Chapter 1 #2
As if he could sense my confusion, after he sucked the juice out of his lime, he tossed it over his shoulder, leaned against the elbow he had propped on the table and asked, “Wanna fuck?”
A smirk curled the corner of my mouth as I freed a clipped laugh.
It was the dress. I couldn’t explain it any other way.
I lived in cotton tee-shirts and denim. I wore just enough makeup to fill my tip-jar, and I let my long, red, curly-wavy hair hang loose and untamed because to hell with a flatiron. But that night—drunk, in a dress, and out from behind the bar—Twister thought he saw the woman in me.
I propped myself against my own elbow, leaned in close, and muttered, “You don’t wanna fuck me, brown-eyes.”
“Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t want to,” he countered.
I couldn’t say for sure, but it might have been possible that last shot of tequila woke my libido. Suddenly, Twister’s gaze left me tempted. But the knife on my hip wasn’t the only reason why I hadn’t bedded a Stallion. I’d been scratching that itch one way and one way only for years now.
“Too bad for you, I only fuck men who’re down for a ride,” I told him. “And you don’t strike me as the docile type, Stallion.”
He grinned, revealing a set of perfect teeth as his thick mustache spread wide across his upper lip. He leaned closer still, and all at once, the tequila wasn’t the only thing going to my head.
Cedar. Amber. Leather.
I breathed him in as he said, “Baby, you wanna ride, I’ll be your Stallion. Just say the word.”
Six years I’d known this man.
Never once had I thought about putting him inside of me.
I fucked strangers. I fucked men with half his muscle mass and even less prowess. It had been nearly a decade since I even thought about riding someone as handsome or formidable as him. Men like Twister wanted control—control I was unwilling to relinquish.
Except, I couldn’t help but to consider it.
One night with a real man.
One night with a Stallion.
We both knew that’s all it would be. We were drinking, not bonding.
I didn’t know any more about him than he knew about me.
So far as I was concerned, the only real reason we were sitting next to each other was because we were two single people at a wedding we didn’t want to be at.
The next day, I’d put my denim back on, I’d return to my post, and I’d be nothing more than the bar wench with the knife on her hip.
He would go on being the VP of the Wild Stallions Motorcycle Club and the manager at Horsepower Auto-Supply.
But until then—I couldn’t deny he was offering me a chance.
He was offering me one night to pretend.
Pretend a man like him could want a woman like me.
And I was too drunk to say no.
“Fine,” I said—the word coming out as if I we’d agreed to a challenge. “Saddle up, brown-eyes. I’m ready to ride.”
He was grinning again as he stood without preamble. I grabbed my little purse, looped the strap over my shoulder, and followed him out of the reception hall.
The cool, night breeze felt good against my skin as we stepped outdoors.
I breathed in a lungful of fresh air, hoping it might help clear my head a little.
It didn’t do much, but I didn’t have any trouble maneuvering my way across the gravel landscape.
I might have felt uncomfortable in a dress, but my Doc Marten’s were almost a part of me.
Twister’s rental cabin was just as neat and pretty as the barn. Aside from the black furniture, the sleek décor didn’t remind me of Twister at all.
This was good. This heightened the fantastical nature of what was about to happen. Here, in the A-frame, we were outside of reality.
“Might have some beer in the fridge from earlier,” he offered, tossing the door key onto the empty kitchen counter.
I discarded my purse there, but I didn’t stop for a beverage. “You promised me a ride, not a drink,” I reminded him, headed for the hallway. “Bedroom?”
I didn’t look to confirm, but I thought I heard his smile as he drawled, “Second door on the left.”
When I crossed the threshold, I switched on the light, revealing a bed with a black frame and white linens. As I reached the foot of it, I turned just as Twister strutted into the room.
“I assume you have a condom.”
“Sure do.”
I held out my hand, palm up, silently insisting he hand it over.
If I wasn’t intoxicated, I might have been annoyed by the laughter I saw gleaming in his eyes as he reached for his wallet and extracted the rubber. The tequila tricked me into thinking his amusement made those brown eyes warmer and softer, somehow—and I liked it.
