Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Michael was working late again. Nights like that, when the sun set and the sky darkened and he still wasn’t home, I knew sex would be the last thing on his mind. A well-deserved beer and kicking his feet up would be his first priority, as it should be.
I grabbed a new book off the table as I headed to my bedroom. Excitement rose with each padded footstep. My body knew what was coming. The aching desire to disappear into a new world with no job, meals to cook, or a house to clean . . . it was like an addiction. And I needed my fix.
I slipped beneath the white down comforter on the bed I’d made that morning.
It was cold at first and would remain that way until my body heat warmed it up, and I planned on turning that heat way up.
I propped up the pillows and scooted back against them.
The book lay on the bed beside me, and the cover drew me in immediately.
A mouth-watering bearded man stood beside a motorcycle and looked menacingly back at me as if he were looking through me.
Tattoos covered his body, and a scar ran down his cheek.
He looked angry, but once my eyes found his bulging muscles beneath his t-shirt, I didn’t care.
It’d been a while since I’d read a dark motorcycle-gang story, and I was more than ready to slip into this world.
I prepared myself for the grungy, rough-and-tumble attitude of a gang of bikers.
It wouldn’t involve sweet lovemaking, and I was more than okay with that.
The story sucked me into an unfamiliar yet tantalizing environment where everything had different meanings and the people had a customary way of doing and saying things.
I could envision the club’s president, his leather cut resting over a black t-shirt.
Harsh. Intolerable. Rough. I could imagine his son, who the author described as selfish but kind.
She detailed these men in an artistic way, and I wanted all of it.
The more I read, the more wet I became. It was just dirty enough, with a touch of violence. Beautiful violence.
I looked at the clock on my phone, making sure Michael wouldn’t be home for a while longer. I slipped off my leggings and tossed them on the floor beside the bed. I rubbed myself through my panties, letting the soft material create friction against my touch as the harsh MC world engulfed me.
Loud music blared through the large modern clubhouse, and a wraparound bar greeted us the moment the club president and I walked in.
Several men in cuts turned to look at me before greeting the president with nods of recognition and respect.
High-top tables were scattered throughout, their worn wooden surfaces resting atop rusty posts attached to dirty bases.
Girls in short skirts bent over the pool table and pretended to play while men stood around chugging beers and tugging on their leather jackets.
One of the men slid his hand up a girl’s skirt and played with her as if they weren’t surrounded by a crowd of people.
A motorcycle stood on a platform on the other side of the room, and framed photos of bikes and their owners lined the walls.
In the pictures, the members were standing beside their bikes or straddling the seats, sometimes with a woman, but usually alone.
The bartender slid a beer over the bar top and into the grasp of the man beside me—the club president.
Amber liquid sloshed over the sides of the glass, and he rubbed his graying blond beard before chugging his drink.
I looked up at him. He had nearly two feet of height on me, and he was as muscled as he was tall.
An aged scar decorated his cheek, adding to his allure and conjuring images of a vicious brawl where he alone emerged victorious.
“Who’s this?” the bartender asked with a throaty voice, as if she was born smoking a cigarette.
“A bike whore,” he said. He looked down at me with menacing brown eyes and a wicked grin.
The words should have hurt my feelings, but that was precisely what I wanted to be, even if I wasn’t entirely sure I could handle it. I flashed him an unsure smile. It was too late to get cold feet now. I rubbed my hand down my leather skirt to soothe my nerves.
The woman cleared her throat and nodded as she passed a cold bottle of beer to me.
I didn’t open it. I wanted to be sure I remembered every dirty detail of whatever happened next.
As the icy glass chilled my fingers, the president guided me down a wide set of wooden stairs and brought me into a finished basement.
I looked around with wide eyes as the small group of men froze at the sight of me.
One stopped mid-stroke with his pool stick.
Another paused with a drink just below his lips.
The president sat on an overstuffed couch in front of a huge TV that nearly took up half the wall.
He pulled me onto his lap, and I rushed to pull my skirt down as I fell into him.
“J, who you got there?” asked a man leaning against a red wall covered in patches.
“This? She’s a bike whore. Couldn’t wait to hop on,” J said in a gritty voice. “What’s your name again, angel?”
