His Mad Passion: Her Stepbrother's Desire, a Death Lords MC (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 17)

by Ella Goode

  Her body is sloped downward, her shoulders taking the brunt of her weight as I devour her. The angled position of her body pushes her hips higher. I shoulder her legs farther apart until she is completely exposed. The taste of her drives me wild. My cock is leaking pre-come all over my groin. I have to be inside her. So much for my plans to go slow, I think ruefully. I pick up the pace with my tongue, bringing a little sting to the party by biting her clit. She screams and her come floods my mouth.

  As she comes, I drop one hand to my lap and unbuckle and unzip. I pull my steel pipe out and drop her onto my lap, straight onto my dick.

  She screams again when I impale her but I know her by now. That’s a scream of pleasure and I don’t stop hammering into her. She clutches my head to her chest so hard my mouth and nose are mashed in between her big tits. If I suffocate between these mounds, I’d die a happy man.

  The long fall of her hair brushes my hand and I grab it and tug her neck backward so all her vulnerable parts are exposed to my ravening mouth. I bite and kiss her tender skin, pulling her hair as she grinds on my lap. It’s a fucking miracle we don’t break the chair.

  The need to come is pressing against my spine but I hold on, gritting my teeth and blocking out my own desperate need. I feel her spasm around me, her tight walls rhythmically squeezing me until I can’t stop my own orgasm spiraling out of control. My hips hammer upward while I drive into her again and again until I’m completely spent.

  She collapses against me, her body trembling and shaking from the force of her orgasm. I tuck her head into the hollow of my shoulder and rub my hands over her back until her breathing evens out and her body stills. I hold her until I feel the come leak out of her.

  A thrill jets up my spine.

  There’s something real primitive about knowing my jizz is all over her body. It’s a toss-up whether I like coming on her or inside her more. On the one hand, it’s awesome to have her cunt milk me while I come but on the other hand, there isn’t anything like seeing my spunk all over her tits, her ass or even her face. God, that’s hot.

  I can feel myself stirring again. It’s nice to be young and have almost no recovery issues.

  “I’m good to go again.”

  “Again? You’re an animal.” I can’t see her because her face is hidden but I can hear the euphoria in her voice. She’s going to have a hard time walking tomorrow.

  * * *

  Chelsea finally dozes off but her sleep is fitful. She tosses and turns which makes it impossible to get any rest. Chelsea has always had a sixth sense about things. The same dark cloud she complains of now existed right before I got sent away to prison. Around two in the morning, I finally get up because damned if I can sleep either. The dirty dishes are still sitting on the table. It’s amazing none of them fell off while I was fucking her. I find a plastic container and dump the now-cold noodles into it. The sauce goes on top and I shove the whole thing in the refrigerator. The pots in the sink are filled with cold soapy water. I pour everything out and load the dishwasher.

  The kitchen is relatively clean and I figure if that isn’t blow job worthy, I don’t know what is. I settle my ass in front of the television but a sharp knock at the door diverts my attention before I can turn the set on. The only folks who have business with me this late—or early because the clock on the microwave says its around two in the morning—would be members of the Club. But my old man’s the president and he’d call…usually.

  The knock comes again, louder and insistent. If the fucker at the door doesn’t quit, he’ll wake Chelsea. I vault over the back of the sofa and am at the door but I don’t answer fast enough because Chels appears in the doorway wrapped in one of my t-shirts, looking sexy as fuck. Opening the door is the last thing I want to do but we both know that I have to.

  “It’s the Club,” she says, and for the first time I hear real annoyance. No, it’s more than annoyance. It’s almost…disgust.

  She’s grown up with the Club as part of her life, but she resents it now because she swears that if I wasn’t trying to protect a brother, I wouldn’t have gone to prison. I don’t even try to argue with her because she’s right. But standing up for the brothers who have your back is what makes a man worthy of wearing the patch.

  “Go to bed, baby. Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it and be back in bed before you know it.”