He placed the condom in my hand, and I closed my fingers around it before I began hiking up my dress.
“I’m on top,” I informed him as I began to shimmy my way out of my panties. “Keep your clothes on, don’t keep your clothes on, I don’t really care—just as long as your dick is out.”
“ Damn , baby,” he muttered, his tone still laced with amusement. “Patch on my kutte and the ink on my arm identifies me as a Stallion; but you’re startin’ to make me feel like chattel.”
I coaxed my boots through the leg-holes of my underwear, dropping the garment carelessly on the floor before I straightened and met his eyes once more.
“Look, I don’t need a bunch of foreplay. Are you lookin’ to get your dick wet or not?”
He grinned, chuckled, then shrugged his way out of his kutte.
I waited while he tossed his vest toward the head of the bed and watched as he slipped out of the button-up he wore.
He let it fall to the floor, exposing the ink that covered his biceps.
When he crossed his arms and reached for the hem of his tank before peeling it away from his torso, my sex clenched in anticipation.
I told him I didn’t care whether or not he kept his clothes on—but I was pretty glad he decided to bear his chest.
There was no argument against it.
From the waist up, he was magnificent.
On his outer right bicep was his Stallion ink.
It was the same logo the rest of his brothers wore in black and gray, the horse skull depicted as if made of metal; its mane a blaze of fire.
On the inside of his right forearm was a colorful sugar skull surrounded by a bunch of blooming red roses—roses that wrapped around and covered the back of his forearm, as well.
Circling his wrist was an inked barbed wire bracelet that dangled onto his hand.
On his left bicep was a menacing spartan soldier in black and gray with splatters of red blood across his armor.
Inside Twister’s arm was a cowboy, his head bowed, each of his hands holding a smoking gun.
On his forearm was his signature. All the way around, depicted in black and gray, was a storm scene with lightening bursting from the clouds.
Amongst the trees that seemed to grow from his wrists was a tornado, destroying everything in its wake.
On the back of his hand was the engine of a motorcycle.
All of these I’d seen glimpses of before.
It was the eagle which I’d never seen. It spanned the width of his sculpted chest, its open wings grazing each of Twister’s shoulders. The bird was as formidable as it was beautiful—much like the wall of muscle that was Twister’s torso.
One night with a real man.
One night with a Stallion.
He unfastened the button at the top of his pants, lowered the zipper, and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of both his chinos and his underwear.
He shoved them halfway down his thighs, revealing yet another tattoo.
His right thigh was adorned with a black and gray cow skull—decorative, colorful feathers hanging from its horns.
Twister sat on the edge of the bed and leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Dick’s out, Phoenix. What now?”
Anxious for the ride I was certainly looking forward to, I didn’t hesitate.
I placed the condom in reaching distance on the bed, then gathered my skirt around my waist and crawled on top of him. He immediately sat up and reached for me—but I batted his hands away and shoved at his chest.
“I got this,” I told him.
“Okay,” he said with a smirk.
This time, when he leaned back, he folded his arms underneath his head and stared at me, his laughter still evident in his gaze.
I ignored it and got to work.
He’d already begun to harden; but as I took him in my hand, and he continued to swell, the heat of anticipation made itself known in my belly. I wasn’t one for hand jobs, but the closer he got to fully erect, the more excited I became. It wasn’t long before I needed both hands to feel all of him.
He was big. Longer than I’d had in quite some time, and wider than I’d had ever.
One night with a real man.
One night with a Stallion.
“Don’t worry. It’ll fit.”
I peeked up at him from beneath my lashes and rolled my eyes in response to the arrogant smile I found tugging at his mouth.
“Who said anything about bein’ worried?”
I gave him a squeeze, eliciting a grunt, then let him go, anxious to feel him—to coax my own arousal with the promise of what I was about to take.
I dragged my sex back and forth across his, and I swear he got even harder. It only took a couple passes before the sound of my wet pussy coating his cock reached my ears. I moaned softly—the mewl slipping past my inebriated filter.
