Hard Rider (A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance)

by Wild, Nikki

  He growled against my clit, used one hand to push me back down onto the bed, grabbing at my breast, letting me know who was in charge. Sucking my clit between his lips, he drove his fingers against my g-spot, harder with each curling thrust. My hips worked against him, desire whipping against my flesh, hurtling me through a darkness I hadn't known in a long time. I could feel the wave building in my womb, his tongue a symphony against my swollen clit, his hands rough and demanding and everything I needed.

  “Cross...oh, Cross, fuck, Cross..!” I breathed his name again and again as the wave built and swelled inside me. Any moment, I would shatter. He could sense it too, and his tongue wrapped around my clit, flicking it while his fingers worked inside me. He drew his teeth down, only just barely grazing my throbbing clit, and the sharpness drove me over the edge.

  The wave broke and ran its current through my veins, pleasure stiffening my spine, my muscles turned to rubber bands as my pussy flooded his palm. He kept holding me, licking me, through it all, through my frenzied cries, my hands grabbing at his head like he was the only thing keeping me on earth. Finally, I had to push his head away, the sensations turning from pleasure to pain as my overstimulated clit throbbed.

  “Shit,” I breathed, feeling deflated – and yet as he rose between my legs, hard as rock behind his jeans, I found myself heated all over again, hungry for his taste.

  “I told you,” he said through a smirk. “Next time…”

  “Shut up,” I hissed, coming to my knees and grabbing his head, bringing it down to meet my lips. I moaned, the taste of him on my tongue so dirty it hurt. He kissed me back, toying with my tongue, gripping my hair in both hands. Finally, I pulled away, licking my lips and looking down at the bulge in his pants. I reached down, cupped it, and met his eyes again, daring him to stop me.

  My fingers were shaking. He was so hard, I could feel him pulsing even through the thick denim of his jeans; unleashing it, I moaned, remembering its thickness, its length, how it fit perfectly inside my tight pussy. But tonight, I would only taste him. I couldn't fuck him with this secret on my shoulders; but I could taste him, and that's just what I wanted to do.

  He was impatient, and buried his hands in my hair, pushing me forward until my tongue met his silky head, a drop of pre-cum sliding down my throat, musky and so fucking hot. There was no way I could fit the whole shaft into my mouth, so I gripped the base in one hand while my tongue lapped at the head, his groan of pleasure inciting fever in my movement.

  I wanted to make him come, show him he wasn't the only one with a magic tongue. His hips thrust forward, driving himself into my mouth, taking me at his own pace. I kept up, running my tongue along the bottom of his shaft, sucking the tender flesh against my cheeks and towards my throat.

  When I could, I looked up, saw his eyes on me, watching me suck him. My hand pumped at the base of his shaft, the rest of him disappearing, inch by inch, into my mouth. I hummed as his head hit my throat, felt the vibration all the way down. He gripped my hair harder, nearly tugging the strands from my scalp, letting me know that he liked me just where I was; I wasn't going anywhere soon.

  “Touch yourself.”

  I was already wet as a river, my clit hypersensitive. Now, with his cock in my throat, I was ready to come again, my hand flying to my dripping pussy, rolling along my clit as I moaned in satisfaction and gratitude. Cross grabbed my head in both hands, held it in place. I couldn't move, and didn't want to. I wanted to come with his dick in my throat, I wanted him to fuck my mouth until he burst inside me. His hips drove slow and hard against my face, my breathing ragged, my fingers flying across and around my swollen clit.

  “Holy shit, Bex,” he groaned, watching me touch myself and suck his cock at the same time. Hearing him say my name was crippling, and I moaned, nearly collapsed down onto my heels, every sensation magnified. I closed my eyes, just letting it all roll through me, the building pressure in my womb, Cross' thrusts growing faster and harder, pushing himself into my throat, abusing my mouth. I matched the pace of my fingers to his thrusts, tears threatening to stream down my cheeks as he pumped into my throat.

  “That's it, baby,” Cross growled. “You missed this fucking cock, didn't you?”

