Captive Ride (The Motorcycle Clubs)

by Ella Goode

  Cock-blocking? How about claiming what’s mine?

  “You know why. I’ve been waiting for you to give me the go-ahead, but you took too long. Time’s up.”

  My right hand—the one closest to her—lands on her thigh. She flinches but doesn’t move away.

  “Here’s your Stone IPA, sir.” The waitress sets the glass in front of me. “Your food will be here shortly.”

  “Thanks.” I pick it up with my free hand and take a deep gulp. My right hand pushes the hem of Amy’s skirt even higher. When the waitress leaves, I set the glass back on the table and turn to Amy. “You think suit man has any idea how to use that tie for anything but choking himself?”

  “I haven’t had the opportunity to find out.” She points discreetly to the front door. “You chased away my lunch date.”

  “You mean you haven’t made the opportunity.” The skirt is tight, but I force it higher. She shifts, and the material moves upward.

  “I’m very busy. And it really isn’t any of your business.” But even as the denial falls from her cherry-colored lips, I can see the flush deepening. The tips of my fingers dance against the lace-edged panties.

  “I’m making it my business. How wet are you between your legs right now?” I murmur against her. “If I put my hand between your legs, tell me what would I find” I move my hand between her thighs.

  “Flint, this is very inappropriate.” She pushes at my hand. “And you’re going to wrinkle my skirt. This is poplin, and it’s very prone to wrinkling.”

  “Then you should unzip it and push it to the floor.”

  “I’m not going to sit here without a skirt on,” she says with real shock in her voice. She’s faced down hardened criminals, but a little foreplay under the table shocks her. Oh, Amy. You need this. You need me.

  “Then you’re going to have to live with wrinkles because I’m not moving an inch from this seat until I find out how wet you are from just talking. I suspect it’s real wet. I bet you’re sopping wet.”

  My hand is at the upper part of her thighs, and the tight fabric of her skirt is restricting any easy movement. My fingertips are already getting damp, and I’m still a couple inches from the promised land.

  Her hand grips my wrist. “Don’t,” she says.

  “Don’t what? You need to be more explicit. Don’t stop? Don’t touch? Don’t make me come so hard that the table shakes?” She heaves another breath. “Amy, baby, you think too much.”

  I shove my hand up higher, taking the skirt with me, until my fingers are right up against the cotton gusset of her panties. And they are soaked.

  “Your food is here.”

  I don’t know why she thinks the arrival of my food would provide her with an escape. I give a brief nod of acknowledgment to the waitress who delivers a plate full of tiny circles of steak and strange-looking fries. Amy starves herself and doesn’t even realize it, eating small plates and talking to folks only when it has to do with business.

  And she’s hungry.

  I feel it in the way her thighs clench hard around my fingers, and I haven’t even gotten to the good parts yet.

  “What are you thinking about right now?” I growl in her ear. She doesn’t say anything. Her lips are pressed together in a way that tells me she doesn’t want to reveal what’s running through her mind. I flick my pinkie finger against her soaking wet crotch and a tiny sound escapes her throat. “I’ve had you every way possible, and a few that’s aren’t, in my head. I’ve fucked every hole a dozen times. Your mouth. Your pussy. Your ass. All of it. Now you tell me what you’re seeing in that pretty head of yours or I’m going to throw you on top of this table and show every person here exactly what I want to eat for lunch.”

  “Your hand…is like a…handcuff on my…leg.” Between each word she gasps as if she can’t fill her lungs with enough air.

  The panting, the words, the image she stirs up in my mind send a bolt of electricity right to my cock. My pants were tight before, but they’re fucking unbearable now. The zipper of my jeans is making an imprint on my shaft. I reach under the table and pull my cock upwards so that the inseam doesn’t strangle him to death.

  Amy’s eyes track every movement of mine, and I feel a gush of wetness as she imagines what’s going on underneath the tablecloth. I bet she has a real good imagination.

