Chapter Eighteen
The entire church piled out. A melee of black leather. Hardly a scrap of anything other could be seen, and if it was there, it was lost in the sea of biker jackets. I had never seen so many people turn out for a funeral before, never mind that many dressed like they lived in bike leathers. The emblems on the back of the jackets added colour, but all of it was ominous. Red, white, gold. All strong colours that by themselves would have done nothing, but coupled with the corresponding pictures of skulls and demons and general images of death just gave the entire field of funeral goers the most sombre feel ever.
I hung back, watching the Northern Kings lead the rest of the guests towards the graveside, before following alongside the solemn, solo biker that didn’t seem to mix with any of the groups, almost as if he was cast out, unwelcome.
The ground under my feet quickly became wet, the heels of my Minolo Blaniks sinking with each step I took, gathering more and more clarts as I struggled to stay upright. I could have cried at the damage the mud was probably doing, working off the tip of a heel with each careful step. I should have worn boots, bought some wellies. But no. I’d put on my second-best pair of shoes for a fucking biker funeral.
In front of me, the procession stopped, a crowd gathering around the hole in the ground. The mud was slippery underneath me, countless footsteps over soggy grass and saturated ground, making the footing treacherous, particularly for heels. And that heel sunk. Fast. I teetered, losing my balance, keeling over to one side, my arms flailing, hands finding nothing to hold as air slipped through my fingers. The grip on my upper arm hurt, but it didn’t falter. Another arm scooping me around the waist and pulling me upright.
“Steady there, lass.” The accent was thick Geordie, but it was almost as if someone had rounded the vowels off a bit more, softened it. “Wouldn’t want Fury’s lass rolling around in that mud. Someone’s head would roll.”
“Fury’s lass?”
“Aye. Don’t take a genius to work it out.”
“What? How? I don’t even know you?” I stuttered pathetically.
“Knew it.” He smiled like he’d won a competition.
“I’m sorry, you are…?”
“Viking.”
“That’s your surname?”
“Everyone knows me as the Viking. Or V.” The man shrugged, an arrogant smile pulling at his lips.
“You’re one of these Northern Kings, then?”
The blond biker shook his head.
“No. I’m not one of them.” But he offered no further explanation. And no further words. Turning his head to watch the coffin lowered into the ground, his face passive, not emotionless, but no one emotion discernible.
“Nice to meet you, Heidi,” he blurted. “Gotta go.”
“What? It’s not finished.”
But he was metres away from me already, an unmarked black biker jacket moving further and further into the distance.
I watched him go, disappearing bit by bit, people moving around me as the rain fell again. A drizzle at first, intermittent heavier drops threatening us with the main event. The air had grown colder, the very first gusts of a wind whipping around my legs, driving the mizzle at me.
“Thank you for coming, doll,” his voice was the quietest I’d ever heard it. No commanding arrogance. No hint of any other undertones.
“I…err…you’re welcome. Fischer Family Funerals would like to offer their condolences.”
His lips pushed together, a flash of darkness across his face, but lifting as quickly as a passing cloud in gale force winds.
“It was a good funeral,” he murmured. “As funerals go.”
I squeezed the hand that lay at his side, his skin cold to the touch.
“They’re never easy, are they?”
“No doll, they’re not.”
I wanted to frown at him for the words he used. Tell him never to call me that again, but I bit my tongue, my eyes focused on his, at the sadness that swirled deep within them. He’d never shown me that before. Always the boyish charm, or pure unadulterated biker jerk. But right now, he was sad, and vulnerable, and the most handsome man I had ever set eyes on. Fuck.
The first engine started up. A gentle roar from where we stood. But suddenly they all started in unison, the collective of growling engines sending the roosting crows up into the air in panic.
“We’re going back to the clubhouse for the wake,” Fury half-shouted, raising his voice to battle with the deafening tone of the engines. “You should come.”
“No. Thank you. Lots of work to do.”
I smiled faintly. Fury’s face did nothing at all. Not the slightest flinch of a reaction. Instead, he nodded and turned away from me. And this time, I watched the badge on the back of the bike jacket. The three crowned skulls laughing defiantly at me as he left.
