Steel Cobras MC Complete Box Set: Books 1-6

by Evie Monroe

  Who the fuck was this woman? And where had she been all my life?

  I pushed two fingers into her and she mewled, shifting to give me better access.

  “Come up here,” I said to her, shifting to get purchase on her. If I was going to come, she was going to come with me. “Flip around. I want you on my mouth again.”

  She eagerly obliged. I laid back on the sofa, bringing her up to me, lowering her butt down onto my face. Grabbing her thighs, I dug in hard, delving my tongue deep inside her.

  And the next thing I felt was Liv’s mouth, fully engulfing my entire fucking cock.

  Too good. I groaned, swiveling my hips, clenching her ass in my hands and smashing her into my face as her juices smeared between her thighs. I bit and rasped at her pussy, eager to taste all of her. She growled like an animal, as I fucked her mouth with my cock and her pussy with my tongue.

  “Give me more,” I demanded, but I wasn’t sure she heard since my voice was muffled by her cunt, her ass, her thighs. I didn’t care. I gripped her harder, biting, licking, sucking on her pussy, tasting its sweet cream. “Come all over my face.”

  And then she did. Her spine straightened and she tensed, and then I could feel it, wave after wave, pulsing through me, her whole body trembling against me. She moaned for dear life, and I was sure my neighbors must’ve thought it was an earthquake, because the whole apartment complex shook.

  For her final act, she sucked me in deep, so deep, that when I came, I felt my come spurting in the back of her throat, her lips fully wrapped around the base of my cock. I pushed myself against her body, drenched in sweat and sex, fusing our bodies together.

  And she stayed there, sucking me until I was dry.

  A moment later, she slipped off of me and smoothed her hair back as she lowered her skirt into place. She was flushed, her skin dewy as an innocent Snow White’s, but...holy fuck.

  There was nothing innocent about this woman.

  I stared up at the ceiling, barely able to move, my face soaked in her juices, thinking that if I died now, I’d be a very happy man.

  She looked over at me. “Did you say you’d be over there in twenty minutes? Because I think you have about two minutes left.”

  I closed my eyes. For what? Who the hell cared?

  Then it came back.

  Right. I had to meet with the club to discuss the situation with Hell’s Fury.

  As I got up to get ready, I turned to her, and she gave me a sexy little wink. The skin around her lips was rubbed raw from my beard, her hair tossed over her shoulder in a careless way, but I’d never seen anyone sexier.

  I thought of something Jetson had said: You’re too close to her now, thinking with your dick, your head is all messed up and your judgment’s off. Maybe that’s where she wants you to be.

  Yeah, my judgment was off, because she could’ve told me the sky was red and I would’ve believed her. She could have been playing me like a fiddle, pulling every one of my strings.

  But right then, I’d let her play me like the sweet melody she was.

  Chapter Twelve

  Olivia

  I had the feeling that however I’d lived before, it was just as Nix had said. I’d lived like a sheltered, spoiled princess.

  Being with Nix was my awakening.

  Something about him stirred me, making me feel like I’d never really lived before. I went into the bathroom and watched him clean up. He was all man.

  So what if I don’t remember my life before? I’m happy now.

  As he brushed his teeth, still naked and completely unabashed about it, I took in eyeful after eyeful of his strong, sculpted back, unable to get my fill. He had shoulders and a chest most bodybuilders would kill for, and the tightest waist. His ass was a perfect, tight little package that begged to be squeezed. Truly a work of art.

  From the way he owned the space he stood in, I could tell he knew it.

  He ran a washcloth over his face, his throat, his neck, then caught me looking at him in the mirror, a goofy smile on my face. He brought the washcloth down, folded it, and said, “Yes, ma’am?”

  I wanted to sit on his face again.

  It was like a rabid hunger. I’d gotten one taste, and now I didn’t think I’d ever get enough. He was a master. That tongue? Holy shit. That beard? It made just about everything better, but most of all...the sex. He went down on me like an artist working on his masterpiece, going in with full gusto, and an almost sacred appreciation for his subject.

