by Brogan Riley
Jake draws me even closer to him, his hot mouth wandering over back. He kisses my shoulder and buries his unshaven face in my neck.
My muscles relax. I turn to face him. His eyes are so dangerously dark.
“Hannah, do you want a glass of beer?”
I never drink alcohol, but I nod. “A small glass of beer, please.”
He waves his hand at one of the club girls and she takes our order. I know her. She was held captive in Master L’s mansion. Her name is Veronica. The others reunited with their families but she decided to stay with the club. She’s happy here.
Jake shelters me in his strong arms as his mouth wanders on my neck. Tingles run down my spine.
“I’ll be a good wife to you,” I say.
He nods, his eyes insanely ravenous. He presses his lips against mine and tumbles us down so I’m on my back and he’s on top of me. His hand slips under my petticoat and he runs it up my outer thigh. His mouth devours mine as he squeezes my ass. His tongue mates with mine, stripping me of rationality. His finger slips under my panties, touching my mound.
“Jake, I need a word with you.” It’s Liberator’s voice.
I blink a few times as my heart jumps up into my throat.
The bar is so quiet that I can hear the people breathing.
Epilogue 2
Jake
My dad puts his clenched hands on the tabletop. “You sure about this?”
“Absolutely.”
We’re the only occupants of the office.
Concern fills his eyes. “She’s gone through a lot.”
“I’m gonna take her to the Shadow Wolves MC. They’re very experienced with such cases.”
He nods at me. “Sive can help Hannah deal with her insecurities.”
“I thought the same as you.”
He grins at me and starts pacing around the room. “She’s very shy. Very modest and hardworking. Quiet. You need to—“
“I know what to do, Dad.”
He is more overprotective of us than Mom is. He should be called Momma not President.
My mom has always been a bit disorganised and eccentric. Very often did she drown in the tiny problems of her motherhood. But Dad? Always like a general. And always like a prying old woman.
He scratches his head. “The kleptomaniac is in good hands.”
“We should throw a big party to celebrate that once again.”
He erupts into laughter. “Dante is a very good asset to the club and a very good husband to her, indeed.” He drops into the chair and shoves a shot glass towards me. “Don’t forget about us while you’re away.”
“Dad, I’m not going to another universe.”
“You know, I just like to have everyone around me.”
Yes, he’s like an old wolf, a good old alpha. His pack is everything to him.
We clink glasses, down our tequila, and slap each other on the back.
I leave the office and go to the bar. Hannah is surrounded by a hive of bees. I need to save her. I tear my way through the tangle of my sisters, aunts and the club girls and bury the cute little thing into my arms. She’s like a little spring spirit. My very own one.
Mine.
I will soothe her fears.
I will wipe away her nightmares.
I will love her for eternity.
Yep, that was love at first sight but I had to wait for her.
I pull her out of the bar so drunk on her nearness. My mouth covers hers and I kiss her so deeply she grows limp in my arms.
I hook her under the arms and she draws in a deep breath.
“I know what to do, Jake,” she whispers.
“What?”
“I’ll be a good wife to you. You’ll see.”
“You’re perfect, Hannah.”
“You’ll always be very contented, I promise.”
I feel stunned for a moment. Then a mixture of fury, jealousy, and pain floods me as I realise what she meant.
Not like this.
“I’m gonna make you feel very happy,” I say, “and you don’t have to do anything.”
She holds my hand and pulls me towards the lighthouse. At first, I want to protest, but she looks over her shoulder and flashes me such a seductive smile that I melt. I don’t know that seductive part of hers.
We hide behind the stone wall where the cars are parked. Hannah stands opposite me and rises on her tiptoes. She plants a gentle kiss on the corner of my mouth. Her tiny hand slides under the waistband of my jeans.
I chuckle as my cock grows even harder with her touch. “We can wait. No rush, little flea. We have a lifetime.”
Her fingers close around my cock and she opens my jeans with her other hand. “You don’t want to wait.”
