by Evelyn Glass
Declan looks over the men, as though seeing them for the first time, and then mutters: “But I won’t wear your ears down.” He reaches down for his drink. Killian quickly grabs it, stands up, and places it in the old man’s hand. Declan smiles and with Killian’s hand supporting his, lifts his glass.
“To Boss!” Declan croaks.
“To Boss!” the bikers cheer, the table rumbling.
“And to Hope!”
“To Hope!”
The bikers—grizzled, tattooed, tough—smile across the table at me, lifting their drinks in toast. I lift mine in return. Mom and Dad may be gone, I think, looking up at Killian as he helps Declan back into his chair. And then looking around the table to Dawn and Patrick. But I have a new family now.
Toward the end of the meal, Lucca shuffles over to where I sit with downcast eyes.
“Hope,” he says quietly, as the entirety of the Satan’s Martyrs watch him for good behavior.
I have never felt stronger, dozens of hardened bikers at my back, watching this perverted, small man for any sign of aggression. If he shouted at me now as he has before, he wouldn’t have a good time of it—and that’s putting it mildly.
“Yes?” I say.
He makes an O with his lips and puffs his cheeks up, before blowing it all out slowly. It’s like his pride is a physical thing being chipped away before me. I almost feel sorry for him—almost—but then I remember how many of the waitresses he’s touched, how many times he’s tried to touch me, how cruel he is. Any pity I feel is swiftly rejected.
“I would like to invite you to use the kitchen—for practice. You can use the most expensive equipment I have. It would be—an honor.” He sighs out the last word, and his pride crumbles.
Good.
“Oh, thank you,” I say casually, rising to my feet. “It’d be a pleasure.”
I nod sweetly to him and make my way across the restaurant.
Standing in the kitchen in my party dress, moving my hands over the chrome knives and shiny chopping boards, looking down at the glimmering cooktops, I begin to wonder if I’m sure I even want this anymore. It’s not that I suddenly realize no, I don’t need it, I don’t have any passion for it.
It’s just . . .
Killian.
I feel so sure about Killian. Everything else is thrown into perspective. How bad do I want to be a chef when it’s not even one-tenth of the certainty I feel for him? How bad do I want anything when my passion could never reach the heights it reaches when I’m with him, my lover, my man?
I shake my head, wondering at myself, trying to force myself to be sure.
But it won’t come.
The only thing I’m sure of is that I want to be with him, I think in shock.
“The only thing I’m sure of is that I never want to be away from him,” I say.
Do I really love him that much? I ask myself.
The answer is quick and certain:
More.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Killian
I sneak off to Lucca’s office as the party is winding down, as the men are leaning drunkenly in their chairs, or shouting loudly, or downing more and more drinks. The waitresses clear the tables and carry the plates to the kitchen. Patrick and Dawn hold each other close, their arms entwined. The music is turned low and sings out quietly over the restaurant.
When I get to his office, he’s leaning back in his chair and scowling. Scowling at nothing in particular. At the door, at the walls, at the posters with the stupid slogans. Those slogans make me smirk. Go and get it, you can do it! It’s absurd. You can only do something if you have some deep driving force. You can only ride if you’re committed to riding. A poster won’t change that.
He flinches when I enter. I hold my hands up.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say. Unless I hear that you’ve molested any of the waitresses tonight. Then I might not be able to promise anything. But as far as I can tell—and according to what Hope told me—the waitresses have been left alone tonight. I pull out the chair opposite him and drop into it. The alcohol has gone to my head, but I’m not properly drunk, not yet.
“How—how can I help?” Lucca whispers, eyes downcast.
He looks so pathetic that I have to keep reminding myself of what Hope told me. He screamed at her, he tried to coerce her into sex, he succeeded in coercing other women into sex. I have to remind myself unless I accidently feel sorry for the worm.
“I need the key to the VIP room in the back,” I say.
“The VIP room?” Lucca’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why?”
“Why?” I laugh, and then shake my head. “It doesn’t matter why. You want to play the ‘why’ game? Alright. Why did you molest women half your age? Why did you molest your employees? What the fuck is wrong with you? Ah, that’s ‘what’, not ‘why’.” I lean forward. “But I’m sure you get the point.
Men like Lucca make me sick. They’re the kind of men who think they’re big and tough and scary because they prey on women. They get this idea in their head that they’re the big bad wolf, and when they run into someone who’s bigger and badder, they turn into little babies. I bet the waitresses saw him as some kind of giant demon. Now look at him. Goddamn coward.
He wipes sweat from his forehead. “Fine,” he sighs. Will I still be feared when I don’t lead the Satan’s Martyrs? I wonder. I ignore the question. That’s for later. “Here you go,” he exhales, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a loop of keys. A bikini-clad woman figurine hangs from the key ring.
He unclasps one of the keys and slides it across the table to me.
