Chapter 2 #2
I can't even fight it as I look back at our friend and Phoebe tugs us toward the bar. Close enough to keep an eye out, but enough space to give them privacy.
“Are you insane?” I growl at Phoebe, who shoves a shot of something into my chest.
“No, but you might be,” she laughs, clinking our glasses together to take the shot.
I follow… because we don't waste.
“He's a fucking asshole.” I narrow my eyes at her as another shot is poured.
“That's the international president of Woodsmen MC.”
I stare at her, the room shifting. “I feel like you want me to be impressed? Horny?”
She slaps me with a laugh. “Scared! Idiot. I want you to be scared! These guys? They're not like the ones here. The ones you grew up with. The ones who allow you to throw your sass around!” I see where she's going but I still don't like it. “Yana knows that. You need to learn it.”
I also need another drink.
I shoot my shot. “Okay! Fine.”
Nettie, the new girl who has been hanging around but isn't a club girl or an old lady, pulls out a chair, and I slide a shot to her.
Nettie laughs, shaking her head. “No, thanks.”
“Oh, come on...” I tease, liquid courage making me bolder.
“I'm at a biker party. There's no way I'm getting shitfaced.”
I pull my offer back as if she'd slapped me. “Hey, Judge Judy.” I click my tongue. “These bikers are a lot of things, but trust me, you're safe from rapists here.”
“Don't be so quick to say that,” a low voice growls as a body brushes past.
My eyes narrow as he looks back over a massive shoulder, a dimple appearing in his smirk. He was beside Beast outside. His black and white baseball cap sits backwards on his head, a white shirt beneath his cut that has “Woodsmen” across the top and “Aotearoa” curved along the bottom.
He re-joins a table of his brothers, eyes finding mine as he lifts a whiskey bottle to his lips, a smile curving around the rim.
“Okay. I'm drunk,” I say to Phoebe, without breaking eye-contact.
She sighs. “Okay. Which one?” she asks, following my gaze before bursting into laughter. “Nope, definitely not, Melissa.”
“You don't even know who I was referring to!” I argue, the words slurring. Gross. I am drunk.
“I don't have to!” She counts off on her fingers.
“It won't be Hannibal. You don't do beards.
It won't be Ripper, since he looks too boyish for you, though I can assure you, there's nothing boyish about him.
There's a reason he's called Ripper, and it has a lot to do with his namesake, organ removal and all.
Frost isn't your type. You like men with at least a bit of.
. humanity. And Nyx is too friendly; you'd friend-zone him faster than I could count to three.” She pauses dramatically. “So that leaves Hella.”
She takes a long pull, watching my reaction. My mouth falls open before I snap it shut. She points, laughing. “Your face! I wish I had my phone.”
“We've been friends too long.”
Hours later, the trees around the property start doing the fucking rumba as I push away from the table.
My legs have their own agenda as I stagger toward the garage where broken bikes go to be resurrected.
I round the corner only to slam face-first into what feels like a concrete wall wrapped in human skin.
“Shit, sorry,” I slur, catching myself. He turns, thick fingers still working his zipper.
He laughs, and it slams into me—deep, dangerous. Cut tailored just loose enough to hide what’s underneath. Darkness doesn’t just cling to him; it waits.
From across the room? Hot. Now? A weapon with a pulse.
He tilts a bottle of whiskey back for a long pull, and his chin lifts slightly, those ice-blue eyes sizing me up like I'm prey. “What's your name?”
I arch a brow, trying to look unimpressed despite the heat crawling up my neck. “Melissa. Should I ask what yours is?” Tattoos map his body like a road to hell, his eyes the kind of blue that's burned cities to the ground. That crooked grin could make a nun question her life choices.
He moves, closing the distance between us without taking a step.
The bonfire's light dances across his jaw, all sharp angles, and brutal beauty.
I retreat until cold concrete stops my escape.
His arms cage me, massive hands splayed on either side of my head.
The scent of leather, whiskey, and raw masculinity wraps around me like a vise.
