“A condom.”
He attempted to give it back to me. “I don’t wear condoms.”
I waved him off. “I won’t have sex without it.”
“It looks like it’s too fuckin’ small,” he complained. “I doubt I can even get it on. Let’s just fuck.”
“Remember. My pussy, my rules.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t even know how to operate one of these motherfuckers.”
“If you want this pussy, you’ll have to figure it out.”
He bit the edge of the package and tore it open. “I’m about out of the mood.”
“Shall we get back to the interview?”
“Just gimme a fuckin’ minute,” he growled.
I’d never spent a single moment second-guessing a choice I had made. Ever. I had always been proud of my ability to make split-second decisions and make them well. Even the serious ones were generally made quickly, and without any future remorse.
As I stood and watched Navarro fumble-fucking around with the condom, however, I couldn’t help but wonder if my decision to allow him to fuck me was a good one or not. It was a spur of the moment choice made as a result of extreme desire and overwhelming curiosity. Watching him look at the condom as if he were holding a ticking time bomb wasn’t very reassuring.
Or sexy.
Earlier, he said he was about out of the mood. I now shared his lack of desire.
He held the condom carefully in his left hand while he unbuckled his belt. After what appeared to be a very frustrated effort to push his jeans down to mid-thigh, he gripped his cock in his tattooed hand and began to stoke himself.
Watching him with his big dick clenched in his fist was a huge turn-on. After six or eight strokes, the massive shaft was rigid in his hand.
And, once again, I was ready.
More than ready.
“Here,” I breathed. “Let me do that.”
With one hand I reached for the condom, and with the other I fumbled to unbutton my shorts. After a few frustrating seconds of my own, I had my shorts on the work bench, and his cock protected by a thin layer of rubber.
“What a clusterfuck,” he grumbled.
Agreed.
“Where do you, uhhm,” I stammered, looking around for a place to let him fuck me.
The bench was littered in tools and motorcycle parts and the floor was covered in dirt and grease, leaving the steel drum as my only visible alternative for sex. I didn’t wait for him to respond. I wrapped my arms around the drum and pressed my chest onto the lid.
“Stand up,” he growled.
Oooh. Standing up sex.
Fuck yeah.
I stood up and turned to face him.
“Ditch the shirt and the bra,” he demanded.
I glanced at his jeans, which were draped around his thighs. My eyes dropped to his feet. Scuffed and covered in stains, the lace-up black boots he was wearing were kind of sexy when he was fully dressed, but now that we were getting ready to fuck, they were a distraction.
I wagged my finger toward his knees. “Ditch the boots and jeans.”
The glare he returned let me know he wasn’t interested in considering what I wanted. He pressed his hand into the middle of my back and pushed me toward the work bench. As my hips came in contact with the cold steel, he shoved a little harder, forcing me to bend over. His hand slid from between my shoulder blades to the back of my head.
You like it rough, huh?
Yeah, me too.
He pressed my face down firmly on the top of the workbench. I felt the tip of his dick against my pussy, and inhaled sharply in anticipation. Nothing, however, could have prepared me for his girth. I wasn’t ready.
At all.
He shoved me completely full of cock in one hard thrust.
I arched my back and gasped out in response.
His beard scraped along my neck. The warm against my cheek that followed caused goosebumps to rise along my legs. I fought to raise my head, but he was much too strong.
“I’m going to fuck you senseless,” he breathed into my ear.
All concerns regarding whether or not fucking Nick Navarro was a good decision immediately vanished.
It was a great decision.
He thrust his hips back and forth aggressively, grunting in my ear with each stroke. “I can’t…figure out…if it’s my…big cock…or your…tight little pussy. But fuckin’ you…is like fuckin’…a virgin.”
I thought I’d been fucked by big-dicked men in the past. I was wrong. They may have been well-endowed by my standard at the time, but Nick Navarro was redefining everything.
Everything.
