Corrupting Cinderella

by Autumn Jones Lake

  As if she hears my worried thoughts, Hope presses against my side. “How are you?”

  Wrapping my arm around her waist, I hug her tight to me. I think she mistakes the gesture for something else. Throaty laughter bubbles out of her and she gives me that look. The one that says she wants to jump my bones but is too shy to make the first move.

  Suddenly the last thing I’m thinking about is Sophie’s drama.

  The urge to tug Rock into a dark corner and wrap my body around him throbbed through me all evening. Only the fact that we were socializing with my colleagues kept my hands and legs to myself.

  Opening my front door earlier to find him in a suit and a smile set my body buzzing. I found Rock hard to resist on a regular basis, but there was something about my big, bad “I don’t wear suits” biker decked out in a classic, charcoal gray, wool blend. The crisp, white shirt and royal blue tie emphasized his slate eyes. The simple cut of the jacket stretched across his broad shoulders impeccably, accentuating his powerful build. I wondered where he’d found the time to have something so expertly tailored to him this week.

  I’m not sure what I expected him to wear, but this surpasses anything my imagination conjured up. Every inch of him radiates power.

  When we finally say our goodbyes, Rock takes my arm to keep me steady. The two small glasses of wine went straight to my head, and he seems to sense it.

  As we stand on the sidewalk outside waiting for his SUV, I tug on his sleeve.

  Stretching up on my toes so I can whisper in his ear, I ask, “Have I told you how sexy you look tonight?”

  I punctuate the compliment by flicking my tongue over his earlobe. I’m close enough to feel the shudder that works through him.

  “Careful, counselor.” He leans down and brushes his lips against my cheek. A warm shiver works down my neck, stirring up memories of his sinful mouth on other parts of my body.

  My arms encircle his neck, fingers lacing together to pull him to me.

  Then the valet drives up with the car, spoiling my fun.

  Amusement sparks in his gray eyes. “Get your sexy ass in the car, baby doll. I’ve got plans for you.”

  We don’t get far before Rock pulls over. Reaching below, he sends his seat all the way back.

  “Come here.”

  I eye his lap, the distance to get over there, and then assess the constraints of my dress.

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “Hike that skirt up and haul your sweet little ass over here. Don’t make me ask again.”

  The next moment, he tugs me across his lap. Firm lips on mine, kissing me. Breathing in his scent makes me a little giddy. I kiss him back as if I’ll go crazy if I don’t get enough. His hands slide over my thighs, pushing my skirt up so I can straddle him.

  Weaving his fingers through my hair, he tilts my head back and kisses my neck. His lips move up to my chin and then our mouths slide together.

  “What do you want, Rock?”

  His lips travel down, soft sucking kisses and licks trailing along my neck and over my collarbone.

  “I want my cock in your pussy, fucking you so damn deep, baby.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right fucking now.”

  I draw back to see his eyes. Even in the dark interior, his hunger for me is obvious. My hands run down his chest, over the dress shirt hiding hard muscles.

  His hand catches my wrist. “No time, baby doll. Quick and dirty.”

  My fingers move down to work his belt and slide down his zipper. His hands cup my face, lips press hard against mine. I reach in to free his cock and he groans, a sexy erotic sound that vibrates against my jaw. He’s hard and hot in my hands as I slide my fist up and down his length.

  “Fuck, Hope. You’re killing me.”

  A devious little laugh I didn’t even know I was capable of escapes me.

  Rock’s hands grip my thighs, sliding under the edges of my dress until his thumbs brush against my panties.

  “Soaked, baby,” he breathes out.

  “Yes. All night. Because you’re so fucking sexy, Rochlan.”

  “Christ,” he mutters. Thick fingers tease my panties aside and push inside me. I can’t help clenching around him.

  Headlights sweep through the tinted glass, illuminating us for a split second. My cheeks heat at the possibility of getting caught like two horny teenagers with no place to fuck but their car.

  Rock’s thumb caresses my cheek. “You’re two seconds from sinking onto my cock, but you’re embarrassed that a car drove by? You’re too cute.”