  I did. I so fucking did. I missed it so much that when he grabbed my head and thrust it forward, nearly stuffing my throat with his swollen cock, I came. Bucking on my knees and dripping down my thighs, I felt the bottom of the world drop away, my body shattered and suspended in pure pleasure. The feel of his cum hitting the back of my throat, hot and thick, only drove me further into the abyss. He gave me everything, and I tried to swallow every drop.

  When he pulled away, I could finally breathe, and I did, in huge gasps. It was like coming out of some vacuum, the world around me seemed stranger, brighter, even luminous. Cross stumbled backwards, his wilting cock in his hand, but recovered soon enough and pulled me up to my feet.

  I started laughing.

  That kind of wild, aimless, hysterical laughter that usually gets you thrown in the looney bin.

  But he laughed, too, and we collapsed onto his bed together, each still tasting the other on our tongues, laughing like the children we once were, satisfied like the adults we'd become. While we laughed, I thought of nothing. It was the best I'd felt since Dutch came barreling into my life like a one-man wrecking crew. If I could have just kept that moment, bottled and jarred forever, everything would be perfect.

  Bex

  For what it's worth, I tried.

  For all you might think of me, I did try.

  I walked straight into Dutch's den of lions, and I tried.

  I failed miserably and crashed and burned and nearly died, but I tried.

  Dutch's office, in the very back of the clubhouse, wasn't usually under guard, but on that day, two days after Cross dragged me kicking and screaming through paradise, I had to convince a tough named Soldier to let me in. He was young, not someone who would know me by face. But I assumed he would at least recognize my name; I was living in the clubhouse, after all, and Dutch would have had to pass that by the brothers at Church.

  “Whatchu want,” Soldier said, looking down at me without trying to hide the lust in his eyes.

  “I gotta talk to Dutch,” I said, staring right back at him.

  “What makes you think Dutch wants to talk to you,” he argued, taking a step towards me. I knew this was a dangerous situation. Usually, any woman in the clubhouse who wasn't wearing someone's name on the back of their jacket was up for grabs. And this guy looked like he could do a lot of grabbing.

  “Why don't you ask him, Einstein,” I shot back. “Tell him Bex Carter needs to talk to him.”

  “And why should I do that?” Soldier asked, eyes gleaming like a vulture. “What're you gonna do for me, if I do somethin' like that for you?”

  He seemed to have an answer to that question, because his hands were already working on his belt.

  “You best stop that shit right now,” I spat. “My daddy's name is on the wall, you can go down and read it if you want. I'm not some fucking lollipop.”

  “I ain't readin' shit,” Soldier growled, and with his belt undone, he made for me. “Mouthy bitch...”

  He grabbed my hair, and I screamed. But screaming wasn't all I was good for. I also scratched the ever-loving shit out of his face, and introduced his family jewels to the bony part of my knee.

  “The fuck is goin' on down there? Soldier, what the fuck do you think you're doin' to Bex?”

  The pressure on my head immediately disappeared as Soldier released me, slinging curses from his cut lip.

  “Mouthy little bitch wanted me to...”

  My savior appeared, good old Fleet, walking as fast as his legs could take him.

  “I don't care if she wanted you to lick her boots all the way up to her pussy,” Fleet snapped. “You ain't been patched long enough to lay hands on Vicious' kin.”

  “Well, I didn't know she was anything...”

  “You wouldn't
know your own dick from a pencil stub,” Fleet kept on. “Get your ass out of here, I don't want to look at your fuckin' face.”

  “But I'm on duty, I'm...”

  Soldier was losing steam, fast. Cut in quarters by a man old enough to be his grandpa, over some broad who probably didn't look like anything special at all. I couldn't help but smirk at his dismay.

  “I'll take over,” Fleet grunted. “Fuck off, go drain your balls somewhere, they're takin' all the blood from your brain.”

  Soldier went off, muttering, down the hall, shooting me one hateful look over his shoulder.

  “You alright, Bex?” Fleet asked, genuinely concerned. Fleet and my daddy were close as could be back then. He always treated me and Mama right.

  “I'm fine,” I said, my heart jackhammering. That wasn't the ideal way to start this mission, but it got my adrenaline rushing, which was a good thing. “I think I got him better than he got me. Thanks for coming to my rescue though, Fleet.”