“Well, considering you're gonna be screaming it in about five fucking minutes? Yeah, I'd say you should ask.” His voice is gravel and thunder, the kind that vibrates straight through to your core.
His lips hover close enough that I can taste the whiskey on his breath.
“Cocky much?” I challenge, squaring my shoulders even as liquid heat pools between my thighs. “Please don't tell me that shitty line works on all your poor victims.”
He chuckles, slipping his thigh between mine. Alcohol courses through my veins. My birthday. My fucking birthday. Should be a pass right? Fuck a biker, save a villain?
“Dunno,” he growls over my lips with a smirk. Knuckles graze my belly as he flicks off my button. “I'll reach inside and find out.”
I open my mouth to say something back, but kiss him.
Hard. There's nothing gentle about it, all invasion and ownership, his tongue demanding surrender.
My hands fly up in surprise before digging into his shoulders, my brain giving up any rational thought.
He pulls back, those blue eyes search mine, amused and teasing.
His hands grip my thighs, lifting me off the ground.
My legs wrap around his waist like they've found their home.
With one quick tug, my strapless dress gives way, my tits spilling free.
The night air barely has time to touch my skin before his mouth closes over one nipple, that fucking pierced tongue circling the sensitive bud.
His teeth clamp down, just shy of painful, and I gasp as pleasure shoots through me.
One massive hand keeps me pinned to the wall while the other hooks beneath my panties, calloused fingers finding me embarrassingly wet. He drops to his knees on the unforgiving concrete, hiking my leg over his shoulder and shoving my underwear aside with an impatience that makes me throb.
His tongue plunges into me like a man denied his last meal, wringing a guttural sound from my throat. The crack of his palm against my ass cuts the noise short, leaving nothing but the throb of skin and the wet heat of his mouth.
“Shut that pretty mouth,” he growls over my thigh, the words rumbling through me. “Unless you're looking to put on a show.”
No hesitation. No mercy. His tongue spears deep while his fingers hook inside me, working some dark rhythm that has my knees shaking.
Then cold glass glides down my spine—the neck of his whiskey bottle tracing fire and ice along my skin before settling against my clit.
The contrast alone almost sends me over the edge again, my nerves screaming at the sudden shift.
Whiskey spills across my flesh, burning and cooling at once. His tongue follows the trail, lapping at me like I'm the fucking bottle.
With every flick of his tongue, my hips ride into him and the distant thump of party music drowns under the rush.
His tongue presses flat against my clit while a thick finger hooks deep, hitting that perfect place that turns my sight to haze.
Release crashes through me, vivid bursts flaring behind closed eyes as my spine bows sharp.
My fingers twist into his hair as his own tighten around my thighs, holding me upright through the aftershocks.
I'm gasping, trembling, but he doesn't let go until I'm a boneless, breathless mess.
Finally, he rises, his lips glistening with my arousal, that fucking smirk firmly in place. He licks his lips deliberately, making sure I watch every stroke of his tongue.
“You taste even better than you look,” he says, his voice dropping to something barely human. His hands grip my waist, spinning me to face the wall. The concrete scrapes my palms as I brace myself. He kicks my legs apart with his boot.
The clink of his belt buckle is the only warning I get. Anticipation coils tight in my belly as I hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper. His heat presses against my back, his breath hot on my ear.
“You ready for me, princess?” The arrogance in his voice should piss me off, but instead, it sends another wave of heat between my thighs. I can't form words, or breathe, as his hand slides up my spine and tangles in my hair.
He pulls back, exposing my throat. His teeth graze the sensitive skin there, a sharp nip making me gasp. “I'll take that as a yes,” he murmurs, triumph evident.
The sound of his zipper makes me press back against him, seeking the friction I suddenly can't live without. His chuckle vibrates through me as his hand grips my hip with bruising force.
He drags the thick crown of his cock through my wetness, pressing just enough to make me gasp before pulling back.
