Chapter 2
TWO
AUREO
Iwas surrounded by beautiful men and women.
Nearly everyone was dressed in some variation of biker leather—all the way from the patrons, to the strippers—dancing their way onto men’s laps.
If I were any other kind of guy, I would’ve probably been palming my dick right in front of everyone like every other male in here.
Instead, I really wanted a fucking nap. I was fucking exhausted.
It was pitiful, honestly. I never would have believed myself to be more bored from the sight of naked men and women, and yet here I was, practically dying.
While I loved working with the fellow men in the beloved Stormed Souls, escaping a shitty marriage and moving here to rekindle with the man who had once saved my life—I think I much preferred riding than babysitting.
I learned that lesson very early when I had to babysit the beautiful, albeit bratty and shy, Phoebe Evans. Only to catch her over the lap of an older man who knew nothing about how to properly make a woman tremble.
My dick twitched at the memory of her riding him—tits out of her lacy bralette, skirt thrown up for easy access. Her head was thrown back like she was in pleasure, and yet when she met my smirking face through the window, I knew it was an act right from the start.
Her pretty face could not have been more bored from the actions of that kid.
But the panic that grew in them when she realized I was watching her?
Bliss.
Even more so when she began to ride him harder, her pouty lips dropping into a real moan when I palmed myself as I watched the sho—Fuck.
No.
I had masturbated enough to the famous biker princess who pretended I didn’t exist, especially after that day. It was fucked up on so many levels, from her younger age to her being my best friend’s daughter—the best friend I practically owed my life to.
I had learned to quell all the urges regarding Ryker’s daughter. So the last thing I wanted was to get rock solid in this bar, of all places, and have one of Ryker’s girls grind against it.
A man only had so much control.
It would either end in a girl getting railed while I pictured Phoebe in her place, or a girl bruising her tailbone as I shoved her off of my lap for good.
I rolled my eyes and cringed at my thoughts. Most men in this club, fuck—in this town alone—knew the two W’s: whiskey and whores. Yet, here I sat, thinking about how badly I wanted to bury my cock into a girl who hated my very existence.
Don’t get me wrong; I was like other guys. I would’ve loved to get my dick wet with one of the pretty girls here. It would’ve been so easy to charm them into my bed and fuck them until the sun came up, until we collapsed in a heap of exhaustion, only to kick them out without another glance.
I just couldn’t. Not when Phoebe fucking Evans and the daydreams of her pretty lips around my dick entered my head. When the thoughts of her curves haunted my every wank. It felt like cheating, even though I’ve never had her in the first place.
Simply put, I was obsessed.
And I hated it.
Admittedly, I had stared appreciatively at quite a few corsets and other strappy tops tonight—I did have eyes, after all—but my dick continued to act like a sullen weeping willow or some shit.
So, if I had it my way, I would have been getting shitfaced in my own apartment, where I could’ve eaten as many corn dogs as I wanted, and then rubbed one out on my own accord with raunchy, likely morally unacceptable, porn.
The kind that porn that websites told me I was going to hell for searching up “illegal” activities.
It was the typical male’s dream.
But no. Instead, I had to park my ass on a fancy, red, leather couch, that had probably seen more semen than a fertility clinic, and watch other horny heathens in Crows Cavern nearly molest each other.
And I swore to whatever God ruled over me—if someone started having sex right next to me, I would lose my ever-loving mind.
It was illegal for strippers to fuck the patrons, sure, but it wasn’t illegal for two consensual parties to fuck however they wanted to fuck, even if under the employment of the meanest bastard in the state. Plus, they didn’t get paid for the fucking. Just for the near-orgasmic dances.
Everything always had a loophole.
I rested my cold beer against my head, forgoing all hard liquor in the stupor of restless anxiety crawling its way through my inside like a horde of ants, and breathed in deeply.
Just a few more hours.
“Yo!” I heard shouted from my left, making my head turn softly in the direction of Eros.