My heel sunk again, and I wobbled. But now I was alone in the middle of a graveyard, with no one to catch me. Sticking my arms out to the sides, I pulled carefully, releasing my heel and tiptoeing across the mud until I safely made the concrete beyond. The carpark was abandoned, the last car pulling out onto the road and the rumble of bikes completely gone. I needed to get back to work and there was no way I was walking even to the main road in these heels. I glanced down at the black patent leather, the edges now smeared with mud and strands of grass. Fuck.
Out in the carpark a pickup truck pulled in, the bench seats in the front filled with three big men. Gravediggers I assumed. But instead of getting out and heading to the side of a fresh grave, they sat staring at me. At the woman stood alone in a graveyard. My heart picked up speed, the low ache of nausea starting in my stomach. Somewhere in the distance an exhaust roared angrily and the hair on my arms prickled uncomfortably. I should have gone with fucking Fury.
Reaching into my handbag, I raked around the contents, feeling for my phone. It seemed to take ages to find it, buried under tissues, a hairbrush, makeup. My heart raced against my chest. The growl that had been in the distance grew. The men in the truck looked at each other, talking. The one closest to the passenger door bent forward like he was reaching for the door handle. I walked towards the exit, my heels clacking noisily on the concrete. I couldn’t run in these. They’d have to come off.
The growl became a roar, loud and angry, and urgent. The motorbike cruised round the corner, through the church gates, black and polished, shining even in the dull grey and the threat of rain. From behind me the truck moved, turning in a circle but almost skimming my side as it passed between me and the biker in front of me and then speeding away in a squeal of tyres and puff of dark exhaust smoke.
In front of me, the biker removed his helmet, dark hair falling loose around his shoulders. I’d never felt so relieved to see those dark eyes and carefully trimmed beard. My heart was still hammering against my ribs as I moved towards him, where he sat astride the big bike, with a ridiculous amount of polished chrome I’d ever seen.
“You ok, Heidi?” He asked, his voice filled with concern.
“Shut the fuck up and kiss me.” I needed a distraction and quickly, something to take the fear from my body and replace it with something else, anything else.
Fury didn’t need me to ask twice, letting the bike fall onto the stand as he dismounted, his fingers closing round my waist, gripping almost painfully as he pulled me towards him. Our lips met, his hot against mine. He didn’t wait. There was nothing tentative about how he kissed me this time, his tongue forcing into my mouth. Fury’s hand pulled in my hair, tangling in the loose strands as he brought me closer still, so that our bodies pushed together, his leather cold against me. I fought back, my tongue meeting his in a hungry battle of lust and need, and whatever the fuck this was in the deserted grounds of the church.
A hand plucked at the buttons of my suit jacket, untucking the white shirt underneath, sliding up over the skin of my stomach, cold fingertips sending my body into a shiver, and releasing an uncontrolled gasp into his mouth. Fury growled, the low vibration coming from the back of his throat, through his tongue, my body clenching and my stomach leaping. The same hand travelled upwards, over the top of my breast. At first it was gentle, waiting for me to complain, and when I didn’t, his fingers moved, tucking under the wire, his hand on my bare flesh now. I needed to clench my legs together, to take back some control, but his leather clad thick thigh was between mine, and there was no way to brace myself, to slow the burn creeping through my body. His fingers swirled over my nipple, my body convulsing like it had been hit with an electric shock, and he kissed me harder, his fingers moving quicker, nipping and pulling and swirling. A flood of wetness pooled between my legs, and I tried to pull back from the taunt of his lips and the scratch of his beard, but the slightest movement away from him and his hand tightened in my hair, tiny pricks of delicious pain prickling in my scalp. I gasped again, and I felt his lips move into a smile, his tongue stilling slightly from where it invaded my mouth.
The hand that had been on my breast moved now, tracing down my stomach, my flesh shivering in its wake. It left contact with my skin, Fury dipping slightly and then I felt the tug on my skirt, the pull of fabric against my thigh, the rip of the thin tights and the tease of fingertips on the inside of my leg. A thick, rough finger slid over me. My body shook suddenly, and Fury’s lips stilled, his tongue pulling away from mine, and I could feel a great big grin on his face.
