Money Shot: Selected Sinners MC Romance

by Hildreth, Scott

  Sienna was much too sexy of a woman.

  I bent my knees slightly, reached down and slipped my hands under her armpits, and as she began to encompass the swollen head in with her lips, I lifted her from her knees and to her feet.

  “What?” she asked innocently.

  “Don’t even start,” I said. “You know what. You do that shit on purpose, you sexy little bitch.”

  She pressed the tip of her index finger to her lips, doing her best to look innocent, but appeared to be as guilty as she truly was. “I just love that big cock of yours, that’s all,” she said.

  “And I love that tight little pussy of yours,” I said as I lifted her in the air.

  Her eyes met mine as I hoisted her above the floor and held her in the air, her feet dangling six inches from the floor.

  “What are you going to do to me, you big mean biker?” she asked in another effort to be as innocent as she could in appearance.

  “Whatever I want to,” I said as I held her in place.

  “Please don’t fuck me,” she whispered. “I just wanted to suck your cock. Please don’t fuck me.”

  “You afraid?” I asked.

  She gazed down at my cock, feigned a gasp, and covered her mouth quickly. “It’s too big. It won’t fit in my little pussy. I’m scared.”

  I lowered her to the floor. As her feet made contact with the concrete, I began to stroke my cock. Her innocent routine had me so worked up I’d be lucky to last a matter of minutes. I unbuttoned my cut, took off my shirt, and draped them over the back of a chair.

  “You’re so muscular. Oh no, you’re not going to make me fuck you, are you? Please, don’t make me fuck you. You’re so big and muscular,” she said as she widened her eyes and stared at my chest.

  “Get undressed,” I said as I pointed toward her shorts.

  “But my pussy, it’s so tight, you’ll hurt me,” she said in a high-pitched whine as she turned away.

  “I’ll hurt you if you don’t get undressed,” I growled.

  “Yes, Sir,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  I shook my head at her innocent little girl efforts. “Toss your clothes on the table and bend over,” I said.

  “Anything you say, just don’t hurt me,” she said softly as she pushed her shorts down her thighs.

  “Leave on the shoes,” I said as I pointed to her sneakers.

  “Please let me take them off, I don’t want you to fuck me in my shoes,” she whimpered. “I’m so scared…”

  I shook my head, pointed at the table, and cleared my throat. “Bend over.”

  “Please, please don’t fuck me from behind. Pleeeaaaaaase, I’m begging you. It’ll do too deep,” she whined as she pulled down her panties and tossed them on the table.

  “Bend over,” I said in a demanding tone.

  “But you’re too big. You’ll hurt me. You’ll tear my little pussy up,” she said as she bent over and pressed her tits into the top of the table.

  My jeans had been around my thighs the entire time. As she turned to face away from me, I kicked off my boots and dropped my jeans to the floor. Now standing naked with the exception of my socks, I was well beyond ready to start fucking.

  Without warning, I swept my foot against the inside of each of her feet, spread her legs apart slightly, and guided the head of my stiff cock inside of her at the same time. With the feeling of her tight wet pussy surrounding the shaft, I slowly pushed myself into her until I bottomed out.

  “Oh, god,” she gasped. “You’re way too big.”

  I pulled my hips back, revealing my glistening cock one inch at a time. As I watched it slide free of her wet folds, I realized I had no business watching. Keeping my eyes open while I fucked Sienna was becoming a huge problem. She was turning me into a twat in more ways than one, the primary being I was far too deeply in love with her, and the secondary was without a doubt the fact she was more beautiful than any other woman on earth. Hell, I couldn’t even give her a good fucking and enjoy seeing it. Frustrated at the thought of me becoming soft, and feeling the need to give her a good hard fucking, I needed her to stop with the “I’m a tight-pussied little girl” routine.

  It was just too much.

  “Just stop it,” I sighed.

  She turned and glanced over her shoulder. “Stop what?”

  I leaned forward, gazed down toward her ass, and watched my cock disappear into her tight hole.

  I should have turned away.

  “Oh, god. You’re too big, please, please, Sir. Let me go. Don’t fuck my tight little pussy any more, I’m begging you,” she pouted.

  You really need to stop that.

  I grasped her waist in my hands, pulled my hips back, and as soon as I felt the head clear her pussy lips, pushed my hips forward again. As I felt her warmth surround the shaft, I pulled back again.

  I can do this. I can do this.

  I pushed myself inside her until I felt myself bottom out.

  “Please, let me go. Your cock is way too big, you’re going to rip my little pussy to shreds,” she whimpered.

  You ornery little bitch…

  I reached down, grabbed her ponytail in my hand, and pulled against it tight. As her back arched slightly, I pressed my hips against her ass, held them in place, and began to grind my cock in and out of her. With my free hand, I reached around and cupped my palm against her mouth.

  Fucking her deeply with her hair pulled tight, I tightened my grip on her mouth, preventing her from saying a word. Her muffled grunts against my hand, our fucking each other in an abandoned restaurant, the setting sun, and the fact her pussy really was tiny and tight was slowly working against me. I needed to close my eyes.

  Fuck it.

