Rebel: (Boneyard Brotherhood MC Romance Book 3)

by Amber Burns

  Suddenly Rowan pulled his throbbing cock from Nina’s center, and a stream of clear liquid spurted from her pussy, spraying his dick with pleasure. Her back arched and she reached forward and ran her hand up and down his thick shaft, her eyes rolling back as he lifted his arms and felt his body bursting with ecstasy, cresting the peak of beautiful climax, reaching the tops of pleasure as he finished, milky droplets raining down to kiss the beauty of her trembling breasts.

  Nina’s hand fell from his cock, and he fell down to his hands and knees, breathing heavily, beads of sweat pouring down his forehead, catching on his eyelids, tangling with the coal black strands of his beard. He stared at her body, her heaving, perfect form, still writhing with pleasure, her lean, pale legs twisting back and forth in the after effect of the bliss, her hands roaming mindlessly over her own body, spreading the milky product of his climax over her naked breasts in a way that made his heart flutter like he had never before known was possible. He stared at the small mound of her pubic bone, the way it raised upwards and fell down, over and over again, still riding the rhythm of the orgasm, still radiating the pure bliss of having ridden his cock, of having taken his own body inside her own, and he felt himself overwhelmed with attraction.

  His lust pressed down hard upon him, and he ran a hand through his hair, steadying himself; he straightened his beard. Rowan felt his lust for this fiery girl becoming something more. It was at that moment, as he struggled to catch his breath while watching her pale white form writhing, her curves slithering like the tattooed inky serpent eternally slithered down his own body, that he swore he would always protect this girl; no matter what it took. He felt himself overwhelmed by attraction to this strange city girl, and he could not for the life of him understand why, yet he knew at that moment, with this green-eyed girl staring up at him, her eyes full of intrigue, amazement, and attraction, that she was his, and she would always be his. He would make damn sure of that.

  You are not losing this one, Rowan, he thought as his dick finally began to lose its erection. He brushed grass from his abs and stared down at her, fighting the feeling of tears that prickled the backs of his eyes. No matter what it takes, you are not losing this wonder of a girl.

  Rowan watched as Nina pushed herself upwards from the ground, curving her exquisite body upward towards him. He watched as she shook the tangled flames of her hair from her face and then tilted her head up towards the sun, collecting warmth upon her cheeks, her chin. She closed her eyes and a smile, genuine, her perfectly pink lips carving pure joy across her freckled face, filled her face. Rowan laughed, and she opened her eyes and leaned forward, pressing her fingers against his thighs.

  “Why are you laughing?” she asked, her green eyes glinting playfully. “Was that funny to you?”

  Rowan laughed again and shook his head, sending his mass of dark hair shivering through the wind. Then he smoothed his beard, sliding tattoos across his chin, and set his fingers atop Nina’s.

  “Funny?” he asked, looking into her eyes. “Funny, no.” He poured the coal black embers of his pupils into her green meadow irises in a way that sent goosebumps racing down Nina’s spine. “But fun?” And Rowan’s lips twisted into a half-smile, making him a picture of impossible attraction for Nina. “Fun, Nina, yes. It was the most fun I have had in…” His face suddenly clouded, and he pulled his fingers away. He reached for his pants and stood, beginning again to redress himself. “...in a long time,” he continued.

  Nina lazed in the soft grass, watching the pants slide up Rowan’s legs, the muscles of his arms twitching as he worked the jeans back on. She absentmindedly picked a dead leaf from the ground beside her and began to tear it into tiny, red-orange pieces that fell across her taut stomach. Rowan reached down and tugged his shirt over his head, his toned back slipping out of view. He stepped away from her, and the sun instantly flashed down upon Nina, blinding her and knocking her head down into the grass. She grabbed at her temples and cried out, her concussed head screaming in pain at the sudden brightness of the sun. Then she rolled over and threw up on the grass.

  Rowan turned sharply and grabbed Nina by the hips. He lifted her upright with tender hands and pulled her hair gently away from her face. He ran his tattooed fingers over her cheeks and spun her slowly his way, careful not to cause her any more dizziness, any more pain. He bent down slightly and wiped the vomit from her lips.

  “Hey,” he said softly, running a hand through her hair. “Are you okay there, babe?”

  His tone made Nina crumbled into his chest, tears pricking her eyes. She gripped his waist and shielded her face from the dizzying glare of the sun.

  “Hey,” Rowan said, bending down to meet her face. “It’s okay, Nina.”

  He cupped a gentle hand beneath her chin and tried to steady her eyes. Staring into the green glass orbs of this pale, naked fairy, he saw that she seemed unable to focus; her gaze wandered back and forth, up and down, circling upon itself. His brow furrowed with concern and in one swift movement he stood to his full height and scooped her up in his strong and able arms. Her face lolled to the side, and her eyelids fluttered closed.

  “Hey now, Nina,” he whispered tenderly, beginning to carry her carefully back to the wooden cabin. “It really is going to be alright. I’ve got you. I’m going to take care of you.”