“Fuck,” muttered Twister.
He pulled his hands out from beneath his head, reaching for my waist. Even flat on his back, his grip made me agitated, pulling me out of the moment.
I stopped my hips, took hold of his wrists, and pulled him away from me.
“I told you—I got it.”
He held his hands up, as if in surrender, and I nodded before reaching for the condom. I ripped it open with my teeth, extracted it, then dropped the packaging on the floor before I grabbed hold of his length.
I stroked him a few times, unable to help myself. His warm, hard, velvety dick was seriously turning me on. Part of me wanted to ride him just like this—hot and bare—but I knew that was the tequila talking.
When the cadence of his breath made me impatient, I covered him with the rubber and lifted onto my knees.
I lined him up with my entrance, then took my time easing him inside of me. As I descended, I let my head fall back, too busy enjoying the way he stretched me open and filled me to capacity to concern myself with something as trivial as holding up my own head.
For a moment, I didn’t move—I just felt him.
Fuck .
One night with a real man.
“Phoenix—if you don’t move, I will,” warned Twister.
Slowly, I righted my head and inched forward, pressing my hands against his abs for support before I began to rock.
I eased my hips up as far as I could, and he was still inside of me. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it, and I whimpered as I sank my hips back down until I was all the way full. I repeated the act, luxuriating in all of Twister’s manhood until I was so turned on I felt desperate for more.
I picked up the pace, and I rode him.
I rode him hard.
He felt so good, and I got so lost, I didn’t know where I was.
With my eyes closed, my mouth agape, my throat the passageway through which an unsung melody of pleasure seemed to have been escaping, I took all I wanted and then some.
I couldn’t remember the last time a man made me so hot. If it didn’t mean breaking my stride, I would have taken my dress off—but I was going to come, and it was going to be bliss, and I wasn’t stopping.
Not for anything.
Not for anyone.
I was aware of Twister’s hands on my thighs—the fingers of one digging into the flesh below my blade while the other grazed from my knee to my ass as I rode. His palm cracked against my skin with a slap, and I was too high, too lost to be bothered.
Then he did it again—his fingers gripping hold of my ass cheek after the fact—and it was as if he’d smacked away whatever barrier was between me and my orgasm.
“Oh, fuck! Yes—yes— yes! ” I cried.
Pleasure rippled through me, and my body trembled as my sex strangled his engorged length. I was so gone, so consumed, I heard a ringing in my ears—as if my mind was calling me back to the here and now.
I barely even noticed when Twister sat up.
It wasn’t until his hand was wrapped around the front of my throat that my orgasmic fog began to dissipate.
Except, before I could begin to panic, his mouth was on mine.
And before I could pull away, the hand at the front of my throat circled around until it was at my nape, keeping me close.
And before I could gather the strength to press my palms against his chest and push him away, his tongue and a deep groan were sweeping through my mouth.
I didn’t know if it was the taste of his groan, or the warmth of his tongue; it could have been the haze of my explosive orgasm, or the poison of the tequila running through my veins—but one thing was for certain…
I hadn’t been kissed in ten years—and this kiss, with his beard scratching at my face, his dick still inside of me, and his fingers in my hair—it was delicious.
I kissed him back, my tongue battling with his, and I wondered if he could tell how out of practice I was. If he could, he didn’t seem to mind.
We kissed until I could barely breathe; until the muscles at my core began to relax; until Twister pulled away enough to look me in the eye and pant, “You got more in you, baby?”
It was then I realized I was wrapped in his arms. He loosened his hold around me, reaching down to grab hold of my ass before he forced my hips to move. My eyes widened at the reminder that he was still hard and filling me full.
I knew he noticed my reaction when he flashed a crooked smile and added, “This Stallion can go a few more miles.”
There was no point in fighting it.
If he wanted more, so did I.
I pressed my hands against his chest, shoving him onto his back.
He chuckled but didn’t resist, and I rode until we both unraveled.