  I love this woman, what’s it really matter.

  “Take that big cock, little girl,” I bellowed as I pounded it deep in her pussy.

  She grunted against my hand.

  “That’s right. You’re getting that big biker dick now, aren’t you? And there isn’t a god damned thing you can do about is, is there?” I grunted.

  I pressed my chest to her back and moved my face beside hers. She turned her head to the side and widened her eyes. I pressed my hand against her mouth, continuing to muffle her voice into nothing but grunts.

  “Fuck no there isn’t. You’re fucked. I’m taking that pussy whether you like it or not,” I growled into her ear.

  “Because I can,” I whispered.

  I began to fuck her hard, fast, and without reservation. The sound of my hips slapping against her ass echoed down the empty corridor. With each stroke in, I pulled her hair back, causing her to arch her back even more.

  “You helpless little girl, what are you going to do to stop me? Huh?” I barked as I continued to fuck her.

  “Nothing. That’s what I thought,” I said through my teeth as I worked myself in and out of her tight twat.

  And I released her mouth from my grasp.

  “Holy shit,” she wailed.

  Instantly, her breathing became irregular and she began to grind her hips against me. Within a few seconds I felt her pussy contracting around my swollen shaft. I felt the tension building within me with each stroke, and I knew it would only be a matter of time…

  “I’m going to come in you,” I said.

  “Please don’t,” she breathed. “Please…let me…let me go…”

  And that was it.

  I arched my back, held my cock deep, and as she began to cry out into the room in pleasure, I erupted inside of her, filling her with all the proof I could that I felt the way I felt about her.

  After we both collapsed onto the table and lay side by side breathing like we’d just finished a marathon, she turned her head to the side and gave her best pouty face.

  “You don’t play fair,” she said, her bottom lip pushed out as far as she could push it.

  I raised my head slightly and gazed down at her. “And you do?”

  “I’m just a little girl,” she said with
a laugh. “With a really tight pussy and a willing throat…”

  I gazed down at my twitching cock. Just like that, she made me want more of her tight little pussy. She was clearly in control of my cock.

  There was no doubt I was a big mean motherfucker in the eyes of the fellas and in the minds of all who encountered me. There weren’t a handful of men on earth who I believed could beat me in a fist fight, and none could handle a knife better than me.

  But Sienna was turning me into a sexual twat with little stamina and no self-control, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it.

  Damn I love this woman.

  SIENNA

  May 10th, 2015

  Throughout our relationship, I continued to one-click and read romance novels like an addict, my actions mirroring a meth-head hitting the pipe. I had always wondered if anyone on earth had the same problem with buying and reading books that I had, but at this point in my life I doubted anyone was as bad as I was.

  I believed I initially started reading love stories to dream. The books were like fuel for my internal fire; giving me hope, providing me an outlet, and allowing me to live through the characters in the books in a manner I was incapable of living without them. Through the books, I was able to live in various places, experience exposure to a very diverse group of people, and do so in the comfort of my home without fear, worry, or ridicule. To me books were like magic, and the authors were nothing short of genius.

  After I met Vince, I knew I was living a dream and had no real need to continue to read about it, so I wondered if my reading pace would slow. It didn’t. Reading the books now, I didn’t dream as much, but I made comparisons.

  And none of the men in my love stories could compare to the reality of Vince.

  But it was still fun letting them try.

  I lifted the bottle to my lips, held it in place, and stared at the monitor.

  Inside Vera, by Claire Puckett, is nothing short of a masterpiece.

  I began the book and quickly found a down to earth relatable hero, and a heroine who didn’t whine, bitch or do dumb shit. With my interest peaked, I continued.

  The story unfolded at a quick pace, following each of them through their respective lives in a first person alternating POV format.

  Finding a different voice for each character must be a difficult task, because many authors simply change the name of the character at the beginning of the chapter, but in the absence of that one declaration, the characters seem to be the same. The personality, the speech, and the characteristics mimic the character in the previous chapter. Many male authors writing female leads are unaware of the female mind’s differences, and many female authors write male characters that seem feminine.

  Claire hits it out of the fucking park.

  A boxer running from his past meets a girl who should be running but isn’t (at least physically). She doesn’t realize it, but she is running farther and farther with each passing day, convinced she is loyal to her spouse.

  She is loyal, but she’s fading fast.

  The problem is that her husband is an abusive dick. Not the type of abuse that a woman soon recovers from; more the type that requires sunglasses to cover up.

  The ancillary characters in the book are almost as interesting as the mains, with the exception of one. The best friend of the boxer needs a book of his own (Claire, I’m begging you…)

  The book continues to follow the life of the boxer and the life of the abused woman, until their lives collide one day.

  And collide they do.

  I cheered, I screamed, I hid under my covers. I almost pissed my pants. I cheered again. I actually stood in the boxing ring. Yes, in the fucking ring; sweat dripping from my chin, my muscles aching, and waited for the opening to swing the perfect right cross into the jaw of my opponent.

  The book detail sheet said three hundred pages. I was certain it was more like fifty pages. Hell, I’d finished it in thirty minutes, I was sure. I glanced at my watch and eight hours had passed.