  “Bullshit,” she coughs into her hand but she spins around and retreats to the bedroom. Better that she doesn’t know who is at the door. If it’s Easy or Michigan then my hands are getting bloody. If it’s Judge, well, shit’s about to go down.

  The door shakes under more pounding.

  “Fucking A, I’m coming,” I snarl as I throw the lock and open the door. Whatever I plan to say next dies in my throat as four of Fortune’s shiny boys in blue stand there wearing smirks. Behind the four police officers stands Schmidthead, our Chief of Police. He’s smiling so broadly that I wonder if his face is going to crack.

  The shithead closest to me slams a piece of paper onto my chest.

  “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

  “On what grounds?” I quickly read the warrant. On this day an application supported by an Information on oath was made by Chief of Police Eric Schmidt, bla bla la, for the purposes of ascertaining whether evidence of a criminal act including but not limited to the homicide of Jessica Trainor. Jessica? That seems like too ordinary of a name for that bitch.

  The brush of the police as they enter wakes me from my shocked stupor. Our apartment consists of three rooms, four if you separate the kitchen from the living room, which I don’t. And in two more steps, the assholes are going to be at the bedroom door where Chelsea is either naked or wearing my t-shirt and lying innocently on our bed.

  Fuck that.

  No one gets to see her like that but me.

  Maybe it’s because I’m still in shock or maybe it’s because I feel like my woman is being threatened, but I don’t stop to think how my actions will be perceived. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t give a good goddamn what these assholes think because I leap forward and push by the two uniforms to warn Chelsea.

  The boys in blue don’t like that and strike back. One of them swings a stick at my head. I duck and punch at the same time, driving my head into his chest. My momentum slams him against the wall and I hear his head crack against the drywall with a satisfying thunk. He tries to bring his knee up but I block that by sweeping my leg to the side.

  A blow to the back of my head staggers me and my vision blurs. I feel the air displaced as the fist from the second attacker swings toward me. I release the asshole in front of me and drop to my knees. The second guy falls into the first who tries to check his swing but comically ends up punching his buddy.

  But I don’t get away clean because the third boy in blue is there and his boot makes contact with my forehead. I crash into the two behind me and we all go down in a pile of thrashing limbs and bloody noses. The skin above my left eye is split and the warm drip of blood is making it hard to see who or what I’m hitting.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” Chelsea screams.

  “Stay away, Chels,” I order. I don’t want her hurt.

  “You touch him again and I’m going to sue all of you for police brutality,” she yells.

  “He assaulted a police officer.”

  “You fuckers hit me first!”

  Above me I hear a scuffle and then Schmidthead growling at Chels. “Stop that. You stop that right now.”

  “No, I’ve got a right to record your actions. This is being posted tomorrow if you don’t stop hurting him.”

  The cuffs go on and I’m jerked upright. Through the blood and the rapidly swelling eye, I can see Chelsea dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. Her hands are shaking but she’s holding her cell phone up videotaping every second.

  “Call Judge.”

  She nods and they lead me away.

  3

  CHELSEA

  I tape it all. Chief Schmidt and two o
ther officers walking him out the apartment and down the stairs. The two shoving his head toward the edge of the car frame and him struggling a bit not to get hurt as they roughly push him into the squad car.

  The two remaining officers are upstairs ransacking the place but they aren’t going to find a thing other than a Glock which is registered to me even though it’s clearly a man’s gun. Big grip, extra-long barrel. It’s on Grant’s side of the bed but they don’t know that.

  The rest of our stuff? My laptop where I’m searching for community college classes? They can have it.

  Once Grant’s taken away, I race upstairs.

  Kelly Paulson, a dipshit who was two years behind me in school, is pawing through my underwear drawer. The scrawny-ass kid still has acne but the badge makes him feel big and strong. He lifts a pair of black lace panties to his face and sniffs. “Nice, bitch. Why don’t you model these for us and maybe we’ll give Harrison a meal while he’s inside.”

