Jetzt wütend selbst, Janine verdrillte Ihr Arm frei und hielt dann mit dem Finger auf ihn, Warnung ihn, seinen Standpunkt zu vertreten. "Sie haben kein Geschäft, die mir sagt, dass, Shawn. Er ist ein Vorbild für meine Klasse; ich habe ihn zu sehen."
"nackt!"
"Ja!".
"Mit seinem Junk hängen in ihrem Gesicht!"
Janine war nun an dem Punkt zu wollen Schlag ihn dumm. Oder stupider. Sie trat zurück zu stoppen selbst tun genau das. "Alle Rechte", sagte sie in einem verzehrenden Ton passend zu sein, "Jetzt sind Sie gerade Rohöl und ekelhaft und ich bin nicht zuhören mehr. Ich habe zu gehen und ich bin nicht mit ihnen zu reden, nicht mehr."
"Sie sind nur gonna go auf die Vermietung dieser Sohn einer Hündin zeigen Sie seine Sachen?"
"Es ist nicht mein Ort zum "Lass' ihm nichts tun. Ich bin Student; Tyler ist ein Modell. Das ist, wie es funktioniert".
Shawn Aufmachungen die Hände, nicht als eine Geste der Anerkennung, sondern um die Umschichtung und Neuausrichtung. Er war weiterhin leuchtet bis zum Kochen. "Okay. Okay. Tyler Austin's ein Modell--posiert nackt vor meiner Freundin reden, bis meine Freundin nach nackt vor ihr. Und sie sind in Ordnung . Nun, ich bin nicht. Dieser Kerl ist eine schlechte Nachricht. Er ist nicht zu trauen. Er ist hier für einen Grund. Und ich bin etwas darüber. Ich bin nimmt keine mehr von seinen Mist, Janine. Ich bin nicht."
Und ohne ein weiteres Wort, Shawn gedreht an der Ferse und ging Stalking aus der Student Union, wobei Janine erschüttert und verwirrt. Sie konnten praktisch fühlen sich die Augen der anderen Kinder um sie herum und starrte auf ihr und plötzlich schaut weg. Sie zitterte, wo sie stand. In all der Zeit hatte sie bekannte Shawn, wurde intim mit ihm, dachte sie kennengelernt hatte, alle seine Stimmungen. Das war etwas, was sie noch nie zuvor gesehen und es zu Recht beunruhigt sie. Was war es zu Ihrem Freund und Tyler Austin? Hat sie selbst wissen wollen? Sie erkannte, dass Sie wissen mussten.
Und dass sie es nicht mögen wenn Sie fand heraus.
Plötzlich wieder eingedenk ihrer Verspätung für Klasse, Janine nahm einen tiefen Atemzug und verkürzte für die Ausfahrt.
Nur eine Treppe über die ganze Szene, Tyler zugesehen hatte es alle in der Stille. Jetzt ist er herabgestiegen die Treppe und überlegte, was er gesehen hatte - und was er gehört hatte, wenn Janine und Shawn erhoben ihre Stimmen ausreichend, um es zu tragen bis zu ihm. Er hatte seinen Namen hörte. Es war kein Zweifel, genau das zu finden, was passiert war.
Tyler überlegte, was all dies bedeutete. Er hatte gehofft, wurden zu Bett mit Janine, gründlich sexed Ihr und hatte die Tat geschehen vor Shawn wusste, dass er anwesend war. Das war etwas, was er nicht vorgesehen. Es könnte nun ein gutes Angebot bekommen mehr kompliziert.
Das Ende
Bad Biker’s Heart
Bad Boy Biker Romance
Ricky sighed, laying on her stomach, her eyes drifting lazily down the page. One hand supported her chin while the other was pinned underneath her, gently rolling a finger around her clit. The words were dirty. Cunt. Dick. Breasts. Thighs. Tongue. Lapping. Pulsing. Panting.
She was indulging in one of her favorite guilty pleasures, delving into her seemingly endless catalogue of dirty biker novels on her computer. The men were always hot, strong, ruthless, and passionate. The women? Well, who cared about the women; they were placeholders for Ricky’s imagination, a character she could slip herself into, imagining it was her breasts being fondled and tongued by a bearded stud, her pussy being drilled into unimaginable pleasure.