My nails scrape against plaster, leaving white crescents in the paint while my breath comes in broken sobs.
“Please,” I beg, barely recognizing my voice.
“Please what?” he taunts, tightening his grip on my hair.
“Please, fuck me,” I plead, past caring about anything but the emptiness I need him to fill.
He rewards me with a growl of approval before driving into me with one brutal thrust. I cry out, my body stretching around him, pain and pleasure melding into something transcendent.
“The name's Hella,” he growls against my ear, his hips slamming into mine with enough force to shove me against the wall. “Fucking remember it.”
His pace is relentless, each pounding stroke hitting deeper than the last. The sound of skin against skin echoes in the garage, mixing with my breathless moans and his grunted curses.
My nails rake down the wall as he splits me open and rebuilds me around him. Nothing soft exists between us—only this violent hunger that demands we consume each other whole.
His hand snakes around to find my clit, circling with ruthless precision. My second orgasm crashes through me like a wrecking ball, tearing a scream from my throat that he silences with his palm over my mouth.
“Fuck,” he grunts, his rhythm faltering as he follows me over the edge with a final, brutal thrust. For one suspended moment, we're frozen together, our ragged breathing the only sound besides the distant echo of the party.
Then he pulls out, leaving me empty and shaking. I turn to face him on wobbly legs, watching as he ties off the condom and tucks himself back into his jeans. With my dress bunched around my waist, and my underwear hanging uselessly from one ankle, I fumble to pull myself together.
Jesus. Dignity? What dignity.
He looks me up and down. “What's your name again?”
I inhale; the scent of sex and leather heavy in the air. “Melissa.”
Those blue eyes flash with amusement. “Aren't you a little underdressed to be a club slut?”
My mouth drops open. “What...” But he disappears through the night. Mother fucker!
I sure know how to pick them.
"Fuck it." I brush my shoulders off and return to the party, burying the hurt beneath another layer of armour. Men take what they want. Always have. This is nothing new.
Just another scar to join my collection.
My feet drag toward the clubhouse. The trees sway overhead, branches moving in the breeze.
My phone buzzes in my pocket just as I reach the clubhouse's massive doors. I fish it out, stumbling as I step away from the noise spilling through the entrance. The screen glows with an unfamiliar number.
"Hello?" I press a finger against my other ear.
"Ms. Melissa Hart? This is Richard Donovan from Pacific West Partners."
I lean against the wall, feeling the cool wood through my dress. The ache between my thighs does nothing to numb the fact that I just fucked a nameless biker.
I shift my weight, wincing. “Yes, this is she.”
“I apologize for calling at this hour, but I'm flying out tomorrow morning and wanted to reach you personally. We've been following your bakery's growth trajectory, and I'd like to discuss a potential investment opportunity.”
Something crashes inside the clubhouse, glass shattering against the floor.
My body twitches, heartbeat spiking. The sudden reaction annoys me. I'm not as drunk as I thought.
“Ms. Hart? Are you still there?”
“Yes, sorry. You mentioned an investment?” I answer, annoyed with my current state.
“We're looking to fund expansions for promising local businesses. Cyanide & Sugar has shown growth, and we believe you're ready to scale. We'd provide capital for a second location, equipment upgrades, and marketing support.”
“That's... wow.”
“The agreement would require a minimum two-year commitment from you as managing partner. We'd need to discuss specifics, but we're thinking in the range of $300,000.”
I move further from the party noise. Three hundred thousand dollars.
“I've been worried about keeping my staff fully employed during the slower seasons,” I admit. “This could solve that problem.”
“Precisely. Your retention rates are impressive. We see potential for a small chain if the second location performs well.”
A chain of bakeries. My own little empire of sugar and butter.
“I'd love to meet and discuss this further,” I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. “When works for you?”
We set a meeting for next week. After hanging up, I stand still in the darkness, the party's bass thumping in the distance while my mind races with possibilities. The pain between my legs seems insignificant now compared to what might be coming.
A future I can plan for.