“Doll, you’re so fucking wet,” he spoke against my face, his beard scratching as his lips pulled into words.
The finger pushed against me, sliding across my pussy once, twice. Fuck. It entered suddenly, roughly, and I yelled, clenching my legs and my insides around him. Fuck. He stilled a moment, pulling my head back with that fist full of my hair, his eyes focused on mine, before slowly gliding that finger back out. And then more pressure, another one, thick and calloused, sinking into me, slowly prising me apart.
“You’re gonna want to open those legs for me, doll.” His voice was strained, laced with tension as thick as the fingers that moved inside me, swirling and exploring, turning and twisting, and thrusting.
Everything inside me was smouldering with thick, heavy heat, and I was certain I was dripping round him at the assault on my pussy, at the fingers that twisted and primed me. I bit down on my lip, closing my eyes, willing my mind to stay in control. Fury twisted sharply, crooking the tops of his fingers, hitting me suddenly in that spot. I jumped, a bolt of pressure radiating through my pussy and up past my cervix. I think I gasped, or maybe I yelled.
“Oh, doll. I’m going to fuck you so hard that you’re gonna make enough noise to wake the dead.” Fury twisted the hand in my hair.
“Not here, Fury.” The words almost choked me, tumbling out in a clumsy sentence.
“Yes, here.”
He yanked his hand free, spinning me so suddenly I felt like I had a sudden bout of vertigo. He pulled my hands forward, placing them on the leather seat of the bike, kicking my legs as far apart as my skirt would allow.
“We’re in the middle of a fucking church carpark,” I complained, the words coming out in breathy wisps as he pulled my skirt up, cold air rushing to fill the space.
“No one will see us. And anyone who does will turn a blind eye.”
There was a gentle grinding of metal, a zip pulled down. A hand grasping at the back of my neck. He fumbled for a moment, and then I felt him against me, the tip of his cock sliding against the entrance to my pussy. Gripping my neck harder, he bent towards me, his voice a tumble of low, gravelly words.
“Now’s a really good time to tell me to fuck off, babe.”
And that’s what I should have done. Tell him to take his hands off me, to roll my skirt back down, to leave me alone in the church carpark. But that control was gone, a pulsing need resonating through my entire body. I tried to shake my head but the hand on the back of it, forcing my face towards the seat of his bike, was too strong.
“Fuck me,” I whispered.
“You got it, doll.”
Fury thrust forward, not giving me time to coat his cock with my juices, or slowly work out his size, or be prepared for anything. I shouted, his shaft forcing me apart, the head hitting straight against my cervix, every sensation assaulting me, and I didn’t know whether this was pain, or pleasure, or an orgasm all at once. My legs shook, threatening me with collapse at the first thrusts. But now he pulled back, carefully, painstakingly slowly, so that I felt every ripple of my insides slipping back to the way they had been a few seconds earlier. My body confused.
From behind me he let out a long breath, his other hand moving to my hips, taking up position, his fingers curling into my flesh, and I gasped again.
“Fuck,” he whispered into the air around us.
And then he slammed forward again, as hard as the first time, his fingers digging into my flesh, pulling my hips towards him as he impaled me from behind and now, I squealed, involuntarily and pathetic, his cock tearing through my pussy flesh, sending a bolt racing through me, like an electric shock from within. Now he moved faster, pumping in and out, his movements urgent, each thrust hitting me hard, abusing my inner flesh, and I was in danger of my pussy being set alight.
I murmured something, a garbled word that even I didn’t understand. The tension in my body ricocheting off every bone, every nerve.
“Fuck,” I cursed, Fury’s cock punishing me, unable to lift my chest from where I was pinned against the seat of his motorbike.
“You coming, doll?”
“Maybe. Soon,” I gasped with each movement of his dick inside me, his rhythm changing every few strokes, nothing for me to focus on but molten pleasure coursing through my veins. “Fuck,” I cursed again, clenching my insides around the cock that was torturing me, fucking me in the open air of the church carpark.
We could be caught at any minute, any second, and the fear of that brought me closer still. The thought of someone driving in and watching me being fucked over a motorbike. Shit, now I was coming, my whole-body tensing. Fuck.