Her finger moved faster as the scene progressed. The heroine was laying on her back across a pool table, her hero’s tongue moving down her stomach, making her flesh quiver and heat up with each descending inch. And then his tongue was rolling across her clit, and Ricky’s ass lifted off the bed, her finger dipping into her own warmth, wetness providing lube as her finger mimicked the imaginary tongue, lapping and sucking.
The heroine’s hips thrust upward and she came; Ricky felt her own passion peaking, her body craving release now, but she teased herself down, wanting to prolong the pleasure, knowing that soon…oh, yes, the hero would slip his cock into the heroine, filling her up, stretching her and then…
Ricky’s body snapped with a coursing wave of pleasure as she brought herself to orgasm over the words, her mind imagining herself lying across that pool table, her own body offered up like a toy for the use of some brawny, tattooed, beast of a man. Not that she really knew what it would be like; she was still a virgin, never having found a man in real life who revved her engine quite like the men in her fantasies.
Almost immediately, Ricky clicked out of her e-reader, no longer interested in the shallow storyline or the weak characters. There was only one reason she liked those stories: they were hot, they got her off, and allowed her mind a brief respite from the utter boredom of her existence.
Rolling over onto her back, Ricky let her still-wet fingers fall onto her stomach, feeling her heart return to a normal pace. She closed her eyes and mused; what would she do if she were actually given the opportunity to live out her fantasy? There was no questioning that Ricky’s fetish was strong, and singular. Some people were really into cowboys. Some people inexplicably got off to feet. Some people were hopelessly enamored with cheerleaders. Ricky lost her mind for bikers, bad boys, and criminals of all sorts.
Downstairs, she could hear the tinkling of Christmas music. She hated that her mother played the music all day and night during the holidays. Just so anyone who happened to drop by would know that their family was a good Christian family with a healthy American appreciation for Christmas. For a Connecticut politician, that sort of image could make or break a career, and Ricky’s father had no intention of having his career broken.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t put a menorah in the window,” Ricky had once asked sneeringly. “Or a Kwanzaa...thing? You know, to show how all-inclusive we are? They do it at the mall.”
That had earned her a dire look from her father and a purse-lipped response from her mother.
“Real funny, sis,” Trevor had hissed into her ear, kicking her under the table. The ten-year-old boy was the apple of their parents’ eyes, the indisputable “good kid” in their family. Ricky wasn’t so lovable, according to her parents. To be fair, she was a good deal more rebellious than Trevor.
The hell she raised was minor compared to some other kids; one time she’d dyed a green streak into her hair, another time she’d come home with her septum pierced. Mostly, though, the problem was her politics. She’d never agreed with her ultra-conservative father’s stance. On anything. She thought he was a crook, cruel and uncompassionate. He supported cutting welfare and lower taxes for the wealthy, denied climate change, and generally made it his mission to keep the money right where he thought it belonged: in his pocket, and the pockets of his friends.
Ricky had learned long ago that speaking out was not in her best interest, but that didn’t mean she had to smile at photo ops or attend political mixers or support her father’s policies. She just had to stand around at parties without causing a scene, and keep her mouth shut while her father and his buddies drank champagne and ate caviar while laughing at the poor folk just across town. At least, that’s what she imagined they did when they went behind the closed doors of his study. She didn’t actually know, never having been invited into that sacred space.
Right now, downstairs, her parents were wasting more electricity on lavish decorations and Christmas lights than most people used in a month of normal living. It was a veritable Christmas wonderland. And the stack of gifts under the tree would put Santa’s workshop to shame. There were gifts for Ricky down among them, of course; lavish ones, in fact. She knew that, despite her role as the black sheep of the family, her parents still desired to buy her cooperation and support. What her mother spent each year on Christmas gifts could have fed a family of five for a year.
Oh well; she was only home for a few weeks, anyway, after which she could return to college, where she had made friends who agreed wi
th her politics and didn’t try to silence her at every turn. Her first semester had been so magically freeing that she’d almost refused to come home, nearly had to be dragged from her dorm room kicking and screaming. But campus would have been lonely, anyway, and at least at home there was…
Her phone buzzed just as she thought of her best friend. With a smile, she saw that Sasha had texted her.
You must be telepathic, she tapped out. I was literally just thinking of you, and how you’re the only good thing about being home right now!