I pick it up and make for the door. At the door, I stop.
“Be good, Lucca,” I say. “I don’t want to make a habit of visiting you. People might start to think we’re fucking friends.”
I slam the door on him and walk through the kitchen toward the restaurant.
Hope sits in her place at the head of the table. She wasn’t in the kitchen for very long. She seemed to return from it almost as soon as she went into it. But that’s fine; it works for me. I have a mission of my own.
As I walk down the length of the table, some of the more sober men nod: “Boss, boss, boss.”
Not for long, lads, I think.
I stand beside Hope, looking down at her, my fingers folded over the key. She turns and smiles up at me, and my chest aches. Her smile is all I need, all the justification, all the motivation. She’s truly gorgeous, truly brilliant, truly the only woman for me. Am I a changed man? I never thought men could change. Hope proved that wrong. She’s proved so much wrong.
“Can I help you?” she says. “You look very strange standing there like that.”
“You’re a cruel pretty lady, you know that?” I smile.
She giggles and I laugh. Then I lean down and take her hand, lift her to her feet. “Are we going somewhere?” she asks.
“I’ve booked us a private meeting in the VIP room,” I answer, leading her away from the table. “It’s an important meeting and we can’t miss it. I know someone who’d be very angry if we did.”
She squints at me. “Who?”
“Me,” I chuckle.
“Oh,” she grins. “Obviously.”
“A little drunk, pretty lady?”
She shrugs. “A little-little, maybe.”
“Just hold onto me. I won’t let you fall.”
“Is that a metaphor, Mr. Biker? You sound quite deep.”
“Nah, pretty lady. I’m not even going to pretend I know what you’re talking about.”
She throws her head back and giggles so loudly that a few of the bikers turn to her with soft smiles. Admiring my woman, I think. Let them. Let them see what a beautiful, brilliant woman I have. Let them see how wonderful she is, in every single way.
I open the door to the VIP room, shuffle Hope in, and then lock the door behind us. Hope switches on the lights. The lights are set into sconces in the walls, dim mood lights which shine softly onto the ceilin
g. The chairs are red plush cushions, and in the corner is a bar. The tables are fancy carved wood. Even the legs of the chairs are carved and patterned.
In the center of the room is a couch, the cushions thick and red and soft. My eyes move to Hope, to her soft elfin face, to the cynical twist of her lips, to her irresistible large breasts and her even more irresistible legs.
Animal lust rises into the air around us, almost like a smell. She launches herself at me and I catch her. I grab the back of her head and smack my lips into hers, feeling the softness of them, the hunger of them. She moans as we kiss. I open my mouth and she opens hers. When our tongues touch, my cock gives a twinge and gets even harder, so hard that it presses almost painfully against my pants. I move my hands down her body and grab her ass. Fuck, her ass . . . it’s too perfect, too bouncy, too round. I sink my hands into it, massage the flesh. Hope moans louder through the kiss.
Her moans drive me wild. They tell me how horny she is, how much she wants this, how desperate she is for it. I press my crotch into her. With one hand on the back of her head, I push her lips harder against mine. With my other hand massaging her ass cheeks, I pull her toward me, my crotch rock-hard on her belly.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, I need her. I fucking need her.
I break off the kiss and step away. She looks up at me, lips moist, cheeks red, eyes wide and eager.
“What—”
I walk to the couch and gesture for her to follow me. Watching her walk toward me makes me even hungrier. Watching how her legs move, the subtle muscles in them, remembering what they look like when she’s riding reverse cowgirl, her thighs tight, her ass bouncing up and down on my abs. She’s fucking intoxicating, my woman.
When she gets here, I leap forward and grab her by the back of the neck. I twist her around and push her down, bending her over. She leans forward and grips the couch cushions. The cushion tears when she digs her fingernails in, but neither of us care. She arches her back and pushes her pussy out. Her underwear is taut over her pussy, a thin layer of fabric between me and that hot, wet, perfect place.
“Beg me,” I grunt. I take off my leathers and my shirt, dropping them to the floor. And then I kick off my boots and pull down my pants and underwear. I stand there naked, my cock so hard it points directly up, unable to take my eyes from that ass.
“Please,” she moans, and I resist the urge to scream in pleasure just at that one word.
I love it when she begs me. It makes me feel powerful, makes me feel like she wants it so badly she’s even willing to beg, makes me feel like she’s as desperate for my cock as I am for her pussy, makes me feel like she’d do anything for it. She arches her back even more, pressing her ass out, her pussy opening.
“Please, Killian,” she moans. “Please, I want your cock so bad. Please, please. Fuck, I want it. I want it. Please, I’m begging you. Fuck me. Fuck me so hard it hurts. Oh, fuck, please.”
I’m panting, a wolf on a hunt, panting and growling with lust.
“Please,” she begs.
I reach forward and pull down her underwear, revealing her pussy. Fuck, has there ever been a sweeter sight?