Fuck. She’s right.
I feel like some dark force has possessed me. My brain is evaporating at a fast pace and my dick has a life of its own.
Hannah lowers to her knees, holding the base of my cock. She swirls her wet little tongue around the head. I emit a low growl as she licks off the drop of precum emerging from the tip. She runs her tongue along the length of my cock. Then her mouth wraps around the head. Tingles radiate from my lower back to my toes and I shiver. I’m at her mercy.
I don’t know whether it’s right or wrong.
It’s dirty and I love it. I need it.
And fucking hell, I haven’t been with a woman since I met her.
Her little fingers caress my balls as she takes me deeper into her hot mouth. She bobs her head up and down my length, squeezing my balls.
It’s never been this good.
I rest my forearm against the stone wall and drop my head as she works me harder. With her hand stroking my shaft, she sucks my balls delicately and returns to sucking my dick.
I’m on the brink.
Her little finger massages my asshole as she takes my whole length into her mouth. She gags but doesn’t stop. Her finger slips in. I can see bright stars.
I start moaning.
Her finger fucks me gently as she gags each time my cock slams on her throat.
She takes me even deeper.
“Oh fuck,” I moan.
My muscles tense up. My balls tighten. A wave of liberating heat shoots to my toes and I see blackness. Her sweet skilled mouth wrenches in every drop of my cum. She swallows and keeps sucking me at a lazy pace. My cock is still rock hard.
I hook her under the arms and lift her up. I turn her round and bend her over the hood of a car. With my knee, I spread hers. I gather her dress up to her waist and rip her lacy pink panties off. She lifts her thigh up, giving me access to her pussy. I hold my cock and drive it into her wet heat. I fill her up in one savage thrust. Her walls clench around me, stripping me of rationality. She’s so tight it’s almost painful.
I fuck her hard and fast. She takes every wild thrust.
Then I stop.
Fuck, not like this. I don’t want to give her pain.
“Hannah?”
“It’s okay, Jake.”
“I love you.”
“I know. I love you too.”
Her pussy contracts rhythmically around me, bringing me to the brink. I’m insane, but I want her to enjoy it too.
I bunch her wrists with one hand and pin them over her head. My fingers search for her clitoris. I massage it in circles, forcing a gasp from her mouth.
“Good, Hannah?”
“Very good.”
I thrust into her slowly, stroking her clit. Her body shivers. She arches her back and comes with a long moan. I come just after her.
I pull out of her, my cock shiny from her juices, dizziness filling my head. “It’ll always be about you, Hannah.”
“Why? You didn’t like it?”
“I loved it but I want you to love it too.”
“It’s good with you.”
I pull her into my arms. “It’s perfect with you.” I kiss her on the top of her head. “I love you, you hear me? You’re my life. My everything, you little flea.”
She will be my princess. She’ll never cry. I’ll fucking make her life a fucking heaven on earth.
Two weeks later, Hannah jumps off my bike and roams her good eye over a little town that profiles against the hostile shimmer of the desert. She winces but then takes a deep breath and smiles at me.
Brianna, the president’s old lady approaches us and starts talking. Fucking hell. It’s a torrent of words laced with a Spanish accent.
Zane grins at me. We shake hands.
I know Hannah is going to recover here. The Shadow Wolves are different to my club but they’re good people.
“So, Jake, tell me,” Brianna says. “You’re happy with that arrangement or not?”
I have no fucking idea what she’s talking about. “I am very happy with everything.”
Brianna shakes her head. “Let’s go. There’s food in the oven and it’s cooling down.”
My hand searches for Hannah’s. Her gleaming eye fixes onto mine.
Fuck, I love this little flea. I love her so much it hurts.
Brianna tears her away from me and wraps her arms around her. Just like that. I feel stunned.
“You’re as beautiful as our Sive,” Brianna says. “And Sive is the most beautiful of us all.”