  Instead of telling him how sexy he was, or how much of a sex-master he was, I said, “You’re really going to be late.”

  He nodded and swept past me in the doorway. As he did, he lowered his face to mine and gave me a kiss on the temple. His beard tickled my cheek, his hand skirted my side, grazing my tank top but not resting there. “Worth it.”

  I wanted more of him. More physical contact. I fought the urge to grab him and pull him to me. He really did have to go.

  Which meant I would be alone again. The feeling made me desperate.

  I followed him into the bedroom, where he pulled on his jeans and a black t-shirt. When he finished, he grabbed the gun off the dresser, simple as if he were grabbing for his wallet, and tucked it in the waistband behind his back.

  “Why do you need a gun?” I asked him timidly.

  He shrugged, “Just in case.”

  “In case of what?” I asked, voice rising in alarm as he moved past me, into the kitchen.

  He was definitely avoiding the subject.

  “You need a gun to steal cars?” I pressed.

  He whirled around. Still no answer. I could practically see the gears turning in his head. He was tortured by the avoidance. I was starting to learn that about Nix. He didn’t lie. He simply avoided.

  “Have you ever used it?”

  He gave me an imperceptible nod.

  “Have you ever killed someone?”

  “No,” he said finally. And I knew it was the truth.

  It didn’t make me feel better. Because where guns were involved, people could get killed. It sounded too dangerous. Maybe I’d been involved with them all my life, considering my father was a criminal, but it definitely didn’t feel that way.

  Everything about this scared me.

  “Have a burger.” He threw on his motorcycle jacket with the cobra on the back and turned to me. “Lock the door, okay? I won’t be long.”

  I pouted at him.

  I thought he’d just leave. After all, isn’t that what tough guys with guns did? They didn’t care about anyone, let alone stupid broads.

  But the next thing I knew, he was standing close to me. He put a finger under my chin, tilting my head up so I had no choice but to look into his eyes.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey back.”

  “Don’t worry, Liv. I’ll be gone an hour, tops. I’m going to protect you. I promise.”

  I swallowed. But who would protect him? Before I could say that, he leaned over and kissed me. He kissed me and kissed me. Kissed me silly, so I didn’t know up from down and right from wrong. A series of kisses that should have left me feeling fully sated.

  And then he left me alone.

  Again.

  And a second later, I wanted more.

  I looked around the apartment that had begun to feel more like a prison. The walls seemed to be closing in on me, especially now that Nix was gone.

  He couldn’t do that. Bring me to such incredible heights and then leave me alone like this.

  Next time, I’d tell him to take me with him.

  If there was a next time.

  I opened the greasy bag, the smell of which hung heavy in the small apartment. I pulled out the burger and sleeve of fries and took a nibble of one of the greasy French fries.

  Then I took a couple more. I was famished, and it wasn’t just that I hadn’t eaten anything more than a bowl of cereal that day. It was the sex.

  Definitely, the sex.

  I finished that burger in a
matter of seconds. It was good. Something told me that in my old life as a dancer, I didn’t eat much fast food. Clearly, Nix lived on the stuff. I wasn’t sure how he still managed to have a six-pack and a body to kill for, the bastard.

  I sat down on the sofa and turned on the television, which was probably older than I was. It was mostly static. It got maybe three satellite channels. Something told me Nix wasn’t much of a couch potato who liked to Netflix and chill.

  My eyes trailed to the ashtray. It was overflowing, the cigarette he’d just left there was still smoldering. I lifted it up and took a drag. Coughed. It was nasty. I was clearly not a smoker. But I liked that it smelled like Nix.

  Setting the cigarette down and flipping off the television, I went into the bathroom to clean myself up. After taking a quick shower, I went to his bedroom and got changed into my pajamas.

  With nothing else to do, I decided to snoop a little. Maybe I could find something to read. Nix hadn’t struck me as the bookish type, but so far, he’d definitely turned out to be much more than what met the eye. I opened the nightstand. There, I found two things: A copy of On the Road by Jack Kerouac, and a little photo scrapbook.