  And, as satisfied as I was, I wanted more.

  *swallows heavily and takes drink of wine*

  I grinned, took a long drink from the bottle, swallowed it, and took another. I hoped Claire herself would read the review and appreciate it, but I doubted that would be the case. What was more important to me was that everyone on Goodreads was able to understand my position on the book, and consider reading it. Hopefully, if they did they would enjoy it as much as I did.

  I took another drink, set the bottle aside, and stared down at the keyboard. After a moment of thought, I continued.

  So, I’ll close by saying this. The author made me fall in love with a bald-headed 220 pound hot-tempered thug who uses pruning shears to resolve his frustrations (read the book). I would have never guessed anyone could have caused me to feel this level of emotion for such a man, but she did.

  For her ability to tell a story such as this, keeping my interest and making me cry the entire trip, all the while using characters that are clearly unconventional, I give five stars.

  For making me fall in love with aforementioned bald guy, two more.

  For the perfect ending, two more.

  And, for taking me into a sport I know nothing of and making me feel like I know everything about boxing, another.

  So….

  On a five star scale, I give ten.

  Thank you, Claire.

  Thank you.

  I stopped typing, studied the screen for a moment, and pressed the button to publish my review. Half a bottle of wine and two reviews later, and I was down to my last review. Of all the books I had read in the last year, I wanted to review this one the least. It was an awful book, terribly disturbing, and not something I would have ever continued to read had I not been persuaded to do so by the author. The thought of writing the review made me feel ill, hence saving it for last.

  As much enjoyment as I got out of writing reviews, and as entertaining as I found drafting them to be, one thing I always felt terrible about was when an author asked me personally to read and review a book, and the book ended up being awful. Typically, when I received a book I simply couldn’t get interested in, or if I found it to be poorly written, or something I simply felt I would be incapable of reviewing honestly, I would attempt to get the author to allow me to not review the book.

  No harm, no foul, so to speak.

  Well, on this particular book, the author refused my request to not review the book, stating that he wanted the book reviewed regardless. In fact, even after I reluctantly finished the book and still didn’t want to review it, he insisted on it.

  I want your opinion, he said.

  Believe me, you don’t, I responded.

  Yet, he insisted.

  I walked to the kitchen, realized I was just north of a drunken mess, and opened bottle number two. I fully realized I didn’t need any more wine, but I wanted more. I removed the cork, poured a glass, and re-corked the bottle.

  That’ll make sure I don’t overdo it.

  I slid the bottle to the side, took a sip from my glass, and stumbled toward the room.

  After drinking half the glass of wine in one slurp, I pushed it to the side and began to type.

  A Man, a Woman, and a Knife, by Alton Parsons was a book I would not normally read. At the insistence of the author, I went against the grain of my comfort zone and read the book for review.

  And.

  I can’t brush my teeth enough or drink enough wine to get the foul taste out of my mouth.

  *bile rises in throat*

  Thinking about this book is making me sick, which is typically okay, but there was no real reason for the scenes that are making me sick to have been in the book. They served no purpose whatsoever.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like dark reads. I like books that make me check and double check my front and back doors to make sure they’re locked. I like books that make me cringe, and I love books that make me cough up matter that I wish would have stayed in my stomach
.

  But.

  I despise books that have subject matter randomly inserted into them for no reason, and were clearly done for shock value alone.

  In considering what to type next, I began thinking about the book. Thinking about the book caused me to get angry, and my anger immediately turned to thirst. I finished my glass of wine, walked to the kitchen and poured another. Half a glass later, and I was back to writing my review.

  “Show, don’t tell”, is good advice to all authors. I have always felt the author should allow the reader into the mind of the character, to some degree. But. Don’t tell me he’s angry, have him cross his arms and kick a rock. Don’t tell me “it was a terribly hot day in Atlanta”, tell me “my breath was nearly sucked from my lungs as we walked out of the airport, and the sun bore down on us like a heavy weight as we walked what seemed like a mile and a half to the parking garage…”

  This book is so full of purple prose that it made reading it feel as if I was being told a story in detail in lieu of seeing it happen in my mind.

  And, it was full, and I do mean FULL of two hundred pages of graphically detailed violence that need not be in it to tell the story.

  After the first chapter I fully understood Barton Sole was an animal, a psychopath, and that he had a temper like a human Tasmanian devil. But to continue to beat a dead horse (or in this case, beat a dead prostitute) in the manner the he did (through, of course, the author’s tale) until her skull was in pieces on the floor and brain matter was on the walls…

  I lifted my glass and took another drink.

  And another.

  And then it was gone. I half crawled half stumbled to the kitchen, poured the last of the wine into my glass, and zig-zagged back to my room. After pouring half the wine on my pajamas and the other half down my throat, I began typing.

  Fine.

  The first time, I felt it was okay. A little graphic, but I lived with it because it allowed me to FULLY understand the man was a fucking lunatic.

  But, the sixteen additional chapters telling detail upon detail of “I’m so angry I think the only way to diffuse this situation is to bash in the skull of another prostitute” is taking it a bit too far.