Hannah’s glance travels to me. She looks deliriously happy. Yes, staying here among these people will do her good.
Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a review.
Check out my other books:
His Poppy: Furious Daggers MC
His Rose: Liberty Pirates MC
His Princess: Shadow Wolves MC (A Historical Romance)
Cole: Hope and Hell (A BWWM Rock Star Romance)
I write Paranormal, Fantasy, and Sci-fi Romance as Daniela Jackson
Excerpt His Princess: Shadow Wolves MC
Prologue
Munroe
“You will be my wife,” I say. “Do you understand?”
“Nie,” she says, her white aristocratic chin trembling.
“Is this all you can say? You can only say ‘no’?”
“Nie.”
“Stanka.” I shake my head. “You will come to me.” I raise my hand and run my knuckles down her cheek then glide my callused thumb over her lower lip. “You’ll come to me sooner or later. I can wait. I’m a patient man.”
She steps back, a wild fire blazing in her emerald eyes. “Nie.” She leans slightly forward, her fingers rolling into fists. “Never.”
She’s lying to herself.
I may be a simple man, a gangster, but I know what she truly wants. She wants it raw. I will give it raw to her as soon as she lies down on my bed with her folded legs splayed for me.
She will come to me, and I will teach her proper English. I will teach her to say ‘fuck me harder’ or ‘I love your cock’. I will teach her to open that sinfully beautiful mouth of hers wide for me and wrap those slim thighs of hers around my waist each time I lie down beside her. Oh yes, I will teach her to be a good wife for me.
She will be my wife and I’ll take her aristocratic innocence. I will contaminate her with my crudeness, wreck her, and dominate her. She will be mine. It’s only a matter of time. I just need to be patient.
Stanka
Peasant.
Rude peasant.
I can speak four languages and he can’t read.
Yet, his touch makes my thighs quiver, and my mind whirls.
Chapter 1
Stanka
Slovakia 1945
The sound of many heavy footsteps comes closer and closer. Dreadful thumps, the clink of glasses, and shouts ring out in grotesque celebration, announcing the upcoming threat like an alarm bell. My father’s face darkens. He winces, pain and sadness pervading his glance. A pistol swings in his hand. He strokes my head and kisses my forehead.
“Go, child,” he says.
“Papa,” I whisper, tears streaming down my cheeks.
My father shoves my back. “Go.”
So I go, run, escape. There is no time for my pain. My primal fear is all that guides me. My grandma wheezes behind me as her hands push at my back and we tumble into the basement through the heavy wooden door.
This regime wants to erase people like us. We symbolise the past, the principles, and the divisions. The regime wants to wipe the past away. Freedom and equality, they say. Why murders and camps then?
I have to run faster or I’ll end up in prison or dead.
The sound of a gunshot hits my ears like a whiplash and yanks me back, but my grandma squeezes my hand with hers and drags me behind her. Her son, my father, is probably dead now. He wanted to buy the two of us more time.
“Hurry,” my grandma says, tears rolling down her cheeks, her breath laborious.
I’m Stanka Natalia Tesarik. I will turn eighteen in less than two days. My grandma’s name is Vilma. She’s sixty-eight years old, but she looks one hundred. The war has marked her face with deep furrows, has taken the mischievous gleam from her green eyes forever. She was once a beautiful woman. Now she’s the embodiment of fear and loss.
Our kin has been erased; just the two of us are still fighting to survive. I know my papa is dead. I just know it.
We hope to find refuge far from here. Vilma is taking me to join her deceased husband’s family.
I don’t think we’re going to make it. The bad people are hunting us. They know how to hunt prey like us.
I think we’ll die soon. We’ll die like all the others who rebelled against the German occupation troops and then against the communist regime.