  “I want rip your panties off and come all over your pussy.” A soft gasp escapes her. I keep going. “I’m squeezing my balls right now because the pain is helping me keep my composure. You’re so hot, Amy, baby.” I tug the wet gusset of her panties to the side and rub my index and middle fingers over her swollen pussy lips. Her arousal lubes the way. I slide the two fingers inside that wet, hot channel. She groans and shifts backward, but the tight skirt and the tight quarters give her nowhere to run from me.

  I curl my fingers as I drag them out, and she moans again.

  “Quiet, baby. You don’t want the other folks in here to get curious and come over here. Some of these women don’t look like they’ve had a good fuck in a decade. They’ll want the same treatment as you’re getting.”

  Her eyes narrow. “And you’ll give it to them?” She tightens the muscles in her cunt until it feels like a vise around my fingers.

  I choke on my laughter. “The only one I want is you.”

  And then I drive my fingers hard and deep.

  “Ohhh fucckk,” she whimpers. Her hands clench around the edge of the table, biting into the tablecloth.

  She tries to shut her legs, but my hand is there and she only drives my fingers deeper inside her.

  “That’s right, baby,” I croon. I slip my fingers out to spread some of her wetness around her clit, circling that tiny bud in slow, even circles. She squirms on the leather seat of the booth. “You are wet and hot and tighter than I imagined, and trust me,” I chuckle low, “I’ve imagined plenty. I want to spread your legs and suck down all this juice you’re making for me right now. Fuck, sweetheart, hear how wet you are for me.”

  I drive my fingers back inside of her, and we both strain to hear the sucking noises over the clang of the silverware striking dishes and people talking about this deal and that deal.

  “Do you hear that?”

  The normally talkative Amy is silent. She burns me with her eyes. I press my thumb against her clit and begin to pump my fingers rapidly. She grinds down, using the table as leverage. My own dick is aching. I fucking need to be inside her.

  The telltale flutters of an impending orgasm beat against my fingers. I’m going to make this orgasm so explosive for her, she’ll forget her own name. With my free hand, I circle her neck so it looks like I’m drawing her close to me rather than choking her. I curl my fingers around the nape and lay my thumb against her windpipe.

  Her eyes widen.

  “Let go, Amy. I’ve got you. You don’t have to be careful with me.” I press down against her throat and reduce her airflow. Her wordless gasp becomes a keening noise which she immediately muffles by turning her head into my arm. Her come drenches my hand. Not once do I let up my pace.

  Neither of us notice the waitress who arrives to ask if my untouched meal is okay. She asks twice.

  “I think it’s fine, isn’t it, Amy?” I drop my hand to her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze before I pick up my beer and hold it to her lips.

  She gulps once and then twice. In a raspy voice, she manages to get out, “It’s fine. He’s not hungry. He’s on a diet. Watching his figure and all that.”

  The waitress gives me an appraising stare and under the table, I pull my fingers out. They smell like her. And I don’t give a flying fuck that anyone is watching me. There’s no way I don’t taste her.

  I stick those two sopping fingers in my mouth and suck off every drop of essence Amy’s left on me. Dueling gasps and dropped mouths greet my every move.

  I close my eyes.

  Fuck. She tastes like heaven.

  Amy

  Flint calmly withdraws his hand. Even in the dim ligh
t of the Moonflower Eatery, I can see the evidence of how much I wanted this all over his fingers. He picks up a napkin—the one that Ron used—and wipes hands off.

  The whole time he stares at me, daring me.

  I take one deep breath and then another. And then another, until my racing heart slows down to a mild trot.

  “We’ll take the check,” I manage to say to the waitress who is glued to the floor. She nods and flees. Whether she’s turned on or disgusted, I’m not sure. What I do know is that I won’t be returning to the Moonflower anytime soon. The waitress delivers the check silently and ghosts away. I lay down several bills and pick up my purse.