  He squeezed her tightly, overwhelmed by the beauty he held in his arms. Her cheek pressed against his chest and he felt his heartbeat begin to quicken, felt that he might scream out in joy out of pure and overwhelming love, the love he felt for this strange, fairy-like girl with pale skin and a smart tongue, this girl he held against him at the centre of a forest, beneath a smiling autumn sky. He bent his neck forward and kissed Nina softly on her sleeping forehead.

  “I may not be the rich smary asshole you might have imagined yourself with,” he whispered to her, stroking her cheek. “But I promise you, I am here to watch over you, to care for you, to protect you while you heal. No harm shall come to you while you’re getting over this concussion. That I promise you, beauty.”

  He used his shoulder to push open the cabin door, in order not to disturb the red headed goddess from her slumber. He walked through the entryway and kitchen, then slowly lowered her onto his bed. Nina’s head sunk into the pillows and a graceful smile painted itself across her face. He leaned forward and kissed her softly on her pink lips, braiding dark black hair with fiery red, an orchestration of ember and flame. Then he stood up and stared down at her fondly.

  “You are safe here, my beautiful Nina,” Rowan whispered. “Respect, protection, and awe… awe at your beauty, the stunning light that radiates from your eyes. That is what you have from me.”

  With that, Rowan crept from the room and quietly closed the door, leaving the girl with the mane of flames to heal herself in the protected comfort of his own bed.

  5

  Several Years Earlier

  “Mr. Davis.”

  The blonde woman with the slicked back hair nodded curtly at him as Rowan rushed into the lobby. He pulled at his tie, straightening the dark fabric against his chest, and cleared his throat.

  “Morning, Dawn,” he called distractedly, lifting his briefcase to signal a quick hello. The secretary’s lips twitched slightly, and she fitted him with a stiff smile.

  “We’re getting in rather late this morning, aren’t we,” she commented, forcing the words through her red painted lips. He halted and turned to her, adjusting the tuck of his shirt so that he became the very picture of professionalism. He stood to his full height, tossing back his shoulders, throwing his dark hair back from his face.

  “Are we?” he asked, staring her directly in her icy gray eyes. “Hm, I hadn’t noticed.” He twisted his wrist so that he could glance at the oversized silver watch that snaked around his arm. “Ah, I suppose we are.” He grinned at Dawn with unsmiling eyes. “You are ever so attentive, Ms. Clearwater. That must be why they keep you around here, hm?”

  Dawn’s lips tightened, and a ve
in in her left temple trembled slightly. She folded her manicured nails upon her desk and smiled back at him.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Davis, I am sure you are correct. Have a great day now,” she said.

  He shouldered the door open and raised his cup of take-out coffee towards the secretary in a salute of cheers.

  “Ah, yes, you too,” he yelled as he walked through the door. And then, beneath his breath, he muttered. “Have a fucking wonderous day.”

  He made his way through the maze of cubicles, ducking his head in salutation as his co-workers raised their hands in silent hellos, phones pressed to their ears. He passed Adam’s desk, and Adam grinned at him.

  “Hey, big guy,” he said, emptying the contents of three packets of sugar into a milky looking coffee. “How’s it hanging on this fine, fine morning?”

  Rowan snorted at shook his head.

  “Your choice of phrasing is always so on point, Adam,” he chuckled as he continued onwards to his own cubicle.

  Rowan dropped his briefcase onto the floor, and it sounded with a satisfying thump. He fell into his chair and slapped his take out coffee cup onto his desk. He leaned back and booted up his computer. While it whizzed and whirred to life, Rowan massaged the dark leather of the chair with his hands. He grinned as he spied the triangular peak of his newest tattoo, a great, roaring mountain, done entirely in blackwork, peeking its head from the top of his dress shirt sleeve. He smiled and scooted his chair forward, punching at the computer keyboard to log himself in for the day. Rowan had not even opened his email before he heard the voice behind him.

  “A little late today, are we not, Mr. Davis?”

  Rowan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, steadying himself for the conversation he knew lay just ahead of him. He gripped the arms of the leather chair and slowly spun himself around, a pleasant smile carefully plastered across his clean shaven face.

  “Ahh, hello Isla,” he purred, his chair coming to a swiveling stop in front of his boss. Her tight skirt stretched appealing across her legs, and her blouse dipped low down her chest, revealing ample cleavage. He grinned more genuinely, pleased to find her dressed so attractively.

  “Mr. Davis,” Ilsa said sharply, giving him a look filled with knives. Then she dropped her voice and leaned forward slightly, speaking rapidly in whispered tones. “You are not to call me by my first name here at work, Rowan,” she said. “And you know better than that. It would totally undermine my professionalism if anyone found out, so seriously, cut it out.” Ilsa cleared her throat and stood back up to her full height, yanking at her impossibly tight skirt to straighten out its lay across her supple thighs. “As I was saying,” she continued, her voice escalating back to its normal, assertive pitch. “We are a little late today, are we not?”

