Her place was a small, compact rambler, the living room doubling as her office. Her tidy desk was topped with books propped against the wall. Spanning the wall were three posters. One was a popular poster of a woman in a red headscarf, wearing a jean shirt and showing off her bicep with the words “We Can Do It!” It reminded him of old, inspirational posters like the “Uncle Sam Wants You” army poster. Another poster was an illustration of a book with the words “Women Who Read Are Dangerous” printed over it. The final poster was “The Future Is Female” in hot pink over a vintage photo of a crowd of women.
And that brought him to the books. Rows and columns of books stood like good soldiers on makeshift bookshelves fashioned with bricks and planks of wood, on the coffee table, and along the fireplace mantel. He frowned. A number of candles rose precariously on top of high columns of books. Not safe, he wanted to tell her. It’s not like she didn’t already have half a dozen glass prayer candles lying around, sealed in images of saints. Although, come to think of it, if one toppled and crashed to the floor, it’d light the place up like a beach bonfire. Her books were as good as kindling. He liked wax play as much as the next guy, but he was getting rid of them within the next twenty-four hours. For a smart woman, he couldn’t believe she’d survived this long on her own.
He peeked through the arches leading to the kitchen, where a square-shaped table stood, covered with a worn green tablecloth printed with yellow flowers. A large tarnished silver platter stood in the middle holding plates and cutlery. Unlike Sage’s house, there was not a plant in sight. Not even a cactus. While Greta’s hippie, boho clothing had an edge to it, here, there were no edges. Posters aside, everything was flowery and feminine.
A fierce, demanding desire to protect the innocence in her floral, book-bound, fire-hazard sanctuary hit him in his solar plexus. This woman deserved everything her heart desired. It was as if her home had torn a piece of his soul off and tucked it away in one of the tidy nooks in her house of books.
He turned to face her, about to gobble her up, when he paused to take in her pajamas. His girl was wearing pj’s with bright yellow ducks on them. Quirking his lips, he quelled a chuckle. Covering her chest with her arms, she snipped, “I like ducks, okay. I don’t care what I wear to bed. Bed is for sleeping, and sleeping is utilitarian, not sexy.”
“Not anymore it ain’t. Bed is for fucking, and you get the mandatory fuck before I give you permission to go to sleep. Grab you’re shit for the night. We’re leaving.”
“Bossy,” she muttered, before piping up, “where are we going?”
“You’ll see. I’m not waiting for you to change so wrap up in something that’ll keep you warm.”
Chapter Nineteen
They rode through an unfamiliar part of the city. Darkness had fallen by the time they rode past a scruffy neighborhood, bare trees lining the road. Halfway down a sloping street, he stopped along the edge of the sidewalk and gestured for her to hop off. She shook as the wind whipped around the thin flannel of her ducky pajama pants. Rolling onto the sidewalk, he expertly guided his bike past a set of crenellated iron gates. Once the motor was off, he strode up the stoop where she waited, unlocked the house, and ushered her in.
Greta gulped warm air into her shivering body and her shoulders dropped in relief. Cutter came in behind her and hugged her close. Then he turned her around and gently tugged off her riding gloves. Riding in upstate New York, in pajamas no less, was not for the faint of heart. He divested her of her coat and put it away in a nearby closet. Coming behind her again, he wrapped her into his radiator of a torso until her teeth stopped chattering. Eyes swerving around the living room, she remarked, “I thought you lived at the clubhouse.”
Some brothers liked community-living at the clubhouse. They didn’t pay rent, and there was always a party.
“I did.”
“What happened?”
“I moved.”
Okey dokey, not very informative. Standing in the foyer, it was obvious that he hadn’t moved in long ago. A couch, coffee table, and flat-screen TV, all black, held court in the middle of the room. There were a few paintings on the walls. Interesting. She hadn’t taken him for the artsy type. Tilting her head to the side, she noted the bold brushwork of the oil paintings.
Before she could get closer to inspect them, Cutter’s broad shoulders obscured the view and his fingers nimbly unbuttoned her pajama top. “No more talking. I have more pressing things to do with you.”