  “I need to get back to the office, Flint. It was…good to see you again.” I offer the polite words because I’m not exactly sure how I feel right now other than terrified, mostly of myself and my own response.

  “You need a break, Amy,” Flint says.

  “Maybe.” I watch as he picks up my cash, folds it carefully and then tucks it into his vest pocket. He lays his own cash on the table and then slides out of the booth.

  I’m still stuck to the leather, wondering what the hell just happened. Flint leans forward and cups my face. “Not maybe. You take a break and it’ll happen for you.”

  •••

  “Tell me you are not going back to prison. Make that promise to me right now.” I jab my finger on the top of the legal pad in front of me. I’m still a little agitated from lunch, but I’m trying very hard to put it—and Flint—out of my mind.

  Isamu Mori spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “I hope not.”

  I hope not? There’s no way he makes it. Just two days out of prison and he’s already got one foot back inside.

  “Christ, Isamu. I can’t keep bailing you out. Remember the whole three strikes rule? You’re two-thirds of your way to a life sentence for stupid drug offenses.”

  “How am I going to pay for treatment when I got to work? There ain’t no jobs for felons like me out there that will pay for a doctor’s visit. You want me to stay out. My mom wants me to stay out. I want to stay out. But if I don’t got a job and someone on the street is willing to pay me $100 for a ten-minute delivery, it’s hard to say no.” His size ten sneakers shift uncomfortably on the floor.

  “Aren’t any,” I correct. At his blank stare, I wave my hand. No point in correcting his grammar.

  Isamu isn’t wrong. The system is designed to fuck with the poor people, and the poorer you are, the more the system doesn’t work for you. Other than his elderly mother, Isamu has no support and so it’s easy to see why he turned to drug dealing to pay his bills and make sure his mother ate. And now with two felony counts under his belt, he is virtually unemployable.

  With a few strings pulled, I got him a job doing construction work with a local firm that is shady as hell. They injure more employees than they hire, and they pay under the table. But at this point, it’s better than nothing. “I like you, Isamu. You’re a good kid, but if you get caught again, there isn’t anyone who is going to be able to take care of your mother. She’ll die of heartbreak at the very least before you ever see another day of freedom.”

  He blanches. “I’m going to try,” he promises again.

  I stifle a sigh. He doesn’t need my nagging. It didn’t do any good the last go around anyway. He was out for only eight months before he was caught dealing again.

  “Go on then. And tell your mother hello and thank you for the gyozas.”

  He jumps to his feet and shakes my hand vigorously. “No problem, Ms. Harris.”

  And with that, he’s gone, leaving behind the delicate scent of fried ginger and steamed pork—fresh dumplings courtesy of his mother. The one good thing about representing Isamu was the world-class Japanese dishes his mother kept making me. Too bad her home cooking can’t keep him off the streets.

  “Why do I do this?” I ask my admin, Tanya Muir, who peeks her head in after Isamu leaves.

  “Because you love it?”

  “I don’t love it.” I rub my stomach. “In fact, I think all of these sad cases are giving me an ulcer.”

  You need a break, Amy, I hear Flint telling me. But what does he know? Does he even work? I know he does things for his club, but he has enough free time that he can follow me around.

  “Your ulcer is the result of no eating and all working.” She waltzes over to my desk and lays down my appointment calendar. Despite all the technology around me, I still like keeping my appointments on paper. But there’s something wrong with my July because there isn’t anything on there for the entire month. It’s blank. Actually, that’s wrong. There is one continuous line drawn through it in red. Red is what I use to denote time I’m out of the office.

  “You gave me the wrong calendar,” I inform Tanya. “This one is defective. There’s a red line through all of July and none of my appointments are showing.”

  “You’re so cute.” Tanya leans over and flips back one month, where all my appointments are written in a mash of pencil, ink, and highlighter. “You’re going on vacation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s where you leave the office and don’t think about it for a set period of time.”

  “I was joking.” I fold up the fake appointment book and slide it across the desk. “I know what a vacation is.”