We cross the dark basement, dust and humidity like the touch of cold satin against my face. We pour out of the house through the back door, meander among the trees in our once beautiful garden, and take the narrow passage between the shed and stables. The wall of outgrown bushes masks our escape route. I pull the branches away and jump through the vegetation. A thought hammers in my head. Faster. Faster. The passage leads us outside the estate and I spot a man wearing dirty clothes. His grey linen shirt is full of holes and stitches line the lower edges of his trousers. He’s standing by a wagon, patting the side of the black horse attached to it. The animal shivers and moves its wide hoofs then turns its head to mine. Old age and a life-long struggle make its eyes stare as though it has a tired human soul.
“Where is the count?” the man asks in an unpleasant raspy voice.
He must smoke a lot. The scent of tobacco hangs heavy around him.
“Dead,” Vilma says in a cold voice. “Just the two of us.”
“Get in the wagon,” he growls and points his finger to the piles of straw covering its floor.
I help my grandma clamber onto the wagon and pull my calf-length skirt up to my thighs to follow her. We bury ourselves under the straw and our hell begins.
There is the monotonous sound of the wheels rattling, the horse’s snorts and neighs, the hammer of its hoofs, the nauseating smell of the rotting straw, the lack of air, the scratches on my skin, and the pain in my muscles. Many hours pass swaying and jumping in rhythm of the wagon.
The man’s hungry eyes scare me to death. They slide over me each time we stop to pee or eat something.
My grandma shelters me with her body in those moments, shooting knives towards the man with her glance. He’s been paid well to transport us to safety, but it doesn’t seem to be enough for him.
We spend the night in a devastated barn then we’re on the wagon again. The straw jabs my back, scratches my face and digs into my nose. It’s cold. The wagon climbs along a basic road that meanders among the hills of the near abroad region. Grandma breathes heavily and squeezes my hand in hers. I sob like a five-year-old.
“Hush, child,” she says in a tired voice.
“I’m scared of Mattias,” I whisper.
“You should be. Stay away from him.” She kisses my temple. “And happy birthday.”
“Thank you, grandma.”
Her chest rests against my back and I curl
up into her. The intense smell of her sweat whips my nostrils. We both need a bath. We stink like cattle.
Or, maybe we need two caskets. Maybe it’s better to die now when we still have our dignity. I’m an adult at last, but it seems like there is no future for me. Like my life ended the moment I left my home.
“The horse will die soon,” I say, surprised by the lack of emotion in my voice.
“Don’t think about it,” Vilma whispers into my ear, her breath wheezy.
My father’s face flashes through my mind, distorted like it’s a ghost’s face then the image of the front door of my house bathed in the bright sun’s rays follows. I can see four white pillars supporting the roofed entrance, our family crest on the double door, then the swing in the garden, and red roses along the fence. A memory of my happy childhood. These images pierce my heart and burn into my brain like a brand. This brand will die with me, and will be forgotten like my kin. I’m already a corpse.
The wagon stops.
Mattias whistles and we emerge from underneath the layers of straw. It’s time to rest. Vilma staggers towards a majestic tree abundant in foliage of all shades of yellow and sits on her heels, correcting her jacket and shaking off little pieces of straw. Her grey hair is a mess, as is mine. The afternoon sun’s rays burn my cheeks as I shake the dirt off my jacket. It’s the middle of October, but the temperature is like early summer.
I look around to find a suitable place to pee and decide to hide behind the wall of bushes. I’m really brief, my heart pounding at the thought that Mattias may watch me. I’m scared of his pig-like impure eyes and black teeth.
Vilma calls me so I correct my skirt and jacket. A chill bites my skin and penetrates my bones. A cloud of vapour leaves my mouth.
I trip over a stone and curse under my breath as a hand grips my arm, fingers digging in my flesh. A violent force throws me to the side. I manage a small scream as my body hits the moist grassy ground and a massive frame crushes mine, knocking the air out of my lungs. The hand dives between my thighs as a foul breath puffs against my cheek. A dry, cracked mouth brushes against my neck. Pain lashes through my back as nausea rolls over my stomach and I feel acid in my throat.