by Romi Hart
Corey
Devil’s Flame MC, Book 5
Romi Hart
Copyright © 2019 by Romi Hart
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Also by Romi Hart
Devil’s Flame MC Series
Rafe
Zeke
Eli
Harrison
Corey
BOX SETS
Stamina
Out of Bounds
Playing to Win
Untamed Billionaires
Dangerous
Untamed Billionaires Series
The Billionaire Bull
The Billionaire Bold
The Billionaire Brute
Playing to Win Series
One Kiss to Win
One Chance to Win
One Cheer to Win
Out of Bounds Series
Temptation
Addiction
Passion
Dangerous Series
Dangerous Play
Dirty Play
Daring Play
Stand Alone Books
Sinner
Big Slide
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Sinner MC Romance - Special Preview
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Romi Hart
1
The rumble of the machine cut off as Corey turned the key to the Harley Road King, the one and only loyal woman in his life, and put down the kickstand, grumbling to himself as he squinted against the sun to see the sign in front of him. Ritzy storefronts like this weren’t his style, and the new strip mall design of the space didn’t offer him a warm welcome. Of course, clad in his cut with a t-shirt that hugged his arms and chest, paired with worn jeans and motorcycle boots, there weren’t many places that gave him a great fanfare.
Right now, he considered firing the bike back up and riding like a bat out of hell to anywhere but here. He’d be more at ease in one of the dive bars deeper in town, or sitting on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere, staring into space. Leaving seemed like the right idea, and he glanced down at the key in his hand, seriously weighing the merit of running away. The only thing that stopped him was the weight on his shoulders dragging him down. Zeke’s ridiculous idea might sting a little, but he was right about one thing – Corey had too much on his plate, and it was wearing him down.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep, worrying about the Devil’s Flames and every other damn motorcycle club that was in on this effort to destroy Gomez and his Ravens. But his back ached, his neck felt so tight he was sure trying to pop it would snap it in two, and his limbs were so heavy he couldn’t even manage a workout. He was exhausted, and while he didn’t have time for this shit, the deep tissue massage Zeke had talked him into just might loosen him up enough to afford him eight hours of shut eye.
So, he dismounted the beastly bike he’d fondly dubbed ‘Shawna’ the day he’d bought her, patted her gently, shoved the key into his pocket, and strode into Merry Massage as if it was perfectly natural to do so, feeling the eyes of all the soccer moms and stuffy bitches who came and went from the overpriced establishments judging him and keeping a wide berth around him, as if being a biker was contagious. He snorted to himself at the thought. Technically, it was. You got around the life for more than a cursory glance at it, you wanted to be a part of it.
Although, in his case, it had been hereditary. He’d been predestined to join the motorcycle club life from the date of conception, his mother telling the story hundreds of times that she’d practically given birth on the back of a bike. And while he loved his crew more than anything, the pressure had gotten to a point where he wondered if he’d made the right choice in taking over the job of the president from his father, especially at such a young age. Maybe he should have left it to someone more qualified to handle the responsibility. At least for another ten years or so.
Sighing and stopping the ‘woe is me’ diatribe in his head, he walked up to the pristinely white receptionist’s desk and looked down at the perfectly poised young woman with teeth as white as the marble counter who gave him a thousand watt smile. The perfectly even tan made them glisten all the more, and her pristinely coifed hair made her look like a model. At least if she was judging him, she kept it to herself. That was a bonus.
“Good afternoon, sir. How may I assist you today?” she asked in a chipper, welcoming tone.
Scratching the back of his neck and having trouble making eye contact for some reason he couldn’t explain, Corey grunted. “I have an appointment for a deep tissue massage. Corey Logan.”
She tapped a few keys, a cute little line drawn between her brows as she focused on the computer screen, and then she beamed at him again. “Yes, Mr. Logan. Welcome.” She stood. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll get you set up in a room, and Regan will be with you shortly.”
Regan. That didn’t tell him much. Could be male, female, hard, soft, foreign, domestic. It didn’t really matter, since this was about health and well being, but if he had to have some stranger pawing at him, it could at least be a female who didn’t look like a freak from an amusement park funhouse. Somehow, he imagined a giant, hairy bodybuilder of a man with a strange, muddled accent, and his shoulders tensed further. It wasn’t a pleasant idea. “Fuck that,” he whispered under his breath, glad that Elsa, as he’d deemed the chick he was following, either didn’t hear or didn’t react to his comment.
She led him into a quiet space with the lights dimmed and the smell of incense in the air. The walls were paneled with a soft, lavender fabric that would absorb the sound if some sadistic man with a buzz cut decided to dig an elbow into a giant knot on his back until he screamed for mercy.