Dragging her to his bedroom, he tossed her onto the bed, as was his wont. Folding his heavily tattooed arms across his chest, he said, “Take it off. All of it.”
She rushed to tear off her ducky pajama bottoms and plunged under the sheets. He smacked a string of rubbers down on the surface of a brand-new nightstand. She lifted onto her forearms, dropping the sheet and baring her breasts, and cool air swept over her peaked nipples. Cutter’s heated gaze swept over them, and she rushed to cover up. He displayed his own torso, and her fingers itched to rub the crinkly blond hair on his chest and trail down the ridges of his musculature to his low-slung jeans.
While she couldn’t hold still, he took his sweet time removing his motorcycle boots and unbuckling his belt. Slipping it from the loops of his jeans, he folded it in half and smacked it against the flat of his hand. The sound resonated in her eardrums and she clamped her legs together to hide her arousal. Finally, finally, he dragged his jeans down, revealing thighs carved of marble, his hard shaft bobbing between them. She loved knowing that he went commando. Ready to fuck, anyplace, anytime.
He turned to place his clothes on a nearby chair, giving her a view of his fine, taut ass. What she would do to take a bite out of one cheek and chew it down like the flesh of a crisp, crunchy apple. Then, he rose above her, cock swinging. Greta was dying to track that thick vein snaking along the underside of his shaft with her tongue. Lap underneath the jut of his crown and swallow him whole, to the back of her throat.
“Greta,” he called out, but she didn’t hear him. How could she with his magnificent erection in her line of sight? A flick of his wrist and the sheet was whipped off her, finally snapping her out of her stupor. Instinctively, she scurried back against the headboard. Brows knitted together, Cutter noted, “You’re ashamed of your body again. I thought we covered this terrain.”
Discreetly, her hand inched down her thigh to hide her tattoo. Catching her hand in his own, he dragged it to his lips and kissed her wrist. “I want every part of you, babe. You’re beautiful, including your tat. It’s a badge of honor. Tells me you’re a survivor.”
Cutter eased her to her side and nuzzled her tattoo, tracing its long length with this tongue. She wheezed, “Please don’t.”
His palms wrapped around her knees and squeezed once, telling her to keep them in place. With a grip starting at the base of his cock, his hand pawed the length of it. She watched with bated breath as beads of come slipped over the top of his knuckles and disappeared between his blunt fingers.
“Hold yourself open for me. I want a good look at your sweet cunt.”
Her eyes practically rolled to the back of her head. Exposed to his gaze, blistering heat in her core zapped out in every direction.
“You like to rebel, and you love dirty talk. Said it before, you’re my perfect bitch.”
He dragged his cockhead between the lips framing her slit and pressed against her clit. She took a quick lick of her dry lips as the throbbing in her clit reverberated through her trembling thighs and fluttering belly.
“You love being fucked dirty, too. Don’t keep me waiting, girlie. Go on, open up.”
She hooked her forefingers between her lower lips and stretched them out. A shiver racked her as he teased her with his cock, breaching her opening and then pulling away. Batting her eyelashes, she begged, “May I touch your cock, sir? Please.”
He sat back on his haunches but didn’t give her permission. Fuck, the drive to touch him was clawing her inside out. Curling her fingers, she scrap
ed her nails down his flanks, and whined, “You’re not playing nice.” She cringed at the desperation in her voice.
“Watch your tone. Put your hands back on your pussy.”
Her hands shook as she did as she was told. He began pumping his fist from the root to the crown of his shaft, and enthralled, she held out her hand like a supplicant, quick to catch his seed.
“Move your fuckin’ hand away.”
He swatted her roughly, but, compelled to disobey him, she fisted his cock roughly. A spurt of come splashed over her slim fingers. Greta rushed to suck them into her mouth, and then finished by licking his come off her open palm. Eyes drilling into hers, Cutter jacked his cock in a series of fast, brutal movements. He came with a roar and a rush of scathing pain spewed over her.
Abruptly, he rolled her onto her stomach, yanked the nightstand drawer open, and pulled out a red paddle. Palming the back of her neck, he gave her a hard whack. The initial contact cut off her breath. Twisting around, she muffled her high, keening scream with a pillow.