I winced slightly, both from the dull ache building through my skull and the sight of him sporting a black eye.
It was practically swollen shut. “What’s up, man?
What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?
Aren’t you supposed to be broodin’ at your own reflection until it turns into a puddle or somethin’?
You and that creepy fuckin’ skull mask.”
I huffed air out of my nose and crossed my arms petulantly. Even if the skull mask I wore on the bottom half of my face was starting to drive me crazy. “Ryker asks, you go. You know that. Plus, these masks are actually starting to grow on me.”
“Ah, that I do. Hate the fuckin’ masks, though.
Ryker making us wear them on duty will forever piss me off.
Bastard.” He strolled up to me, dressed in a combination of blue jeans and a black button-up, almost similar to my own outfit if it weren’t for my jeans being black and sporting rips at the knees.
He paused for a short second and stared at me as the neon lights nearly danced over the growing, wild beard on his face.
I watched as he blinked, twisting his mouth to the side in contemplation, only to promptly slump his ass directly next to mine.
Ah, to be part of a biker gang. If you’re not drinking, fucking, or riding, then you’re in someone else’s personal space.
Joy.
He continued. “Any of these fine women catching your eye?”
A smirk crawled up my lips. “What makes you think I’m staring at the girls?”
“Okay.” He paused, squinting at me for only a second before continuing. “Any of these fine, uh, humans catching your eye, then?”
“You never know, they could be vampires.”
He blinked owlishly at me and it was really hard to smother my laugh at that point. He looked almost as defeated as a child who just lost the quarter they were going to use for their favorite gumball machine. “I strongly dislike you sometimes.”
I huffed. “No, Gretchen Wieners, I am not finding anything eye-baiting, eye-catching, or eye-winning tonight. I am just a lonely man with a lonely beer. Do you feel better?”
“Yes, I do,” Eros grumbled, sipping a finger of scotch.
Where he obtained it in the few moments we sat down, I have no idea. Fucking wizard.
“What about that one?” he asked, nodding his head in the direction of the dance floor after a few moments.
I narrowed my eyes at him, utterly confused by the now evil smile that started to grow on his face.
If I were just slightly dumber, or drunker, I would’ve said that he looked thrilled.
For a man with a black eye and an extremely disheveled beard, it was quite a sight.
I turned in the direction of the dance floor, annoyance zapping my spine like a lightning rod. “I told you, man. Not ton—”
Turns out, he was only being a complete and utter dick, playing on my wildest fantasies.
My heart nearly stopped of its own accord, only to start back up with the beat of a thousand horse hooves in battle—or maybe even the sound of thirty-plus bikers, all riding together, zipping through the lines of our small town, with music loud and laughs louder.
She was dressed like most of the other women in this joint, with dark eyeshadow the color of midnight and her hair even darker. Dark wine color stained her lips, and fuck, if my cock didn’t instantly get harder at the thought of smearing her lip gloss in all the dirty ways I could think of.
My eyes raked down the rest of her. A leather pencil skirt that barely covered her ass, let alone her thick thighs, fit snug against her with a tucked top that matched her lips.
Like everyone else, she decided to mix the combination of leather and lace, dark red against her creamy, ink-stained skin.
The combination made her akin to a dark goddess; it was a wonder that I didn’t start drooling.
I knew those tattoos. All eight of them.
How cliche. Of all the nights I complained about my dick having the same attitude of Betty White attending a baptism ceremony, the girl who had haunted my every thought for the last six years decided to make an appearance tonight.
And at a shake joint, no-less.
The realization of that itself sprung my dick to life, right there.
I looked sideways at Eros, brow furrowing as I shot him the darkest glare I could muster. He choked on his laughter and scotch as I whispered a quick, “Fuck you,” and turned back to my girl.
My girl, I thought, humorously. Who doesn’t even know I’m in love with her.
She’s beautiful enough to swallow the confidence of everyone in the room, enough that both devil and angel rested on her shoulder with delight. And yet, a blush always marred her pale cheeks when anyone commented on it.