  “Smile for the camera Office Kelly Paulson because tomorrow you’re going to be viral.” I pause for effect. “Bitch.”

  He grimaces and tosses the underwear in the drawer, slamming it shut with his hip. “Probably got crabs anyway. Club slut, aren’t you? Willing to fuck anything and anyone including your brother?”

  Wouldn’t fuck you I want to retort but I bite my tongue because anything I say is going to be on camera too. I keep recording as they make their way through our tiny place. Drawers are pulled out and dumped on the floor. Cushions are tossed off the sofa and then the entire thing is tipped upside down. Paulson pulls out a knife and starts cutting away the bottom of it.

  “Hey, you can’t do that!” I protest.

  “Sure can.” And despite my objections, he cuts the entire webbing off the bottom. Of course there isn’t anything there which results in him cursing up a storm. The other officer, who I probably should know but I don’t, pulls him away. Mark? Matt? Mick? I can’t remember.

  “You got anything?” Paulson asks. The officer shakes his head no. I want to scream at them that of course they didn’t find shit. We aren’t idiots. Grant has a felony record and he’s on fucking parole so we’re not going to have shit in our apartment that would get him sent back. The fact is that other than the Club activities, there isn’t anything in our life that we need to hide. Neither of us do drugs. We don’t spend money we haven’t earned and we don’t have any illegal goods in the apartment.

  Whatever the Club does that is outside of the law isn’t allowed to touch the personal lives of the families and even if I wasn’t Grant’s girlfriend, I am the stepdaughter of the Death Lords’ president which means I’m within that circle of protection.

  The police would have a far better chance of finding stuff over at Miller’s munitions plant, the factory that employs fifty percent of the town, but that place is off limits. If Chief Schmidt brought down the number one employer of our community, he’d be strung up before dawn.

  “Where’d he put it Chelsea?”

  “Put what?”

  “The gun?”

  “My gun is in the nightstand by my bed.”

  He holds up the big .45. “This isn’t the one and you know it. Trainor was shot with a .22.”

  “Mrs. Trainor?” I suck in a breath. “Jessica Trainor?”

  “Yeah, the bitch you argued with this morning. I hear that Harrison takes it real personal when someone gets in your face. You run home to your daddy and brother and complain about how you were treated in the grocery store?” he sneers. “After that do they take turns sticking it in you?”

  I don’t care about the video anymore. I launch myself at him but before I can scratch his eyes out or knee him in the junk, MarkMattMick catches me.

  “Shut up, man,” MarkMattMick says and drags me back. I’m not a puny weakling and it takes him some effort. After struggling for a minute, the red in front of my eyes clears and I take a deep breath. None of this is going to help Grant and he’s my number one concern.

  I shove Matt’s arms away. I remember his name now. He’s four years older than me but I think he’s related to Lea Albertson who teaches tenth grade history.

  Straightening my t-shirt, I pick up the phone I dropped and start the camera again. “Didn’t know you were so concerned about who got in my pants, Paulson.”

  “I wouldn’t touch you if you paid me money,” he spits.

  “Let’s go.” Matt places a hand on Paulson’s shoulder. “We’re done here.”

  Paulson shrugs it off. “Gimme a minute. If you don’t tell me where the gun is that Harrison used, you could go down for accessory. He’s the one we want. Don’t waste your time on him.”

  “Why the fake concern, Paulson? I’m not giving out pity fucks and even if I was, it wouldn’t be to you. Besides, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Accessory to fucking what? I need these two to leave so I can get to Judge. If he had Grant do wetwork for the club while on parole I will be…what? Hurt, afraid, angry as all hell? Yes, all of those things.

  Matt corrals Paulson and hustles him out of the apartment before we can have another go at each other. “We’re leaving. Let’s go down to the station.”

  Paulson resists at first but a quick look around the destroyed room reveals that there’s nothing else he can damage in here. Except me of course but to really ruin me, he’d have to get Grant and Grant’s down at the station.