  “Do you? Because you’ve never taken one.” Tanya pushes the ledger back.

  “That’s not true,” I protest, and flip the book open. “I took a break…” I page back a couple months and then a couple more. “Look.” I point to January 1. “I took off January 1 and 2.”

  “Two days is not a vacation, and one of them the courthouse was closed anyway.”

  “These cases don’t try themselves.”

  In the back of my head, I hear Flint telling me I need a break, but Flint and Tanya are wrong. What I need is an overhaul of this society so that kids like Isamu have a better choice in the world than between earning minimum wage at the local fast-food joint and $100 for a ten-minute delivery.

  “The problem is that you aren’t going to be able to try a case either if you burn out. So you are taking a vacation.”

  “I have hearings and client meetings and trials.”

  “No, you don’t.” She lays the book down in front of me, and the little white squares are blank. Her finger stabs down. “Nothing on your calendar.”

  “Is this for real?” I turn to August and see entries. A hearing in Terry. A pretrial conference for Allred. An entire month with no hearings, no trials, no meetings. That would takes months and months… “How long have you planned this?”

  Tanya is halfway out the door. “Since last year. I need a vacation even if you don’t.”

  She shuts the door firmly behind her.

  I stumble out of my office at nine because the vacation doesn’t start until I say it does. The problem is, with nothing going on for a month, I actually ran out of things to do. Tanya’s evil plan is working.

  My head hurts.

  I climb into my car, the sedate four-door sedan I paid for with cash ten years ago.

  Maybe I should get a dog. No, that would require way too much effort. A cat? Possibly a fish? I think I could keep a fish alive. Then I remember the plants in my office that only live because Tanya waters them.

  I’m thirty-three and live alone. That’s normal, though. Lots of women aren’t marrying or having kids. Lots of women are satisfied with their careers and their battery-operated boyfriends.

  True, I don’t remember the last time my vibe gave me an orgasm like Flint wrenched out of me at the restaurant, but maybe it was just my technique. In the darkness of the car, alone, I give myself over to the fantasy of Flint.

  My whole body tightens at the thought of the big, brutish vice-president bending over my bed, one hand on the mattress and the other on the antique brass headboard. I’ve often wondered where his tattoos stop…or maybe it’s where they start.

  He has them on his arm, and I can see a hint of them a
round the collar of his t-shirts. They’re colorful and varied, from dragons to strange symbols that maybe I would be able to discern if I’d paid more attention in history class. He’s the epitome of biker hot—the kind of guy you might see in a movie or television show and say I’d do him, but when faced with the real thing, you run away. Fast.

  Because who knows what happens when he catches you. I’m too soft for that.

  Besides, my sole Death Lords client, the one who brought Flint into my life, once said that those bikers could have sex for three hours.

  “That’s all you did was eat and have sex? All night?”

  “It was only about three hours.”

  “No one has sex for that long,” I told my client.

  “You ain’t never had a Death Lord in your bed, have you?”

  I think three hours is too long. I could maybe handle thirty minutes. That’s longer than I’ve ever had before and leaves enough time for me to read a deposition or two before I fall asleep.

  Besides, the three-hour thing was just a brag. No one has sex for three hours straight. Who would want to? Certainly not me.

  It doesn’t take more than ten minutes to drive along the nearly deserted South Minneapolis streets to pull into the alley behind my house. The lights are off in the small two-bedroom Craftsman home I purchased ten years ago.

  A vacation? I can’t take a vacation. Doesn’t she understand that?

  I work all day long because there isn’t anything to go home to.

  The automatic lights flicker on as I pull into my garage. I had those installed a couple of years ago when there was a string of robberies in the area. I don’t know what kind of deterrent they actually are, but I figure only the really dumb are going to try to attack me in the middle of a pool of light. There are better marks around here.

  I unlock the door and push inside. The stale odor of a house unused all day hits me. I flick on the kitchen lights and throw my briefcase, purse, and keys on the scarred oak table.