I couldn’t tell if that made her more beautiful or more frustrating.
I paused, squinting, trying to make sense of the plastic that covered her right arm as she swung her body to the beat of Bad Wolve’s Zombie.
Her feet, covered in the infamous studded boots we always heard click against the pavement when she was approaching, viciously stomped along with the beat of the drummer.
Because who didn’t want to stomp their feet to a song of military woe?
The club needed a new DJ.
It was only when she lifted her arms in the air, swinging them around her friend in a drunken stupor, that I finally realized what I was looking at. Make that nine.
I had another tattoo to memorize.
And I was going to add that to the top of my to-do list.
“And so,” Eros began again, “the princess taints herself in this story.”
“This story?” I asked dubiously, never taking my eyes off her swaying form. I placed my beer down on the ground, knowing full well someone would likely steal or break it, but I couldn’t find it in me to care. I couldn’t look away from her, let alone pay attention to anything in my hands.
Until it hit me full force.
What the fuck is she doing here?
“You know, the fairytale story everyone always talks about—shimmering gowns, kisses under the stars with Prince Charming, and whatever else modern romance whores fantasize about.”
A flush of annoyance jerked at me again.
No one would be kissing my princess, even if she was a rebellious little thing.
Not after I claimed her as mine for once and all.
I shook my head, resting my knuckles against my lips, and rasped, “That is the gayest shit I have ever heard. And you don’t know anything about modern fairytales.”
“First of all, even if I were in the homo of sexuals, it ain’t a bad thing. Stop using it like a negative connotation, fucker. Secondly, what, oh dear one, do you believe is a modern fairytale? All we know is tits, bits, and wits.”
I side-eyed him at the initial correction.
I mean, he was right, but it was very odd for such a large and brutal man to care about the connotation of words.
As the one who actually did have a dick or five in my mouth at some points in my life, the correction felt weird against my brain.
I secretly wondered if he had, too, but I supposed it was none of my business.
But on his point, I truthfully didn’t know the meaning of the modern fairytale. But the one thing I did know was how interesting my own fantasies were, yet how easily I managed to subdue them for the sake of other people’s wishes.
I was a respectful man. I didn’t spit on a girl’s face or bruise her ass…unless she asked.
It didn’t mean I didn’t think about it, though.
It didn’t mean that I wanted something…more.
And fuck, I thought about ruining my little princess more than I would ever admit.
“No,” I whispered as Phoebe's back grew tense, her entire body following. Her head cocked to the side as her feet stopped their insistent stomping.
She knew I was watching.
“But I do know that there is no such thing as Prince Charmings anymore. Not in this world.”
Eros whistled slowly, the sound low in his throat as he watched the girl who owned my sinful thoughts.
My heart sped up even more with lottery winning luck that I didn’t have a heart attack, only to nearly give out entirely when her hazy, drunken green eyes met my own.
Lights danced across her skin with hues of varied purple from the overhead lights, nearly swallowing her form.
My tongue dipped out to my bottom lip as I raked my gaze down the front of my little devil, down to the swollen peak of her tits, all the way to her narrow waistline, but wide hips, and finally to her thighs before slowly raising them again.
If a gothic Barbie existed, then she would’ve fit the bill perfectly.
“So, if there aren’t Prince Charmings, then what do princesses think about?” Eros whispered darkly, appreciating the gaze of sin incarnate in front of us.
I was going to give him another black eye if he didn’t fucking stop.
I tried to think of a response quick enough, but all coherent thoughts left me as Phoebe began striding toward me, a look of annoyance on her face.
Truth be told, I didn’t know.
But God, I hoped I found out. And I hoped, especially as my cock continued to brush behind my zipper for the first time that night—with her presence in front of me rather than in my own head as I fisted myself—that the beast inside my mind would finally get to play. Would finally get to claim.
I was tired of watching her from the shadows like she wasn’t already mine.
Consequences be damned.