Not the only good thing, Sasha replied immediately.
? Ricky responded.
You’ll see. Early Xmas gift from the best friend you could ever ask for. Picking you up in an hour. Wear something sexxxxxy.
Ricky groaned and blushed, even though there was no one to see her or read the text. Sasha was wild; always had been. She’d been the one to actually dye Ricky’s hair, and had held her hand when she got pierced. And Sasha always had some scheme up her sleeve. Ricky had no doubt her friend had something troublesome planned for the night. She couldn’t wait to see what it would be.
Sasha and Ricky had been friends since kindergarten, although their parents hated each other. Sasha’s mother was a congresswoman who had exact opposite beliefs of Ricky’s father; they were constantly battling it out in D.C. Ricky often wished she’d been born into Sasha’s family instead of her own; they were plenty wealthy, sure, but at least they didn’t act like rabid wolves when it came to keeping their wealth.
Ricky’s mother and father were tepid at best in their reception of Sasha, but Sasha’s parents were happy to ignore the political feud, treating Ricky like family. Of course, it helped that Ricky actually agreed with most of their opinions. She’d even been invited to spend Thanksgiving at their house that year, and had jumped at the opportunity, excited to miss out on another round of you’re-wrong-I’m-right at her own household.
Unfortunately, Ricky’s family was hosting some sort of Christmas party that year, and her presence was considered mandatory, so she’d had to turn down the invitation to spend Christmas with Sasha. Oh well; Ricky had sat through enough mandatory parties to know that as long as she smiled and nodded, the worst would be over in a matter of hours.
Hopping off her bed, Ricky went to the walk-in closet that her mother kept stocked with appropriate, demure, professional outfits; digging past all the blazers and gingham blouses, she found her own little corner of the closet, which her mother begrudgingly accepted “as long as she only wore them in her room.” Here were her band t-shirts, her short skirts, her ripped-up jeans and her favorite statement shirts.
Examining her limited selection, she regretted not having brought home some of the new outfits she’d picked up at the Goodwill near campus; she’d discovered thrifting that year, after a lifetime of being told that people who bought secondhand were just asking to be ridiculed. She loved finding one-of-a-kind, bizarre, ironic, and unique clothes for a tiny price tag, loved the fact that she was helping to keep the clothes out of landfills, and especially loved the freedom of being able to pick out whatever she wanted without her mother hovering behind her, clucking and humming over every choice.
Finally, she decided to go with something that probably wouldn’t fit Sasha’s definition of sexy, but which Ricky felt confident in, which made her feel sexy. A pair of ripped-up black skinny jeans and a loose, oversized white t-shirt with a low V-neck and a pair of combat boots. The jeans and t-shirt complimented her tall, slender frame; more often than not, Ricky wished she had Sasha’s bountiful curves and generous chest, but she’d come to terms with her own body long ago.
Her small, b-cup breasts were plump and high, and she didn’t have to worry about a bra most of the time. Her hips were small but well-proportioned, her ass tight with a becoming curve to it. A long, vintage necklace that directed attention to her chest and she felt good to go; experimentally, she leaned over in her mirror, liking the way the loose collar of her shirt could give just the slightest peak of her breasts. With only a bit of mascara to make her blue eyes pop and a quick brush through of her rich mahogany hair, she was ready to go with 40 minutes to spare.
Wondering how to kill the rest of her time – which she knew would probably be closer to an hour, because Sasha was never on time, even for her own plans – she flirted with the idea of reading another steamy scene, but she couldn’t muster the desire to do so. She was a pretty average girl, no more or less sex-craved than any other 19-year-old, and she could only get herself riled up so many times a week before it lost its appeal.
Instead, she perused her bookshelf, touching the spines with her forefinger, eyes closed, stopping randomly. She shrugged when she saw the title she’d ended on; City of God by E.L. Doctorow, something she’d picked up from the dollar bin at the library and forgotten about. That could easily be said of any of the dozens of books on the shelf; the only thing Ricky loved more than reading was buying books that looked like they’d be good to read.
When she heard the telltale honking of Sasha’s VW Beetle outside, she was almost upset at being dragged away from the book. But, throwing on a long pea coat that would hide the worst of her wardrobe sins from her mother, she readied herself for what was almost definitely going to be a wild night.