  You surprise me all the time, I thought, taking the scrapbook out.

  It had some very old, yellowing photographs in it. I paged through it, my interest captured when I saw the picture of two blond boys standing in front of the Hoover Dam with a woman with shocking red hair. Had to have been Nix, Jetson, and their mother.

  I smiled at the picture as I recalled the story of his upbringing. They might have had a miserable family life, but their smiles said everything: They’d been happy then, even for that one moment in time.

  It was funny how even miserable childhoods could have fleeting moments of joy.

  Suddenly, something hit me right between the eyes. I sat down hard on the bed and remembered sitting in a huge backyard, with a pool, under a striped umbrella, as my father handed me a tennis racket that was too big for my little hands. I remembered him tossing me bright yellow tennis balls, and me swinging wildly, missing them all. “That’s all right, Ollie,” he’d said. “You’ll get it.”

  He’d called me Ollie. I smiled at that thought.

  And then I was in that same backyard, but there were people now. So many people I was sipping lemonade out of a glass with a little paper umbrella. The air smelled like barbecue. I’d wanted to swim but instead I was wearing a stiff white dress. I had to be on my best behavior.

  I remembered my father, wearing a red tie, looking confident with his head of full dark hair. And waitresses coming by with gross little bacon-wrapped scallops and me asking my mother why we couldn’t have normal food. It was hot. All the people were dressed in suits, like it was a funeral, and the pool, with its cool blue water that looked so inviting, was empty.

  Mother was tense. She kept scolding me for complaining, saying this was a big day for my father. She said that his star was rising, and nothing would stop him. If he got this deal, everything would be peaches and cream for us. She kept saying that. Peaches and cream. Don’t you want peaches and cream?

  And I’d laughed and said yes, that was all I wanted.

  Then she was gone. I remembered the whirr of the machines in the hospital that were keeping her alive. I remembered my father, crying outside the hospital. I remembered her smell, which was once like her favorite vanilla perfume but was now bad, wrong, more like she was rotting from the inside out.

  Then I remembered my father. I’d begged him to come to my recitals. But I had a tutor, Lucinda. She’d taken me to all of them. Even when I’d gone en pointe for the first time, gotten my first solo...he’d missed them all. But he’d always apologize with some grand gift—a dachshund puppy, once, which I named Lego. A pony, named Spruce.

  I’d asked him what was so important about his job, once, but he’d gotten frustrated at me and told me to mind my own business. I’d run away, screaming that he loved his job more than he loved his family. But he hadn’t fought me on that.

  He had come to me once, when I was nearly asleep, and told me he’d make it up to me.

  But as I lay back on the mattress, against the wall, I couldn’t remember that he ever did. Memories kept flooding back, and I’d grab them, catch them, hold them to me. But that memory? The memory of him making his long days and years of absence up to me?

  I couldn’t remember that.

  But I did remember a time when he’d been with me, in that backyard, showing me how to lift a tennis racket. He’d cared about me.

  Of course he did. He was my father.

  Something told me he was worried sick about me now, wondering whether I was alive or dead.

  I needed to talk to him. I needed to bring my memories back.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Phoenix

  “This is bullshit,” Cullen said as I walked out onto his deck overlooking the churning ocean. “This is really the way I want to spend my fucking Saturday night. Having church again with you fuckers.”

  He was sitting in his hot tub with a bunch of empty beer bottles around him, smoking a cigarette. Boo hoo, what a sad life. For someone with such a sweet set-up, he was probably the most miserable son of a bitch I’d ever known. Proof his daddy’s money didn’t buy happiness. “You had plans?”

  He jumped out, dried off, and flung the towel on the ground. “I was in the middle of them when you called, asshole.”

  He motioned me inside. I followed him into the living room. Upstairs, the shower was running. I pictured a redhead. Cullen had a thing for redheads. He’d probably been in the middle of her when I’d called.