  “Always, princess,” he said, offering me a toothy smile. “You trynna see Dutch? Go on in. He ain't put up his DND. I don't know why the fuck he's got a guard these days, like he's the prince of Monaco with some kinda treasure to keep safe.”

  DND; do not disturb. One of those things that always made Dutch a good President was his open-door policy. You had a problem, you could take it straight to him, unless he had that sign up. And then, you just took it to Blade, who could decide whether or not it was worth disturbing Dutch.

  Fleet rapped on the closed door, and Dutch's voice called out from the other side.

  “Yeah, come on!”

  Whether or not he'd heard me scream when Soldier grabbed me, it clearly hadn't bothered him enough to check it out. I took a deep breath, gave Fleet one last smile, and pushed the door open.

  Dutch didn't even look up. He was looking at something on his desk. A ledger or something. I still had adrenaline in my veins, and I decided to use every ounce of it.

  “I'm not doing it,” I said, slamming my hands down on his desk like I had some kind of power in this situation. “I'm sorry, Dutch, I'll give you back every cent, but I can't do this.”

  “This her?”

  Her voice was the first thing that told me Sylvia was in the room. My attention swerved from Dutch's surprised (and quickly darkening) face to the corner of the room, where a woman – if you could call her a woman – slowly rose from a cushioned rocking chair.

  She was tall, thin, and beautiful in a horrible way. She was young, not much older than me, but she looked ageless. Her hair was white. Maybe dyed, maybe natural, but it was white as snow. And it was pulled back into this bun that looked like it actually hurt to wear. So tight you could imagine her hair screaming as she pulled it back. She had on this long, red dress, long-sleeved, with a deep V that kept going and going but never reached cleavage. Instead of blinking, her eyes snapped shut. Her lips were plump and purple. She looked like a runway model or a corpse queen. Either would fit.

  At any rate, she made me feel like a middle schooler in my jeans and t-shirt.

  “Yeah, this is her,” Dutch drawled, not taking his eyes off me. I could tell his surprise had passed, and pure rage was taking its place.

  “Well, doesn't she have some balls,” the woman said, and floated – yes, floated – over to stand behind Dutch, her hands falling on his shoulders.

  “I...”

  “Shut up,” Dutch said. “Sit down.”

  I wish I could say I didn't obey, but I did.

  “I'm Sylvia,” the woman said, not quite smiling at me. “And I appreciate your fervor, especially since it is so clearly backed up by nothing.”

  “I...”

  “Shut. Up,” Dutch said again, pounding a fist on the desk, hard enough that everything rattled. “You do not get to come in here and tell me that you're goin' back on our deal. You do not get to choose to back out. You are mine, princess. And if you don't realize that, you're daddy is rollin' in his grave over havin' raised a moron.”

  “He's right, dear,” Sylvia said. “You're ours. You're in our city. You're in our club. You're ours. Even if you leave, if you try to run, you'll be ours. We'll track you down, and rip every nail off your fingers and toes before we throw you to the men for their pleasure.”

  She said it all like she was reciting the plot of The Crucible. She didn't have any accent I could figure. My jaw must have been about six inches below the rest of my face. For one, the way she said our...like being Dutch's old lady gave her some rights to the Crusaders, which was most certainly not true. But Dutch didn't correct her; he just grabbed one of her hands as it sat on his shoulder, his eyes boring holes into my skull.

  “We can go 'head and forget 'bout you stormin' in here and actin' like you have a say in all this,” Dutch growled. “Or you can try'n stick by your fool-ass words, and see what happens. Would y'like that, Bex? You wanna see if I'm a man of my word, or test your luck, an' see if I'm bluffin'?”

  Oh, he wasn't bluffing. He sure as hell wasn't bluffing. And even if he was, she wasn't. Whoever she was, anyway. I hated her the way a child hates the darkness; on instinct. Suddenly, I felt real stupid. What had I expected to happen?

  But, I had to try. I had to try.

  Apparently, my silence answered Dutch's question for me.