She had wanted to sneak out without drawing her mother’s attention, but luck was not on Ricky’s side that evening.
“Where are you off to?”
She turned with a grimace at the sound of her mother’s voice. Sandy Pulskin stood with her arms crossed around her chest. As thin as her daughter, the older woman had none of her vibrant softness; her face was angular and lined from years of fake smiling and bitterness.
“Just out with Sasha,” Ricky said casually, wondering if her mother would put up a fight. She stood defiant as her mother’s eyes roamed up and down her body, taking in the combat boots, the bare face, the septum piercing. Sighing, her mother uncrossed her arms, only to cradle her face in two fingers and look at the floor in disappointment.
“Well, try to be reasonable this evening,” she said. “You know what we expect of you.”
Ricky rolled her eyes and turned on her heel; she’d never given her parents any real reason to worry or distrust her. Of course, she drank sometimes, but never in excess, and she was always home for curfew. And now that she was in college, she felt caged up by her parent’s constant disappointment and strict rules. At her school, no one cared how late she got home, or how much she drank, or who she was with. At home, it was a whole other story. Even a trip to the mall would cause her mother to look at her like she was a heroin addict.
“I’ll be good,” she said as she opened the door, immediately shivering in the brisk Connecticut air. Trotting down the stairs to the wraparound driveway where Sasha’s car idled, she nearly missed slipping on a patch of ice, catching herself on the door handle just in time. The hot air in the car immediately made her sneeze as she lowered herself into the seat.
“Okay, first off, who’s your best friend in the whole wide world?” Sasha asked, peeling away onto the quiet road, lined on all sides with palatial estates behind securely locked gates.
“Hi, Sasha, nice to see you too,” Ricky said with a smile. Sasha shot her a no-nonsense look.
“I asked you a question,” Sasha said, turning down the radio.
“You are, oh beautiful blonde-haired goddess,” Ricky said teasingly, reaching out to play with one of Sasha’s impeccable golden curls. Her friend laughed, her green eyes sparkling, then turned to Ricky once more with mock seriousness.
“I need you to remember that when we get where we’re going,” she said. “Because you might forget. But by the end of the night, you’ll remember all over again.”
Ricky shook her head, a smile on her face. Sasha was such a character, and never failed to amaze Ricky with her wild schemes.
“Where are we going?” Ricky asked, looking out the window at the fluffy white piles of snow and the opulent houses.
“You’ll see, my little hidden freak,” Sasha said, that dangerous smile lighting over her features once more. Ricky’s eyebrows nearly lifted to her hairline.
“Oh God, Sash,” she said. “Please…tell me we’re not going to some like…S&M dungeon? You didn’t read 50 Shades of Grey while we were at school, did you?”
“You’ll see,” Sasha said in a buoyant singsong tone, reaching out to turn up the music once more, immediately starting to dance and sing in her seat. Ricky watched her for a long moment, wondering what Sasha’s early Christmas gift could be. But, she was down for (almost) any adventure – at the end of the day, it beat the hell out of Frank Sinatra Christmas Classics and egg nog with her family. And, besides, didn’t she deserve a little adventure after being such a good little girl all those years? College had made her a lot braver than she’d been in high school.
***
From the moment the two girls walked in, Rush knew they didn’t belong there. They didn’t dress like bratty socialites, but their clothes had an elegant way of being ripped and torn, a way that wasn’t genuine. They were expensive tatters.
Plus, there was the way the thin one’s eyes grew wide as saucers, though they were far prettier than any fine china he’d ever seen. Blue as the day is long, with heavy lashes and not too much make-up. Her long brown hair seemed ironed straight, but looked soft. Her friend, curvy and confident, had a shit-eating grin on her face, and Rush guessed that it had been her idea to take this little foray onto the wrong side of the tracks.
He watched the two engage in a rushed, whispered conversation, with the little one’s expression showing anger at first but soon melting into acceptance and even excitement. They weren’t old enough to drink, it was clear to see, but that didn’t stop them from bellying up to the bar – and it didn’t stop old Hick from serving them, either.
ROMANCE: BAD BOY ROMANCE: Bad Boy Brother (Stepbrother Interracial College Romance) (Contemporary Stepsister Taboo Romance) Page 104