  He grabbed another beer from the fridge. “So. Guessing you think this girl is worth fucking up everything the Cobras ever worked for. Is that right? Is that what I’m hearing?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “And she’s sure it was Hell’s Fury?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, fuck.” He brought the beer down hard on the edge of the counter, letting the cap skitter away. “You think they were trying to send Anderson a message?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who was trying to send Anderson a message?” Hart came in, closing the sliding door with a bang, his helmet stuffed under his arm. He looked at both of us. “What the hell, man? Weren’t we just here?”

  “There’s been a development,” Cullen said, looking at me.

  “It’s Hell’s Fury,” I said, as Jetson and Zain stepped inside, throwing their shit down on the floor.

  I explained the whole story to them, knowing I’d have to fill Drake in later. I told them Liv was gradually getting pieces of her memory back, and she remembered seeing the Hell’s Fury patch before she was locked in the trunk.

  Jet crossed his thick arms. “Brother, that sounds like bullshit.”

  My prick little brother still had blood on his jacket from the last time he’d given me shit, earlier that day, and he still hadn’t learned his lesson. He wasn’t the smartest kid. “What are you saying?”

  He mumbled, “I’m saying she’s playing you.”

  “And how the fuck do you figure that?”

  “Because. One, she’s daughter of a fucking criminal. And two, she’s all sweet and innocent, claims she doesn’t know anything about her dear old dad’s dealings, and then she just conveniently remembers a Hell’s Fury patch?” He hitched his shoulders. “Sorry. I ain’t buying that.”

  “It’s not a lie. You didn’t see how scared she was.”

  That didn’t help change his mind. “She’s a good actress.”

  Hart spoke up from his laptop. “Olivia Baxter did graduate from Stanford’s Theater Arts program, remember?”

  I spun on him. “She’s not lying. She’s a dancer, not an actress.”

  Cullen leaned over the island, his bare chest still dripping from the hot tub. “If Hell’s Fury had their contact for guns eliminated, they could be looking for new lines of business. Which is where Anderson’s gambling outfit could come in. They m
ight’ve been using the girl to send a message to him.”

  Hart nodded, deep in thought. “That makes sense.”

  Jet gave him a doubtful look. “Or maybe Anderson and Hell’s Fury are working together and that’s what they want us to think.” He scratched his chin. “What if they’re looking to take over our business? What if Nix’s little girlfriend was a plant, and she’s working for them too?”

  Yeah, it would’ve made sense, if I didn’t absolutely believe Liv was telling the truth. No one could be that good of an actress.

  “What else does she remember, besides the Hell’s Fury patch?” Zain asked me, pulling out a barstool and straddling it. “Anything?”

  “Don’t know. I didn’t ask her.”

  “Why not?” Hart pressed. “If she—”

  “Because she was locked in a fucking trunk. She’s traumatized and the last thing I want her to do is relive that. Back the fuck off, all right?”

  Hart held his hands up in surrender and went back to his laptop. “Don’t get defensive on us, asshole,” he muttered.

  If I was supposed to be pleading my case to get them to help me, I was doing a piss-poor job of it. It felt like the cards were already stacked against me. It wouldn’t have surprised me if after I’d left earlier, they sat down and made the decision not to help me.

  That pissed me off. Either we made decisions as a group, with all of us in attendance, or we waited. We didn’t go behind anyone’s back. That wasn’t our code.

  The more I thought about it, the more riled I got.

  Drake came in as I was staring the rest of the boys down. Tense silence filled the kitchen. So much for pleading my case. It was clear what side of the fence these guys were on.

  Drake’s eyes went from face to face. “What the hell is this all about?”

  I exhaled and raked my fingers through my hair. Explaining hadn’t gotten me anywhere before. I wouldn’t waste the breath. I needed another cigarette.

  Just then, a redhead padded into the kitchen, wearing one of Cullen’s oversize t-shirts. Her eyes went from one of us to the next and she licked her lips. “What’s this, baby? A party?”