“I think…it’s…both,” I muttered.
I bit into my lip and tried to keep from crying out. I’d heard the phrase hurts so good many times, and only now had a complete understanding of what it meant. His thick cock was stretching my pussy to an all-new limit.
And I loved every fucking inch of it.
“I like…fucking you,” he groaned. “Your little pussy clenches my cock like a vise.”
Just shut up and keep fucking me.
I closed my eyes and wondered just what had happened to me. Although I was daring and bold, my interest in men was nil. Having been wronged in the past so many times, I learned to trust no one who grew facial hair.
Or had a cock.
Navarro had both and I wouldn’t want him any other way.
As he pounded himself in and out of me like a man possessed, his scent filled my nostrils. It wasn’t a hint of cologne or deodorant, nor was it a foul body odor.
He smelled like a man.
A real man.
He grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled it taught. My back arched and my mind reeled at the thought of him fucking me like he owned me.
“Tell me how much you like this big biker cock,” he growled in my ear.
Dear God.
I wanted desperately to speak, but succeeding wasn’t as easy as one might think. I was suspended somewhere between heaven and earth, and talking wasn’t an option.
He pulled against my hair until his lips met my ear. His warm breath on my neck made my legs go weak. “Say something, you sexy little bitch.”
If you keep talking dirty to me, I’m going to explode.
I opened my mouth, but…nothing.
“Newspaper reporter my ass,” he breathed. “You came here for my cock, didn’t you?”
I did my best to nod, but his tight grip on my hair made doing so close to impossible.
“I uhhm.” I stammered.
He bit into my earlobe. “Didn’t you?” he grunted.
“Yes,” I breathed.
I told myself it wasn’t true, but at that moment, I wasn’t completely sure. Between his savage thrusts, I decided it was the thrill of actually being fucked by Navarro that attracted me, and nothing more.
Nick Navarro may have been a lot of different things to a lot of different people. To me, he was an outlaw biker.
Having him fuck me was taking me to a place I had never ventured to.
A place I was afraid I would yearn to return to, over and over.
While he continued to fuck me like he was attempting to prove a point, he wedged his tattooed forearm between my hip and the bench. In a few seconds, I felt the tip of his finger circling my throbbing clit.
“You’re gonna come back for this cock whenever I want you to.”
Don’t worry about that, big boy.
Until further notice, this pussy’s yours.
I wanted to give a smart-assed response, but couldn’t seem to assemble my thoughts. As he rubbed my swollen nub and repeatedly filled me with his dick, my mind drifted off to a faraway place.
After an immeasurable amount of time, a tingling began to run through me. Immediately following, his cock seemed to double in size. I fought against the pressure of his hand against my head, but eventually gave up. His hips slammed against my ass a few more times, and my pussy went into a thankful frenzy of its own.
His thrusts slowed, but remained os-so-deep. His breathing became irregular.
And.
An orgasm shot through my body like a bolt of lightning.
And then another.
And another.
“Fuck yesss,” he moaned.
“Oh…My…God,” I cried out.
While my body continued to convulse in the wake of countless earth-shattering micro-orgasms, I collapsed.
My vision narrowed as he withdrew himself from inside of me. The sounds of the distant traffic, his breathing, and my heart beating became dull and indifferent.
In short, Nick Navarro – and his big cock – changed my mind about everything.
SIX
Nick
I stared at the exterior wall of the shop, not sure whether to get off my bike, or fire it up and go for a ride. Peyton Price had my interest – and my attention – and I didn’t like it one fucking bit.
She was a sexy little bitch, but I had no business with a woman in my clubhouse or on my mind, no matter how attractive she was. While contemplating a ride up the PCH, the unmistakable lyrics from Cypress Hill’s How I Could Just Kill a Man blaring over the rumble of Pee Bee’s loud pipes snapped me out of my funk.
I turned toward the sound.