Shaking off that thought, Corey took in the rest of the room, trying to seek out the comfort it was supposed to bring. The massage table was in the center of the space, and a quiet little table fountain gurgled off in the far corner on a small, square stand. There were scented candles and various bottles he assumed contained massage oils everywhere, and a small speaker on a high shelf in another corner was set at quiet volume and played low tones that he figured were supposed to be soothing in nature.
The girl set about putting a fresh sheet over the massage table and handing him another, both brilliant white and soft, as she pointed to a small basket by the door. “You should undress down as far as you’re comfortable, at least to your underwear, depending on your feelings about nudity and privacy. Your clothes can go in the basket, and you’ll use this second sheet to cover yourself, especially if you decide to go skyclad.”
He tilted his head, curious. “Skyclad?”
She arched a brow at him, showing the first bit of sauciness so far, her lips quirking at the corners almost imperceptibly, as if she was trained to hold back a smile and yet
still found it insanely difficult right now. “Naked, Mr. Logan.” Her eyes did such a quick, careful sweep of him Corey almost missed it, her professionalism profound. Then, she picked up a tiny bell right beside the door. “When you’re ready, ring this. And remember, do not touch your masseuse.”
She left, clicking the door shut, and Corey blew out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold. That girl was something else. Sure, she was personable in a career-driven manner, but he’d nicknamed her Elsa for a reason. She had an icy mannerism about her that seemed to linger hidden just beneath the surface. Although, he would never share his knowledge of or affinity for the children’s movie with anyone.
She reminded him why he didn’t bother with women. He didn’t have the time or energy for their drama, judgment, or the neediness that often came with them. He’d enjoyed time with plenty women when he was younger, but his responsibilities kept him running now, and he didn’t care enough about romance or sex to let either one become an obstacle in his life. The club was everything, and he was nothing if not loyal.
Stretching with his arms over his head, Corey reluctantly removed all but his underwear. He’d worn tighty-whiteys, something rare for him. But then, he hadn’t known what was in store here, and he didn’t want to have some creepy guy all over his junk because he’d worn a sexy pair of silk boxers.
He rang the bell and sat on the edge of the table, sheet draped over his lap and legs swinging. It was a bit disconcerting because he was by no means short, six-two, and yet, his feet didn’t touch the floor when he sat here. He didn’t know what to do while he waited never having much chance to just sit around and twiddle his thumbs, but it didn’t take long. Thirty seconds, and the door opened.
Damn. Maybe he should have gone skyclad.
If this was Regan, he sure didn’t have anything to hide. No, he wasn’t up for a relationship, or even a tryst, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t fantasize about the woman in front of him. She was absolutely gorgeous, despite the severity of the tight bun she had pulled her hair into, drawing at the corner of her almond shaped eyes. It was dark blond, her eyes a wild violet color the likes of which Corey had never seen, and she was a little taller than average, willowy in her build but with a certain strength that was impossible to miss. She was graceful, and there was something secretive in her smile as she greeted him.
“Mr. Logan, I presume. I’m Regan, and I’ll be your massage therapist today.” She stepped into the room, all business, and the click of the door as she closed it behind her got Corey’s mind back on track. They were alone together, and there were rules, both those enforced by the massage clinic and those of his own moral obligations. Admiration was fine. Desire was off the table, so to speak. “Tell me what’s bothering you most so we can focus on the real pain.”
At the moment, his groin ached, but that wasn’t something he could ask Regan to resolve.
He motioned to his shoulders instead, shrugging them and rolling his neck. “I have a lot of tension through here. It’s hard to hold my head up, but I can’t seem to lay down and relax to sleep, either. It’s mainly in my upper back and neck.”
She frowned at him but didn’t come any closer, coating her hands with a dollop of sanitizer. “I can see the tension from here. I think we’re going to have to set some expectations, Mr. Logan.”
“Corey. Call me Corey, please.” He didn’t mind ‘boss’ or ‘prez’ or any of that, but ‘mister’ was all wrong.
She nodded in deference. “Very well. What I’m trying to say is that, today, we have a sixty minute appointment, and you have sixty sessions worth of tension. I just don’t want you to think you’re going to walk out of here today fixed and feeling wonderful. I can give you some reprieve, but it’s not going to be good as new.”
She stared at him, apparently waiting for a response. Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, he told her, “This isn’t really my thing anyway. My friend suggested I come do this, and I thought maybe it would give me a little bit of relief so I could take a fucking nap. Pardon my language. I’m just tired, worn down, and in need of a few solid hours of sleep.”