“Reach around and spread it open,” I growl. “Spread it open and beg.”
She props herself with one arm. With the other she reaches around and pulls on her ass cheek. Her pussy spreads open and the pink of it winks at me. I know how hot that pink is, how wet. I know how she cries and moans when I bury myself up to my balls in that pink perfect place.
“Please!” she cries, true desperation in her voice now. “Oh, please, Killian, please!”
I step forward, place both my hands on her ass, and slide my cock inside of her. She’s so wet I don’t even have to wet my cock. I slide in, in, until I am all the way inside of her. I look down at my cock as I slide in, watching the way her pussy opens wide. She’s so tight, a fist grabbing my hand, the tightest, sexiest woman alive.
“Fuck, fuck,” I grunt.
“Oh . . .”
But she can’t finish her sentence. I’m unable to hold back my lust any longer. I pull out slowly, and then I pound her, drilling my cock into her, drilling it so hard and so fast that my cock is a blur when I look down. I focus on the way her ass bounces, up and down, up and down, slapping against my pelvis. I thrust into her so hard she falls forward on the couch. But I don’t stop. I reach over her shoulders and grip the edge of the couch, fucking her into the cushions, fucking her until she collapses completely and can do nothing but lay on her front, crumpled, moaning into the couch.
My cock is white with her come. She comes again and again. Each time she comes, her pussy goes tighter and I have to thrust harder to get deep. Soon, my cock is almost completely white. Fuck, the way the come squeezes between her ass cheeks is getting to me. Fuck, the way she bounces, the way she moans, the way her hands claw at the cushions as if they have a life of their own.
I wrap a hand around her belly and lift her up, lift her face free of the couch so I can hear her moans.
Then I lean into her ear.
“Beg me to fucking come in you!” I growl. “Fucking beg me!”
“Oh, please come inside of me,” she cries. “Please, p-p-please come in m-me! Ah, fuck, please—”
I slide my hand down the front of her dress and find a nipple, squeeze it as I thrust. I’m not Killian anymore. Killian has gone. I’m just a beast, thrusting.
My cock is hot . . .
Wet . . .
She’s too sexy . . .
“Ahhhhh!” I roar, and thrust into her one last time.
I do it so hard that the couch tips forward, the back of it collapsing to the floor. Hope and I fall with it, rolling over, but the whole time my only mission is to stay inside of her. We land on the floor and I grip her breasts so fiercely I know there’ll be hand marks on it later.
Then, lying in a mess of limbs on the floor, I come inside my woman.
We lie on the floor in silence for a while, Hope in my arms, and then we both begin laughing.
Hope turns over and looks up at me with a devilish smile on her lips. “Wow,” she says, gesturing to the upturned couch. “I think I can safely say that was the most intense it’s ever been.”
“Yeah,” I agree, stroking her hair. “You’re a bombshell, pretty lady.”
“A bombshell? Is that a compliment?”
I grin. “I think so.”
She leans up and pecks me on the chin.
“Careful,” I tell her, “or you’ll get me going again.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.” She pecks me again.
“Yeah, but if we keep going, I won’t be able to break the news to you.”
She frowns. “The news?”
I leap to my feet so suddenly that Hope lets out a gasp. “What’s got into you?” she laughs.
I reach down, hook her under the armpits, and lift her to her feet. She loops her arms around my neck and sings out: “Woooooh!”
“You’re drunk.” I pinch her nose playfully.
“And you’re handsome, but you don’t hear me going on about it, do you?”
“Nowhere near enough,” I agree.
We stand opposite each other, naked. My eyes rove down her body. I have never seen a sexier woman. Even naked, sweaty and sticky from sex, Hope still manages to have class. To look alluring and sexy and hot and slutty and beautiful and pure all at the same damn time.
“So, then, what is this news?” she asks. “What’s so important you had to interrupt my nap on the floor?”
“Wait a sec.”
I go to my pants, reach inside, feel the box and remove my hand. Wrong pocket. Not yet. The note and then the box. I go into my other pocket and take out the folded up piece of paper. When I turn around, Hope is watching me curiously.
“You look worried,” I say.
“Terrified,” she says, but her eyes are twinkling in the mood lights. After Hope comes—especially when she comes a lot—her face seems brighter, livelier. Just looking at her whe
n she’s like this brings a smile to my face.
I go to her and unfold the note. When I hand it to her, she takes it with a shaking hand.
She scans over it quickly, her lips moving quicker and quicker as she scans the lines with more speed. Then her lips open wide in surprise.
“What?” she gasps. “Is this what I think it is?”
“The deed to the cabin!” I exclaim. “I bought it, Hope, and it’s in your name. I’ve already had the spare room turned into an art studio. But you can do whatever you want with it. Anything. You can make it into a home or you can burn it to the ground. It’s yours.”