  My panties are wrenched even more to the side as I raise myself over him. Desperate to have him inside me, I place my hands on his broad shoulders for balance. His hands close over my hips, guiding me, lifting his hips to meet me.

  “Good fucking girl,” he moans as I lower myself. I wait a second. No matter how many times we do this, I need that second to adjust to the exquisite intrusion of being stretched and filled by him.

  I suck in a deep breath and take him the rest of the way. “Oh, Rock. That’s so good. So good like this.” We’re so close, cocooned in the confined space of the driver’s seat. My legs awkwardly nestled on either side of him. None of it matters. A breathless cry works out of my throat. His hands squeeze my hips and I shift up, then down.

  “That’s my good girl. Take all of me.”

  A whimper. Soft wet sounds. Breathy sighs. All of it beautiful music surrounding us. Leaning forward, I tuck myself against the curve of his shoulder, my lips finding his neck. Beneath me, his hips roll. His arms band around my waist, holding me tight as we rock together.

  It doesn’t take long for me to tighten, shake, tense, and burst apart. Soft waves of pleasure radiate through me until I’m boneless. Rock gives me a second to catch my breath.

  “So fucking beautiful. Get ready now.”

  I tighten my arms around his neck and hold on while he pounds his hips up into me. His arms hold me tight, yanking me down to meet each hard thrust.

  He shakes and snarls as his orgasm tears through him. Still clinging to his neck, I brush my lips against his forehead, his cheeks, and finally his lips. We stay close, trading soft kisses for a while.

  Rock brushes escaped bits of hair off my forehead, studying my face. Carefully, I lift off him and basically throw myself into the passenger seat. My legs are nothing but jelly, unable to support me for long.

  After straightening himself, he reaches over and seatbelts me in, then takes us home.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  For weeks I’ve heard whispers at the clubhouse about this fight Wrath is in. It doesn’t surprise me that he boxes or wrestles or whatever he does. What surprises me is that Rock asked me if I wanted to go, and I said yes.

  I’m curious.

  Although, now that we’re here, I get the idea that this isn’t some nice, neat regulated event we’re attending.

  Casting a suspicious glance around the run-down parking lot, I dismount from Rock’s bike and hand over my helmet.

  “Are we even allowed to be here?”

  He’s too busy chuckling and shaking his head to answer my question.

  Why on earth had I agreed to come along?

  “You’re sure we’re not going to get mugged?” Teller, Murphy, and Z pull up next to Rock, drowning out my words.

  Rock secures everything and takes my hand. As the only woman in our little group, I’m feeling very out of place.

  I’d been informed earlier this was a “no colors” event, so the guys are wearing plain long-sleeved T-shirts. I, however, am wearing a blue shirt with just the Lost Kings design on the front. On the back, conveniently placed just above my ass, Lost Kings MC is spelled out in gray letters.

  I’m not sure what to make of it. Part of me is insulted. Part of me is insanely turned on and wants to find a dark corner where I can have Rock to myself for a few minutes.

  I tug at the hem of the T-shirt. “You said colors weren’t allowed. You sure this is okay? I’m
not going to get assaulted or something, am I?”

  The guys circle around me. Z pops his sunglasses on top of his head, and with a straight face says, “I’ll kill anyone who dares fuck with you, Hope.”

  The way he says it, I’m not sure if that’s comforting or terrifying.

  Rock puts his arm around my waist. “Baby, you’re repping your man’s club and showing your support for Wrath. That’s allowed.”

  Rock pats Z’s shoulder as a “thank you,” I guess.

  “T, you got…?” He rubs his thumb and middle finger together in the universal sign for “cash.” Teller pats the chest of his plain, black leather jacket. I assume that’s a yes.

  “Stick close, Hope. Do not leave my side for any reason. If Z or any of the guys tell you to move, you move.”

  “Rochlan, you’re scaring me.”

  He smiles at the way I use his full first name. “Baby doll, I’d probably be telling you the same thing if I was taking you to a Patriots game and you were wearing a Giants jersey. No need to be scared.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  Rock takes my left hand. Z walks just a few steps ahead of us. Teller walks to my right, so close he might as well hold my other hand. Murphy is directly behind us as we cross the rundown parking lot.