With his long legs stretched out onto his floorboards, and his arms draped over his handlebars, he leisurely rolled into the lot.
“What’s shakin’, Motherfucker?” he said as he came to a stop at my side.
I shrugged.
“Comin’ or goin’?”
“Thinkin’ about havin’ a beer,” I responded.
“Sounds good.”
I nodded toward the shop. “Of all the shit you could be listening to, you’ve got to listen to that song?”
He pulled off his helmet and ran his fingers through his long hair. “Cypress motherfuckin’ Hill, Boss. It’s good shit.”.
“How I Could Just Kill a Man. Remind you of anything?”
“Sure as fuck does,” he responded.
I gave him my signature look. A cocked eyebrow. I’d used it so much over the years that one side of my forehead was wrinkled, and the other wasn’t.
“That night Wood dumped his bike in front of that mansion up by Torrey Pines.”
Pee Bee may have been absent minded when it came to the passage of time, and his sheer size alone removed fear from the list of emotions he felt, but other than that, he was real damned close to normal.
Most of the time.
“What in the fuck does Wood hitting a fox in Torrey Pines have to do with that song?”
He looked at me as if I was a complete fool. “Wood hit the fox. Then that chick in the nightgown came out to see if we were okay. While she was tryin’ to get Wood bandaged up, I was starin’ at her tits and flippin’ through my iPod for something cool to listen to. I saw Cypress Hill, and thought it sounded good. So, that’s what I was listenin’ to the whole time she was standin’ there with her titties pokin’ out of that nightgown.”
The owner of the thirty-million-dollar mansion was the widow of a Hollywood producer, and built like a porn star. In a sheer nightgown and a pair of designer flip-flops, she rushed from the house and offered to bandage Wood’s arm. The entire time, her silicone D-cups were all but hanging out of her nightgown. It was a story we’d talked about for years, but it had nothing to do with what was now on my mind.
I got off my bike and turned toward the shop. “Well it reminds me of something else.”
“Like what?”
I unlocked the door, opened it, and motioned toward the steel drum. “We need to get rid of that body.”
“Still in that drum?”
I shot him a glare. “Where the fuck else would it be?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”
“Do you really think I’d take that two-hundred-pound dead prick out of that drum and do something with him?” I asked. “He’s been in there cooking for three days.”
“Two.”
“It’s been three.”
“Been two.” He looked at his watch. “Today’s Monday the 9th. Wedding was on Saturday the 7th.”
Peyton had started her recording by saying, I’m Peyton Price beginning my interview with Nick Navarro, the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC. Today’s date is May 7th.
“You sure it’s the 9th?”
He glanced at his watch and nodded.
If her assembly of facts was as inaccurate as her telling of time, I wouldn’t approve a single word to go to publication.
“What?” he asked. “You got to be somewhere?”
I shook my head. As we walked toward the refrigerator, I considered telling him about Peyton, reconsidered it, and then decided to tell him a shortened version of the truth. “That reporter chick came in here yesterday and interviewed me. The one from the bar. When she started her interview, she said it was the 7th. It wasn’t. It was the 8th. No big deal.”
He grabbed two bottles of beer and handed me one. “Bitch might not know what day it is, but she’s hot as fuck.”
I nodded. “She’s a sexy little bitch.”
He tossed his lid into the trash. “You fuck her?”
I opened my beer and took a long drink.
“You fucked her, didn’t you?” He shook his head. “I swear, young bitches flock to your old ass.”
I raised the bottle to my mouth and shrugged. “Young chicks dig old men.”
“Since when?” he snapped back.
“Since forever. With age comes maturity.” I tilted the neck of my beer bottle toward him. “Maturity brings comfort.”
He choked on his beer. After wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he returned a dramatic glare. “Comfort in what?”
“They know an old man will give ‘em a good honest fucking. No lies, no unmet promises, no pick-up lines. Just a lot of hard cock.”
“And that’s enough to keep ‘em happy?”