“Zoey,” I said without a fiber of confidence inside me.
“Can’t hear you,” called the man against the wall.
“Zoey,” I said louder.
J’s hand rubbed down my back and grabbed my ass in a bruising grip. My cheeks flushed. I loved bikers but that was the first time I’d ever been to a clubhouse. I’d fucked a biker before, but never on his turf. I swam in the warm pool of excitement, ready to get yanked below the surface.
J rubbed his beard, brushing the scraggly hairs down. I watched his arms as they wrapped around my waist. Faded tattoos covered them, but one caught my eye—a red heart with the name Roxy scrawled inside.
“Is that your old lady?” I asked as I pointed to the name. The men roared with laughter.
“That’s his bike,” said the younger man playing pool. He dropped the pool stick onto the table and walked toward us. He pulled a bandana from his neck onto his head, pushing his long, dark hair out of his face. “Ain’t it, J? He never loved my mother the way he loved that bike.”
“Fuck off, son.” J flipped him off, then nodded to me. “This is Sonny.”
Clever.
Sonny flopped onto the couch, leaned back, and rested his head on his hands.
My eyes roved over him, scrutinizing him.
A short, dark beard blanketed his jaw, and eyes as black as leather looked back at me.
His tight white t-shirt rode up his abdomen, exposing his fit stomach and the happy trail wandering below the waistband of his jeans.
“Where’d you get her from?” Sonny asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Don’t matter where I got her from.” He released a low moan as he rubbed his large hand up my thigh. “All that matters is that she's here for us to use.”
“No shit?” Sonny said with a smile. “All of us?”
I bit my lip and nodded. I wanted each one of them inside me.
“She doesn’t look like she can handle much.” J brushed back my hair and gripped my neck. “But I’ll make sure she takes what she can.”
“Bear!” Sonny called out, peering around the clubhouse basement.
“Yeah?” asked a deep voice from around a corner. As he entered the room, I expected a big man like J, but Bear was a short, muscular bald man.
“She’s going to let us all have a turn with her,” Sonny said with a smirk.
Bear rubbed his hands together. “Is that so?”
“Why do they call you Bear?” I asked.
Bear laughed. “Because I can’t grow hair for shit. My face is as smooth as a woman’s ass.” It was true.
Sonny and Bear both had such young faces. Even with the beard covering Sonny’s chin, they both looked much sweeter and less hardened than J. But looks could be deceiving, and I knew they wouldn’t be sweet or gentle lovers.
Bear turned back toward the room he’d come from and shouted for someone else. “Shotgun!”
Another man came from the other room, twisting his mustache between his fingers as he walked closer. He was slightly older and wore a bandana around his neck. “What’s up?”
“We’re going to have quite the time tonight, brother.” Sonny gestured toward me. Heat painted my cheeks.
Shotgun brushed his hand through his short blond hair.
“Why do they call you shotgun? Is it because you're afraid of guns?” I asked with a playful smile.
Shotgun was much more serious as he shook his head and retrieved his shotgun from the other room. I tensed at the sight of it. He pulled shells from the side saddle and loaded the gun.
“It’s a Holland & Holland custom with an engraved receiver.
” He stroked it with a loving hand. “My baby.” His muscular arms flexed as he handled his weapon and erotically rubbed the cool metal with a big, strong hand.
Shotgun, much like J, was grungy and big bodied, intimidating as the cords of his muscles flexed with something he wanted within his grasp. Me and that gun.
“When are we doing this?” Sonny asked, rubbing his hand up my other thigh.
“Not till I’m done with her,” J quipped.
He gripped my ass before pushing me off his lap and dropping me onto the couch.
With a big stretch and a cocky grin, he stood and reached for the chain attached to his belt loop.
His jeans splayed open as he unfastened the belt, and he tugged his boxers down, placing his cock in front of my face.
“Come on, angel, you know what I want you to do.” He reached out and grabbed my chin, running a rough thumb across my lips.
“Right here? In front of everyone?” My jaw went slack.
“What did you think? We all want to see or feel that pretty mouth of yours.”
“Don’t forget that sweet pussy,” Sonny said with a focused stare as he leaned over and reached up my skirt.
“Get up,” J said, more commanding that time.