  “Good,” he said. “Now get your fat, ungrateful ass out of my office, and don't fuckin' come back until you've got Cross' heart on a spit and somethin' to tell me.”

  And I did. God help me, I did. I left. But before I got out the door, Sylvia had one last thing to say.

  “And don't you think about tellin' Cross,” she spat. “Or it'll be both of your asses up for grabs on the black market.”

  Of course, I'd already thought of that. And while her threat did make my back stiffen, it didn't change my mind. I couldn't get out of this through Dutch. And telling Cross might mean the end of any love he ever had for me. But I couldn't live this lie, and he deserved the truth.

  I'd tell him, alright. Just as soon as I saw him again. I had to go into Peach's for training, and he was out on some job or another, but I'd go to his apartment and wait for him. I had to do it that very night. Before I could change my mind, or he could change it for me.

  Cross

  “Harvey, brother, you fucked up.”

  I was standing in the doorway, towering over the sleaze ball, making a big show of slipping on my brass knuckles. Family tradition. My pa taught me to fight with them when I was a kid. Most people think brass knuckles hurt more 'cause they're, you know, brass. It's not that. It's about the way you form your fist, keeping your fingers away from your palm, so your knuckles don't absorb half the impact of the punch. Harvey probably did not know this fact about brass knuckles. It didn't matter. He was going to learn what they felt like, soon enough.

  “Whaddya need those fer?” Harvey asked, eyes wide, staring at my hands. Poor guy didn't even think to try and close the door before I could rush it. Let me walk right in. He looked pretty doped up. Well, he'd feel it once the drugs wore off, at least.

  “You been talking shit about our product, Harvey? You, of all people? Us being so generous and good to you all these years?”

  “Cross, my man, I don't know what you...”

  Harvey didn't get a chance to throw me any excuses, or try to cover his ass. You give fuckers like that a chance, they'll have you running late for lunch. My first blow was a glance on the jaw, enough to knock out one of his rotted-up teeth. The next had his ear running blood, and by then he was crumpling to the floor, whimpering and screaming like a dog. A kick to the ribs and one to the knee was enough to get the message across, I reckoned.

  Harvey wouldn't be talking shit anytime soon. Hell, he might not even be talking anytime soon. I hoped he had a lot more dope stocked up, too, because it would be a long period of repentance before we did the favor of supplying him again. Once you crossed the Crusaders, it was hell and a half trying to get back on our good side.

  I stepped over
his broken body, toward the door, blocking out the sound of his blubbering.

  “Gram'pa?”

  Oh, shit. I shouldn't have looked. I should have just left. But wouldn't you know it? I fuckin' looked. Standing at the end of the hall was a kid – maybe five or six, but I'm no good with guessing ages. Young enough to wear a diaper, anyway – a dirty-ass diaper, by the way, lookin' like it was about to drag on the damn floor. Naked from the waist up, one dirty finger in his mouth (also dirty, the kid was dirty all over, like maybe Harvey hadn't paid the water bill and baths were a distant dream).

  “Gram'pa?” The kid said again, and took his finger out of his mouth, pointing at Harvey's shuddering body. If Harvey was a day over 40, I'd be surprised. So to be this kid's grandfather...well, the math wasn't much worth doing. Now, Harvey had started speaking again, sort of. Sayin' words, at least. Wa'nt me, I din'it, s'rry, s' s'rry, pl'se...

  “Go watch TV, kid,” I said, 'cause I could hear the TV going in the other room, something that sounded bright and cheerful. A shadow passed behind the little boy, and I immediately went for my gun. I knew I shouldn't have lingered.

  But I didn't have anything to fear, as it turned out. That shadow belonged to somethin' even more hopelessly sad than that dirty diaper. The girl was eleven or twelve, I guess. Blonde hair. Nice little face. Thin as an orphan from a Dickens story. She grabbed up the boy, her lips trembling, her eyes looking everywhere but at me. Down low, I felt Harvey's fingers grasping at my ankle, like he was seeking my forgiveness or some shit.

  “Th' kids,” he managed to croak, blood-flecked spit coming with each word. “Can't...mon'y...kids...”