  Rowan dropped the grin from his face and executed a half turn in his wheely leather chair. He grabbed his coffee cup and swiveled back around smoothly. “Hmm,” he said, arching a single eyebrow up his forehead, pursing his lips in mock contemplation. “Well, actually, I would say that we are a little provocatively clad today, are we not?” He tilted back his coffee cup and sipped, never taking his eyes from Ilsa’s own eyes.

  Ilsa blushed deeply, crimson filling her round cheeks. She squeezed her manicured fingers together and rolled her eyes at the man wheeling around in the oversized leather desk chair. Then she cleared her throat again, flattened down her hair, and adjusted the top button of her blouse. Rowan watched, captivated by the slow, deliberate movement of Ilsa’s fingers around the top button of her impossibly tight dress shirt. Staring him down, she slowly slid the top button of her blouse free, revealing the tops of her large breasts, pressing hard and full and round against the tops of her lacy bra. Rowan swallowed, swiveled his chair back around, and placed his coffee cup back on his desk.

  “It does not, in fact, matter how I am or am not dressed,” Ilsa began, slowly walking across the room towards his desk, her high heels dragging teasingly across the floor. “What does matter, Mr. Rowan Davis, is that you. Are. Late.” She dragged a painted nail across his desk and flicked him against the arm. “And I figured,” she said, her voice dropping several octaves and falling into that deep, gruff tenor voice she reserved specifically for workplace propositions. “That you might want to, you know… make it up to me.”

  Rowan glanced at his boss from the sides of his eyes, filling his gaze with a tantalizing view of her perfectly shaped breasts rising and falling against the lacy bra. He felt his crotch begin to harden and he drummed his fingers against the sides of the empty take-out coffee cup, trying to focus. Finally, he let out his breath in a rush, knocked over the coffee cup, and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his dress pants.

  “Alright. Fine,” he agreed, standing up carefully and walking out of the cubicle. “I’ll help you out with that special project you want me to help you with.”

  Ilsa quickly snapped the top button of her blouse back together and followed closely behind him as they wound their way through the maze of cubicles.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Davis,” she said loudly, so that everyone they passed could hear her. “Yes, you really are the very best when it comes to the work I require. It demands a very particular type of expertise, and I dare say you that, in this special department, you are truly the best we have.”

  Rowan snorted and rolled his eyes at her words, which succeeded in winning him a sharp slap against the lower back, courtesy of Ilsa. They arrived at the heavy steel door that guarded her office, and he stepped aside to allow her wide hips to sidle past him. She pressed her key card to the door’s keypad and it chirped in mechanical approval. The door slid open, and she strutted into the room, her hips swaying hypnotically back and forth.

  Rowan stepped through the entrance way, and the steel door immediately slid shut behind him. Without thinking, he began to slide his arms free from his suit jacket, and loosen the tie that hung around his neck. Ilsa turned and stared at him, a single laugh dropping from between her thin lips, her face curling with amusement.

  “Alright,” she said, nodding his way, her eyes gleaming with power and devilish joy. “Let’s get started.”

  ***

  Ilsa leaned over a mirror, reapplying deep maroon lipstick to her skinny lips. Rowan, his back turned to her, adjusted his tie so that it hung more neatly down his freshly buttoned up shirt. He slipped his arms back into his finely pressed suit jacket and snapped the lapels. Finally, Ilsa turned, finding her gaze falling upon Rowan, the image of professionalism but for a few scraggly hairs peeking out from behind his ears.

  “Thank you again for your help with the project,” she said, standing before the door.

  “Absolutely,” Rowan returned, fixing his tie more tightly around his neck. “Do let me know if you require any further assistance.”

  Ilsa nodded, her face straight, but her eyes electric with icy humor. “Oh, of course,” she said. “I’m sure I will not hesitate.”

  Rowan nodded, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and began to make for the door. He approached the steel entranceway, but Ilsa still stood in his way. She held her key card aloft, several inches away from the computerized pad.

  “And, Mr. Davis,” she added, her voice returning to its boss like assertiveness once again. “That snake you have got curling around your middle is absolutely atrocious. Do see that you don’t make a habit out of this wild man and tattoo thing. It will not do so well for your professional image,” she said. Her face was smiling, but her eyes had clouded over with a wintry warning.

  Rowan’s eyes darkened, and he forced a grin across his face.

  “Right,” he said. “Of course.”

  Ilsa stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded, apparently satisfied and pressed her key card against the computerized recognition pad. The chirp sounded with a flash of green light, and the door slid open again.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Davis,” she called as he walked past her. “And remember your professional image.”


  “Absolutely,” Rowan said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, and Ilsa,” he added, turning back around suddenly. “Don’t fret about me turning all no-pro on you. The upkeep of my professional image is precisely why I was late this morning. The new Harley I purchased before work certainly does wonders for my image, wouldn’t you say?”

  Ilsa’s jaw dropped open, and her eyes burned with anger. She made as if to run after him but stopped herself when she realized the eyes of half of the office were trained upon her. Instead, she swallowed her words and, over the burning of her rage, cried out,

  “Mr. Davis! Mr. Davis!”

  Rowan was already tucked back safely inside his cubicle, toying with the keys for his new ride, laughing to himself.