  Saying the old cement factory down by the river has seen better days is an understatement. We walk through weeds and slip through a broken, chain-link fence. With the area cut off by miles of the silver barrier, there is no way anyone could have parked closer. I spot other people appearing out of the dark and trickling into the building.

  When we stop and enter the line to get in, I brace myself against Rock and stand on tiptoes. “Is Wrath going to be pissed I’m here?”

  Rock stops scanning the crowd long enough to answer my question. “No, baby doll. Why would you even think that?”

  No other women associated with his club are here. That’s why. In fact, looking around, I spot very few women at all. The ones I do see are tarted up in skirts that barely cover their ass cheeks. Most stumble over the uneven ground in their stilettos and have to stop every few seconds to hike up their halter tops. Each one has a logo somewhere on their body that I assume means they are here in support of a rival club. Everything he’s told me about their “rivals” scares the pants off me. I shuffle in my Vans slip-ons, relieved Rock warned me to dress comfortably.

  His exact words were “for ease of movement,” whatever that meant.

  We get wanded as we pass through the door. The guy wielding the wand lingers a little too long on my chest, and Rock gives him a hard stare.

  The guy doesn’t seem very thorough, so I’m not exactly convinced the place is weapons-free.

  Once we’re inside, the place is an unimpressive, wide-open, concrete space. There are high school gym style bleachers on one side and a crudely constructed ring in the center of the room. No extra pieces of furniture, chairs, nothing.

  Rock flicks his wrist, and Teller hurries over to a window and talks into a hole in the glass. With the glare, I can’t see who it is. I turn and scan the crowd. A lot of rough-looking guys. No one is smiling. Everyone seems tense and edgy.

  I’m completely freaked out.

  Everything about this situation is telling me to run. I don’t belong. I swear my curiosity will be the death of me.

  But I trust Rock to keep me safe.

  Z stands rigid, peering into the crowd. I look in the same direction and see Trinity wading through the sea of people to get to us. I’m overjoyed to see her.

  I take a step toward her, but Rock pulls me back. He thrusts his chin at Z who launches himself into the crowd to grab Trinity and bring her to us.

  I shake off Rock’s hand and give her a hug. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

  Her mouth curves up in a nervous smile. She’s dressed almost the same as me, except her club shirt has skinny little straps holding it up instead of actual sleeves. Her breasts are spilling out of the top, and the beautiful ink decorating her shoulder is on display.

  “How’s our boy?” Z asks her.

  “Cold as ice,” she answers.

  Rock pulls her to his side and puts his arm around her shoulders.

  “He’ll be fine. He’s always like that before a fight. That’s why we’re out here.”

  I peer over at her. She’s nervous. For Wrath?

  Teller jogs over, waving a bunch of slips of paper at us. He hands one to everyone, including me. Not sure what to do with it, I wait. Everyone shoves them in their pockets, so I do the same.

  Finally figuring out what we’re all doing—yes, I’m slow—I blurt out, “Why would anyone bet against Wrath? He’s the scariest guy I’ve ever met.”

  Z looks insulted, but everyone else except Trinity laughs.

  We take seats at the bottom of the bleachers. The very front row. It doesn’t escape my notice that we are positioned next to the closest exit or that Z and Rock have deliberately sandwiched me between them. I have to lean forward and over Z’s lap if I want to talk to Trinity. Rock jerks his head, and Z switches places with Trinity so we can talk.

  Except she’s oddly quiet.

  “You okay?”

  Her lip quivers. “Yeah, just nervous.”

  She’s absently picking at her nails, sending little chips of polish flying all over the place. I cover her hands with one of mine and squeeze. She wraps her fingers around mine, and we sit holding hands.

  Rock leans down and grazes my ear with his lips. “Thanks, baby doll.”

  I turn and catch him for a quick kiss.

  With a smile, he explains Wrath’s fight will go last. Answering my earlier question about people betting against him, he tells me in a low voice, “People think he’s too old to fight. And they always make the mistake of thinking because he’s so big, he must be slow.”

  “Old? Isn’t he younger than you?”

  That gets a wry smile out of Rock. “Yeah, but for an underground fighter, it’s old.”

