrance side table, she fished out her dress and shoes. “Let me take care of these, then I’ll take care of the cat. Feel free to roam. If you smell cat piss, let me know.”

  Mad Dog followed Isabella to her bedroom. Her very purple bedroom. While he looked at the framed vintage advertising posters on her walls, she put her dress in the hamper and her shoes in the closet. Done, she found a change of underwear, socks, sneakers, jeans, and a summer-weight blouse to wear. Not knowing exactly what he had planned, she canvassed his opinion.

  “Would hiking shoes be better? How about the blouse? I have tee shirts.”

  Mad Dog hummed his approval. “Sneakers are fine. Can’t beat hiking shoes. The blouse is nice. Very nice, Isabella. Get dressed. Feed the cat, then I’ll feed you.”

  “Or I can fix something here,” she offered. “I can cook. On another day, I could do crêpes or Belgian waffles, but if you like bacon, eggs, hash browns, and toast, I can fix you up.”

  “Seriously? What about coffee?”

  She shifted her feet and bit her lip. “Sorry, I don’t make coffee. I’m sure I can learn. I just don’t drink it.”

  “Do your folks have a coffeemaker?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I can figure it out, we’ll do breakfast here. If not, we’re eating out. But first, the cat.”

  Isabella didn’t change yet. Wanting to keep her Sunday clothes clean, she kept on what she was wearing to feed Sophia and scoop clumps from the litter box. Luke stayed in the kitchen, hoping to figure out the coffeemaker.

  She washed her hands in the laundry room sink and made her way to the kitchen, Sophia tagging at her heels. Coffee was brewing, and Luke was sitting in the breakfast nook, reading the Sunday paper.

  For a moment, they were like two normal people. A couple.

  Isabella smiled.

  “Let me get breakfast started.”

  Rather than take the time to make hash browns from scratch, she opted for rehydrating dried shredded potatoes, adding hot water and letting them set while she got everything else from the refrigerator. Thick-sliced, applewood-smoked bacon. Large, cage-free brown eggs. Real butter and strawberry jelly for the sourdough toast.

  She pulled out two large skillets, adding butter and peanut oil to the one that she would use for hash browns. While the potatoes absorbed the added water, she set plates, flatware, and a coffee mug on the table and poured a glass of mango orange juice for herself.

  “Do you want juice, too? Water? How do you take your coffee?”

  Luke looked up from the sports section. “No, no, and black, thanks.”

  “How do you like your bacon and eggs?”

  “Bacon crisp but not burned. Three eggs medium should do it.”

  “Bacon crisp. Eggs
medium. Got it.”

  It was a balancing act after that, starting the bacon in a cold skillet, preheating the one for the hash browns, finishing the bacon and potatoes, then starting the eggs and toast. When she set everything on the table, Luke’s smile was reward enough for her efforts.

  “Looks great,” he said, spreading his napkin in his lap.

  “Help yourself. Is it enough? I should have asked about the toast and bacon. I just guessed. I don’t know how much you’re used to eating. Everybody’s metabolism is so different.”

  “Isabella.” He reached across and caught her hand. “It’s fine. Perfect. There’s no need to be nervous. It’s all part of the learning curve, right? We learn as we go. What we like. How we like it. What’s a maybe, what’s a no, what’s a hell no. You said that you could cook. Just guessing, I’m sure that everything will taste as great as it smells.”

  “I hope so.” She smiled weakly.

  Other than adding a little salt to his potatoes, he ate everything the way that she fixed it. Isabella hadn’t realized how badly she wanted to please him.

  However much she had hoped to impress him, she was more impressed that he’d figured out the coffeemaker.

  And she was stunned when Sophia checked him out and actually let him pet her.

  “Wow,” she said. “She usually won’t get near strangers, especially men. We think that she may have been abused before she was adopted. Four years later, and she still doesn’t trust my dad.”

  “Your dad should let his hair grow. She probably thinks I’m a girl.”

  Isabella narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, considering. “I think you’re the Cat Whisperer.”

  “Why?”

  She giggled. “Because you handle pussies that no other man can touch?” The lift in her voice on the last word turned her statement into a question.

  Mad Dog looked at her, then, a searing heat in his blue eyes. “If I’d known you were a virgin when I picked you up, I wouldn’t be sitting here, hard for you again. You know that, right?”

  “That you wouldn’t have fucked me?”

  “That I’m hard for you. I’ve had a near-constant boner since I first took you to my room. Jesus Christ, woman. I don’t know what the fuck you’ve done to me.”

  “I don’t either,” she said honestly, “but I know what I’d like for you to do to me. Let me get the dishes cleared, and I’ll show you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “I’m sure. I’d rather know now, whether or not I can handle it, than have my imagination blow it all out of proportion.”

  Mad Dog undid his belt, freeing the end and pulling on the buckle, loving the sound of the leather sliding through the loops. If he was really, really lucky, she’d come to crave it as much as he did.

  Doubling his belt in his hand, he tapped his thigh and looked at Isabella, kneeling naked at his feet, waiting for his command.

  Fucking perfect.

  “I want you over the end of your bed,” he said. “Hips at the edge, lying face down with your arms behind your back. Grab your forearms or elbows, whatever you can comfortably reach. I’m going to bind them. I won’t gag you this time, where it’s your first. Where do you keep your scarves?”

  “In my closet. On the right side, there’s a scarf hanger by my jackets.”