“Present yourself. Ass up, face down.”
In short, jerky motions, she shifted onto her forearms and knees, and arched, leaving her rear twitching in the air. She craned her head around. Without laugh lines crinkling around his eyes, he looked stern and unyielding. He wasn’t letting her get away with a thing. Huh, perhaps he’s a man I can trust after all.
With slow precision, his large hands curved over her butt cheeks, parted, and lifted them. She squirmed; goosebumps raised on her flesh. His thumbs pulled her inner lips open and subjected her to a thorough inspection.
“You have the prettiest cunt.” He tutted softly. “Too bad about your attitude.”
Head hanging down and palms clammy, she held herself still for his perusal.
Thwack.
A scorching blaze ripped through her. The impact of each spank scooted her forward on the bed until her crown touched the headboard. She blew out her cheeks. Her mind gave shape to thoughts, but each jolt popped them like woozy bubbles. Then, it happened. The stings receded and a dark, lusty warmth pooled in her belly.
“Your ass is getting flushed for me. Cherry red looks good on you. Wish you could see those cheeks bounce back after the paddle leaves its mark.”
Cutter pinched her clit, and her spine arched like a reed bending against a windstorm. Swirling a finger inside her, he chided, “Dirty, wet girl. You’re leaking on my sheets. Tryin’ to leave your scent in case another woman comes to my bed.”
Her chest hollowed out. Fuck him for mentioning another bitch when she was in his bed. Primitive growls emanated from her throat as she whirled around and lunged for him. He threw the paddle on the floor, caught her, and spread her legs open. She tried to buck him off, but he circled his cockhead against her soaking sex, and her hips betrayed her. Her inner muscles spread around his girth with a gratifying stretch as he worked himself into her slick channel, his abs tightening and shifting as he took her. Just as she began to adjust to his size, he drove into her all the way to the hilt. Holy fuck! The strength of his thrust tore into her.
Yanking her hair back, he withdrew on the command, “Tilt up more.”
Once she angled her ass high in the air, Cutter notched his shaft and plunged back in. His hands flanked her, arms bending and straightening on either side of her. Good God, he was fucking her while doing push-ups. She crowed with glee at the filthy beast she’d unleashed.
“My cock in that tightness hurts, doesn’t it babe?”
“Shut up and use me. Fuck me like an animal.”
Biting down on the slope of her neck, Cutter pounded into her. She rocked up against his bludgeoning shaft, dragging on the hot steel as he stroked in and out. The pleasure was building, higher and higher, when his shout rent through the air. Thick streams of his come jetted into her core, and she detonated. Shattered into shards and blew away like a flotsam of balloons into the stratosphere.
Over her shoulder, a glow haloed the outline of his head as he continued to move in a slow, languid dance inside her. Mindless, she drifted in a sea of light, gripping the sheets to keep from collapsing, and milked him for every drop he was worth. The mattress pitched, and she felt him crash beside her. Sheets rustled and drifted over her prone, wrung-out body, and she dozed off with an arm banded across her waist, weighing her down.
Chapter Twenty
“Shhh,” he whispered near her temple. Greta jerked out of sleep to find Cutter fondling her between her thighs. In the space between sleep and wakefulness, between unconsciousness and consciousness, it was Shadow parting her legs. Shaking off the unwanted vision, she nestled against Cutter’s solid body. His hand palmed the inside of her thigh, his pinky caressing the edge of her sex. Molded against the curvature of his broad chest, she rocked her pelvis against his groin.
“My girl’s got a greedy little pussy.” He tried to withdraw but she trapped his hand between her thighs. Satisfaction glittered in his eyes. “It was meant as a wake-up call, princess. I didn’t hear any complaints, but was I too rough?”
“Of course not,” she murmured. None of her past partners, her right hand, or good porn drove her to the edge of her sanity, like he did last night. There was something about challenging Cutter, along with his firm and steady response, that sparked off a climax faster than a lit firecracker on Chinese New Year.
“I worked you over good last night. You’re sore so I’m gonna give you a bath.” A light swat tapped her rear. “Depending on how you behave, I might give you a reward.”