  I put on a brave, cocky face because I’d rather slice my fingers off than let these assholes think that I’m either worried or upset even though I’m dying inside. If Grant gets sent away again, I don’t know how I’ll survive it.

  With shaky hands, I hurriedly throw on my sweats, a heavy jacket and my boots. Tears prick my eyes when I remember that they dragged Grant out of here in his boxers and bare feet. I stuff a bag full of stuff for him so when he’s released, he’ll have some clothes. I don’t bother locking the door behind me as I clamber down the apartment stairs. The truck is cold when I start it. I let the engine run while I dial Judge’s phone.

  He picks up on the second ring. “What do you need?” he says in his deep voice, slightly scratchy from being woken up.

  I almost lose it. Judge and I grew close when Grant was away for three years. I kept living with him even after I graduated because I couldn’t bear to be alone. I hadn’t had any father figure for the first fourteen years of my life, but Judge made up for that lack. And he’d given me Grant. I love him dearly and I’d give a lot to have a fatherly hug right now.

  Damn Paulson for his gross comments. One of these days, when he least expects it, I am going to pay him back.

  “They took Grant in,” I manage to choke out.

  “Who and where?” Any trace of sleep is obliterated.

  “Police station. Chief Schmidt showed up with four others. They had a warrant to search our apartment and they took Grant in. One of them mentioned Jessica Trainor being shot.”

  “Trainor? That the woman you had the run in with at the grocery store today?”

  Ugh. Small towns. “Yes.”

  “Did they find anything at the apartment?”

  “Nothing there to be found. I’ve got the Glock in my name and that’s all we have other than a lockbox with some cash in it. They took that and the gun.”

  “What about the truck?”

  “No.” A high pitched laugh escapes me. The truck’s in my name, part of a property transfer that the lawyer had us do when Grant’s case looked grim. But since Grant’s been out, this cage has been his winter ride and from Judge’s question, I’m guessing there is shit in here that belongs to the Club.

  “Jesus.” His sigh is briefly muffled as if he was running a hand over his face. “Let me get dressed and I’ll go down to the station.”

  “I’m already there.”

  My one leg is halfway out of the truck when he tells me to stop. “No, honey, go back to your apartment. I’m going to send the new patch Abel over and he’ll help you clean up. Let me take care of Wrecker and the
police.”

  Unwelcome suspicion scratches at the back of my neck. Go home? Let Judge take care of Wrecker? “Is this Club business?” I ask even though I know better. If it is Club business I don’t have any right to know. I’m not a member of the Club. Ordinarily that doesn’t bother me. I’ve never wanted to be part of Death Lords. I’m not a fan of their sex fueled parties and their marginal respect for the law. The only motorcycle I care about is the one that Grant operates.

  When I was younger, before my mom met Judge, she dragged me around from biker festival to biker festival with a few music stops thrown in for variety looking for some patch to sink her hooks into. How she ever caught Judge is a mystery to me although I’m starting to suspect he took her on so I could have a home rather than any warm feelings toward her. She took off soon enough when Judge refused to feed her drug habit and started finding relief in club bitches. He didn’t ever appear broken up about it but then again he had a steady stream of sweet butts to warm his dick whenever he needed it.

  But my feelings toward the Club are going to turn from tolerance to antipathy if I hear Grant was out doing dirty work for the Club. Although what kind of dirty work involved offing a country club loud mouth, I couldn’t begin to guess.

  “You’re upset so I’m not going to repeat you what you already know.” That’s Judge’s way of telling me it’s none of my business. “But I know how long Wrecker’s parole lasts as well as you and I’m not jeopardizing that.”

  The gentleness in his voice makes me feel like shit. “I know. I’m sorry.” And then to my dismay I start crying. My hair is sticking up in five different directions. I’m wearing one of Wrecker’s barn coats, have no socks on, and it’s about ten degrees out. The tears turn ice cold the minute they leave my eyes.

  “Go home, Chelsea. I’m going to call our lawyer and this will all go away. We both know Grant didn’t kill Trainor and the police don’t have anything on him.”