  Her closet was as organized as his. More so, since she hung her clothes by color palette. He found her scarves easily and picked a black one that would pop against that incredible skin of hers. She had a medium-fair complexion with just the lightest olive tones, thanks to her Italian ancestry.

  She lay as he asked, stretching out on her purple duvet and clasping her arms. He wrapped her forearms and tied the ends, leaving enough of a tail to hang onto. As an afterthought, he got a second scarf in soft pastels and fashioned a blindfold from it.

  “I’m going to cover your eyes,” he told her. “I want you to focus on the sensations that you’re experiencing, and not be distracted by anything you see. Are you comfortable?” he asked, tying it behind her head.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. I’m going to do five strokes to start. We’ll see how that goes. Keep in mind, I’m pulling punches this first round. A belt can be brutal in the wrong hands. I want that ass a nice, striped ruby red.”

  Straightening, he shifted to one side and laid on the first lick. She gasped, jerked, and stiffened. “Relax,” he said, rubbing her backside. “Tighten up, and it will feel worse. Focus on keeping your muscles loose and welcoming the blows.”

  He stood back and swung again, striking her other cheek. She swallowed a gulp of air and shuddered.

  The third stroke was harder, and fell nearly on top of the first. She was panting now. Her folds were wet with her arousal. Thank God, she was something of a painslut.

  Four.

  Breath hissed between her teeth. She ground her pussy against the bed, whimpering.

  Five.

  She moaned.

  Admiring his handiwork, he slid his fingers across the small of her back. “How are you doing, Isabella? You good? Think you can handle some more?”

  “I think so,” she said.

  Perfect answer.

  Six. This one was the hardest yet. She took it like a trooper. “That’s my girl,” he hummed, and gave her another lick.

  Isabella moaned and started panting. Her buttocks muscles flexed, making the red stripes dance. He tossed the belt on the bed, unzipped his jeans, and pulled out his erection. Kicking her feet apart, he grabbed her hips and thrust inside that tight, wet pussy of hers, driving in deep enough to hit bottom and make her squeal. The sight of her bound, blindfolded, and at his mercy fueled his lust. He pulled out and drove in again, relishing the heat of her reddened ass against his skin.

  He started pumping, drilling into her, bent on making her come from penetration alone. Changing his angle, he hit her G-spot and felt her walls spasm with her first release, then her second. He hadn’t taken the time to find oil to use, but she was wet enough, when the time came, he shuddered to a finish in her ass.

  “Damn, woman.” With his ejaculate providing lubrication, he kept fucking her ass, relishing the feel of her clinging walls, loving the way that she moaned and whimpered. It felt so good, he didn’t want to stop, and so he didn’t. He stayed inside her, stroking her and stimulating himself. When he was fully hard again, he let her have it, cutting loose and reaming her out in an animalistic rut that left them both panting and dripping with sweat.

  “I swear. I’m either gonna die young and happy or live to be a hundred with all the exercise I’m getting. Whatcha think, Isabella? You gonna make me or break me?”

  “I’d rather make you,” she breathed, “and let you make me. Sounds only fair.”

  “It wasn’t too much? I wasn’t holding back at the end.”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle. I might not love your belt, but I can take it, if you need to give it.”

  Untying her blindfold let him see the truth in her eyes.

  He smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead. “Good girl. I’m going to untie your wrists now.”

  The knot gave way with only a little effort.

  She released her grasp and let her arms fall apart. Mad Dog rubbed one, then the other, easing the stiffness and stimulating the blood flow.

  They needed another shower, but if he moved her now, they’d make a mess of her duvet.

  “Stay here.”

  Her bathroom was a Jack-and-Jill. Shared with the next bedroom over, it boasted a double sink and a full bathtub with a shower. Everywhere he looked, there were seashells and other shit that you didn’t find in landlocked Illinois. Someone liked the ocean. He wondered if it was Isabella or her California-loving porn star sister.

  His bet would be on Prissy Krissy. Isabella struck him as someone who’d find more interest in wind-carved rocks and towering trees, woodland trails, and waterfalls in hidden glades. He knew just the place he’d like to t
ake her, as soon as he could talk her into sneaking away for a little camping and hiking.

  He came back with a warm, wet washcloth and tucked it to cover her holes. “That should catch it,” he said. Helping her stand, he picked her up, carried her into the adjoining bathroom, set her down by the sink, and started the bathwater.

  “Get rid of what you can,” he said, adjusting the temperature and nodding toward the commode. “Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll come back in. You’re getting shaved today.”

  Not that he had anything against that raven’s nest of curls, but he liked a smooth pussy, to fuck and to eat.

  He left her until she called him back in.

  Isabella was laying a stack of towels and two washcloths by the filled bathtub. Her eyes sparked with appreciation when she saw that he was buck naked.

  Swear to God, he would never get tired of that look.

  Mad Dog smiled. “In you go.” Holding out his hand, he steadied her as she stepped into the water and folded her body, sinking to sit in the middle of the tub. Given room, he slipped in behind her. Straddling her hips, he grabbed her waist, pulled her against him, and leaned back in the tub with her. The next thirty minutes were spent relaxing in the hot water, playing with her tits, feeling up her pussy, turning her on, and making her twist in his arms, silently begging him for more.

  “Not yet,” he said. Mad Dog reached with his foot and opened the drain, letting a good half of the water out before shutting it again. “I need you to stand up, turn around, and sit between my calves with your legs over my thighs, facing me.”

  Isabella blushed crimson, but she did as she was told, wrapping her feet around the tops of his hips and giving him an unobstructed view of her pussy and a clear field to work in.