Raising up on her elbows, she griped, “Alright, I’ll get into the shower.”
He stopped her with a hand on her breastbone. “I said a bath.”
Greta sat up and stretched her neck, dubiously eyeing his bathroom through the partly opened door. She worried her bottom lip. “I’d prefer a shower.”
One corner of Cutter’s lips quirked up. “You worried it’s not clean?”
“Pretty much,” she confessed.
“Male plus biker does not equal cleanliness. Is that it?”
“Correct,” she chirped. His chuckle vibrated against her back.
“I’ll try not to be offended.” A smile split his face, but his somber eyes didn’t fool her. “I take my responsibility seriously. Part of that is to tend to you. To wash you and to pamper you. I chose this house with certain specifications. One, was security.” He nodded toward her. “Your security to be specific. Two, was the square footage. My plans to renovate are detailed. We’ll be spending a good amount of time here because this is where I plan to lavish my attention on you.”
He was telling her to take him seriously, but could she really? The idea that he had a house, and renovated it with her in mind, was preposterous. Not but a few weeks ago, he was living at the clubhouse, wallowing like a pig in mud.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Nonplussed, he pulled her up to standing and her muscles groaned. As if that wasn’t enough, Cutter took the opportunity to palm the welts on her ass. She barely stifled a curse from the smarting pain. She followed him to the bathroom, stopping short at the threshold. She squinted her eyes and blinked.
It was large and freshly finished. In the airy space, the upper part of the walls was a mosaic of colors ranging from dark blue to turquoise, while the lower part and the floor were a warm, terra-cotta color. In a gritty corner of Utica’s urban center, Cutter had carved out an oasis, a Mediterranean cove of their own. A huge bathtub took up an entire corner. Porcelain always sparkled bright, but this was no run-of-the-mill tub. It wasn’t just clean, it was pristine.
On a low bench, downy towels were laid out. Her fingertips graced the fancy soap and the caps of what looked like fancy shampoo. She was not one to indulge in luxurious cosmetic products. He wasn’t kidding about pampering her. A fluffy bathmat squished between her toes. It felt divine.
But thoughts, ugly thoughts, flittered through her mind. They left her standing there, hesitant to snatch up the gift dangling in front of
her. If he was to be believed, then he’d accepted her as she was; dark temper, rebellious nature, and all. Of course, she knew that aftercare was an integral part of a well-executed bout of power exchange, but this was far more than she deserved.
Bent over, Cutter drew a bath for her. Saliva pooled in her mouth as she stared at the honed muscles of his boxer’s neck and upper back, flexing, and bunching as he adjusted the knobs to his liking. His torso twisted and she got an eyeful of pecs, spanning his chest, covered with golden curls. Dominance radiated off him like the haze steaming off the water filling the tub. Testing the temperature of the bath water, he glanced over his shoulder. His steady gaze suffused her with heat, and she finally released the tension she’d been holding onto.
“You’re the first woman to step into this house.”
“So what?” she snorted and winced at the jealousy in her tone. Reminding her of the gaggles of women before her did not make her feel better. Too soon, she’d be confronted with who knew how many other women, jumping out from every corner she turned. God, she was such a brat.
“Uh-huh,” he replied with a knowing, half smile. Satisfied with the water, he gestured for her to approach. “Come here. I’m going to bathe you.”
Backing up a step, Greta shoved her arms over her bosom. Oh God…aftercare. The smooth after the rough.
Caring for a sub was standard procedure, so to speak, but the intimacy it garnered was far more unnerving than if he walloped her ass or sank his cock inside her pussy. Those, at least, were acts of primal lust. She spun around and gave him her back, a sign of disrespect. Cowering behind hunched shoulders, her fingers curled into themselves. Nope, no way would she surrender to his ministrations. She simply could not do it. Inching her head up, she peeked over her sloped shoulder.
Cutter sat on the edge of the tub; legs splayed with his forearms resting on his sleek thighs. Sharp lines bracketed the corners of his lips. “Don’t you dare back away,” he warned in a tone brooking no disobedience. “Approach me.”
Cutter's Claim: A Bad Boy Biker Romance (The Demon Squad MC Book 2) Page 10