I waved my arms toward the empty shop. “You see any women in here complaining?”
“Nope.”
“That’s because I never told ‘em I loved ‘em, but I always fucked ‘em like I did.”
“She suck good cock?” he asked. “Bitch has got some serious DSL’s.”
“Dunno.”
“She didn’t suck your cock?”
“She was askin’ me question after question, and I’m sittin’ on the bench listenin’ to her, and trying my fuckin’ damndest to stay focused,” I explained. “But she’s wearin’ shorts, some Chuck’s, and a tight tee shirt. And she kept running her fingers through her fuckin’ hair. Bitch was driving me nuts. Next thing I know, I’m sittin’ right there with a fuckin’ chubby.”
I motioned toward the bench with my beer bottle.
“Where was she?”
“Sittin’ on the drum.”
He glared back at me in disbelief. “You had her sittin’ on Whip’s dead brother?”
I grinned and nodded. “Didn’t want her sittin’ beside me. You know how I am about havin’ people in my space.”
“Where’d you fuck her?”
“Bent her over the bench.”
He coughed out a laugh. “Just couldn’t fuck her while she was hovering over a corpse?”
“I didn’t give a fuck if she sat on him, but I didn’t want to fuck her while she was layin’ her tits on him.”
“Makes sense.”
The things that made sense to a biker were undoubtedly different than what made sense to most people in the free world. I could tell any of the men in the club that I had a body to dispose of, and their response would be where is it? If the same question was asked of someone out of my group, most people would respond by vomiting.
Or calling the cops.
Our MC consisted of a close-knit group of men who would place their lives on the line for any of their club brothers. The comradery and devotion was as close to what I felt in the Navy. Often, my MC brethren reminded me of my SEAL team.
“So, that’s something we need to get taken care of quick. Today, if possible.”
“What’s that?”
“The body in that fuckin’ drum.”
“Wanna do it now?”
“No. We’re gonna need to drive out to the desert. Or up to Temecula, by the mountains. Fucker’s been in that drum of Sodium Hydroxide since Saturday night, I’d say he’s about ready.”
“Acid’s the way to go, huh?”
“Sodium Hydroxide’s not acid. It’s lye. They use acid on T.V., but in real life, the shit doesn’t work. The fumes alone from hydrochloric or hydrofluoric would kill you. And it doesn’t do what they show it doing on T.V., believe me.”
His face distorted. “How the fuck you know all this shit?”
I tapped my index finger against the tattoo on my bicep of the eagle, anchor, trident, and pistol – the insignia of the SEALs.
“Shoulda known,” he said.
“They didn’t just teach us how to kill, they taught us how to do it and not leave a trace,” I said with a laugh.
He tossed his empty beer bottle in the trash. “Funny. Government teaches you how to do that shit, and the same government will lock you up for doing what they trained you for.”
“Don’t get me started.” I waved my hand toward the fridge. “Grab me one, too.”
He opened the two beers, handed me one of them, and kicked the steel drum with the toe of his boot. “So we just pour him out on the ground?”
“It’s gonna be a fuckin’ mess,” I explained. “We need to dump it somewhere, scavenge what’s left of the bones, and crush ‘em up. They’ll be pretty brittle. And hollow.”
“Figure out when, and I’m good to go,” he said.
“You ought to be, you dip-shit. Who doesn’t leave air holes when they do something like that?”
“Well, Mr. Navy fucking SEAL, not all of us are special warfare experts. That’s the first motherfucker to ever have his face taped up by me. So, considering, I think I did a pretty good job,” he said in a prideful tone.
“You did a damned fine job, Peeb. Just fell a little short on keepin’ the fucker alive,” I said with a laugh.
“Fuck this prick. He swung a baseball bat at my head.” He kicked his boot against the drum. “If it wasn’t for my cat-like reflexes, you’d be buryin’ me in the desert, not him.”
I raised my beer bottle. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya.”
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