  “Okay. Still, though, this seems like a lot of people.”

  “He hasn’t had a fight in a couple of months. Plus, tonight there’s more than one fight, so that’s why it’s so packed and frenzied. People want to see if the big guy is finally going to take a fall.”

  “Finally?”

  “He’s never lost an underground fight.”

  “Yet they still bet against him?”

  Rock shrugs.

  Z leans over Trinity and taps my leg. “Unlike most of these guys, Wrath has no interest in getting an MMA deal or something. He just enjoys unleashing his fury on people,” he jokes like this is all completely normal.

  Trinity looks like she’s going to be sick. I wrap my arm around her and rub her back for a second.

  The first fight is unimpressive. A twenty-nine year-old guy, in reasonably good shape, stomps a pudgy kid in under a minute.

  I lean against Rock. “What are the rules?”

  He shrugs. “Survival of the fittest?”

  Boos and shouts echo in the large space. The crowd is pissed.

  Not enough bloodshed, I guess.

  The second fight is a little more action-packed. The winner, a short, stocky kid with red hair, wraps things up early by choking his opponent out at the end of the first round. The loser has to be carried out of the ring.

  The bloodthirsty crowd roars when the unconscious kid gets taken into a back room.

  A sharp, bleating horn cuts through the noise, settling the crowd down.

  The man in the center of the ring holds a megaphone up to his lips.

  “Five minutes ‘til the blood bath you’ve all been waiting for. Get those bets placed now. Windows close when the opponents reach the ring.”

  There’s a frenzy of pushing and shoving to get over to the windows.

  My heart thumps a little faster. The energy level in the place has definitely amped up and twisted into something dangerous. This crowd is intent on two things: blood and money. I’m worried o
ur chances of leaving in one piece are getting worse by the minute.

  If Wrath wins, are all the people who lost money going to come after us?

  The shouting and shoving has risen to a deadly pitch.

  “You sure we’re okay?” I ask Rock.

  “We’re good, baby doll.”

  He looks as still and calm as always. Even so, I can’t relax.

  I squeeze Trinity’s hand, and she gives me a grateful smile.

  It doesn’t take long for that piercing bleat to silence the room again.

  “Tonight we have a meeting of old and young. Our new challenger has been fighting professional MMA for just over seven months. This is his first time in the dirty underground, so let’s give the Irish Storm some encouragement, folks!”

  I tug on Rock’s sleeve. “Why is he going up against a professional?”

  “Babe, trust me. It will be fine.”

  The crowd goes wild when “Irish” enters the ring. Boos, whistles, and cheers fill the room. Our little group remains silent.

  Irish Storm wears a serious expression as he bounces up and down, then scans the crowd.

  Wrath’s opponent has the big and scary thing down pat, but he’s nowhere near as terrifying as Wrath.

  “Our next fighter scares the shit out of even me. Undefeated in the underground, he doesn’t come out of hibernation often, but when he does, it’s scary as fuck! Hope you were careful placing your bets because they say the last thing to grow old in a man is Wrath!”

  As introductions go, it lacks the fire I expected. But the crowd eats it up. The volume inside the room explodes. I don’t think as many people have bet against Wrath as we think.

  He’s the only one tonight who has music playing when he walks out. I recognize the song as “The Way of the Fist,” and I snort with laughter. “That’s an appropriate song choice.”

  Rock looks at me like he’s surprised I know it, but he forgets I spent three years of law school chasing Sophie around heavy metal shows on the weekends.

  Wrath strolls into the room as if he’s stepping into his favorite bar. Casual, like he does this every night of the week. Shirtless, his bulky muscles ripple under his tattooed skin. He’s wearing those low slung, shiny athletic shorts I’ve always found rather sexy, and I see even his legs are covered in ink. As he turns full circle, I spot WRATH tattooed in bold, black, contoured letters across his shoulders. A Lost Kings tattoo, similar to the one that brands Rock’s skin, is situated below. I figure he’s had the Wrath tat longer than he’s been in the MC. As he turns our way, Z leans over and whispers into Trinny’s ear. We’re sitting close enough that I catch the scowl on Wrath’s face.