To his surprise, she smiled and nodded. The smile lit her entire face, her lips somehow plumper and brighter with the expression, and if he had a romantic bone in his body, he would have thought she lit up the whole dim space with that expression. “A lot of people tell me they get their best sleep while I’m working on them. That’s not going to happen for you today, Corey. You’re a hard case. But when I’m done, you’ll want to go home, take two aspirin or ibuprofen, and lay down for your ‘fucking nap.’”
There was something sexy and inappropriate about the curse coming from those lips, and Corey reminded himself he didn’t need any complications. Even teasing a woman like Regan, just because he could, would make his life that much more complex. He didn’t need to lead her on or, worse, make her uncomfortable. He’d probably never see her again, and that was fine with him, but he didn’t want to leave any lingering ‘what if’ thoughts for either of them. He needed her services, and that was all. Polite conversation, not flirtation, was the order of the day.
“Lie face down for me, if you will, with your forehead up here and your face cradled in the hole.” She motioned toward the top of the table, and Corey moved to comply. Yes, he could be professional, too, even though he was a rough and rowdy biker. He’d had a mother. “Do you have any allergies?”
That seemed like an odd question, but then he remembered the oils and incense. Probably infused with all sorts of mumbo jumbo herbs and flowers and stuff. “Not that I know of.”
“Music preference?”
He considered throwing classic rock out there to see what she said, or metal, but he resisted. “No, whatever is best for this sort of thing. I’ve never gotten a massage before, so I’m open to anything.” Well, that wasn’t quite true, but she hadn’t exactly asked about the wanton fantasies floating through his head about ways to use this massage table.
And her body.
“That’s perfect. I assure you, you’re quite literally in good, capable hands. Are you ready to start?” A familiar scent wafted to Corey’s nose. Lavender. Something his mother had loved.
He tried to hold that thought, picturing his mother working in the kitchen, a much more innocuous image than those he’d been focused on a moment ago. Images that were very much out of the norm for him. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
2
Regan would have recognized the insignia on his cut anywhere. She hadn’t dealt with any of the Devil’s Flames men personally, and they didn’t spend a lot of time in the ultra-burbs, as she’d heard this part of town called with its hefty catering to the upper crust. But their ladies seemed to be a regular part of society. One of them led the yoga class Regan attended on a not so regular basis and, last Regan had seen, was huge and pregnant.
Another was a nurse at the hospital, where she’d had to visit her coworker after the girl had gone into anaphylactic shock eating shellfish. They were recognizable clearly because they both wore tattoos that mirrored the insignia, and the yoga instructor’s significant other had visited her once during a class, wearing the same cut as Corey Logan.
Honestly, the idea of a man in a motorcycle club intrigued her, but that wasn’t what piqued her curiosity about Corey. First, he was drop dead gorgeous, with long dark brown hair that shone with softness even in the dim light, pulled back at the nape of his neck and honey brown eyes that seemed more honest than was safe. He was all hard muscle, but there was nothing imposing about it. Instead, the tightness and slight bulk of his build was reassuring, as if he was the protective type.
But more than that, she wondered at his quiet demeanor. She was used to a mild amount of disrespect from male clients, and she certainly had her share of flirtatious men she had to appease without leading them on. But Corey had yet to even blink an eye at her that suggested he found her attractive, much less voice such things. In fact, he hadn’t flirted with her at all. And that was almost impo
ssible to believe.
No, she didn’t think that much of herself. She felt like she was pretty enough. And she was used to garnering attention because being a massage therapist meant you were a bit more intimate with clients than the average person, aside from maybe a doctor. So, to have a man come in that looked like Corey, covered in tattoos and filled with stress and tension, not even give the slightest indication he saw anything of interest, was mind boggling.
And what was worse, it irked her because she was incredibly attracted to him. Corey exuded this presence that told her he was used to being the Alpha in the room, and yet, he was vulnerable and in need of a vacation. The set to his shoulders as he had sat on the table told her just how heavy a load he was carrying. This was the sort of stress that took a year to relieve, with three appointments a week, and that was when she wasn’t at all distracted by the beauty of the body under her hands.
Regan had a steady grip and never had trouble, but for some reasons, as she stepped toward Corey, face down on the table, her hands trembled, as if she was about to shine a delicate, expensive sculpture that was infamous and part of history. The perfection of his structure left her in awe as she looked over his back and shoulders, picking out the horribly knotted mess. Even in this condition, he was a work of art, and he’d decorated the canvas well, with tribal tattoos, colorful images, and what were obviously memorial tattoos covering most of his skin from the base of his neck over his shoulders and back and then down his arms. She didn’t get the pleasure of reading someone this openly, none of her clientele ever decorated so completely, and yet, she had trouble piecing it all together into the story of his life.
