“Hey! I never agreed to that.”
“You haven’t agreed to that yet,” he clarified. “But we both know you will.”
Damn, he was probably right. They had officially become a couple and she could see herself headed down a church aisle with him one day. But it wouldn’t be as Mrs. Ryker.
She groaned. “Tell me already!”
“Don’t you think this is late and kinda after the fact, since you are crazy about me and all?” he teased.
“All the more reason I should at least know your real name. You’re killing me!” She grabbed at his shirt, tugging it. “Out with it.”
He raised a brow. “You really want to know?”
“Yes! Stop tormenting me”
He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Oh, I haven’t even begun to torment you yet. Such sweet torment,” he murmured. She could feel herself go liquid at his words. “I’m going to make your pussy quiver tonight and before I give your first orgasm you’re gonna have to beg me for it.”
She sucked in a breath, suddenly finding it hard to think. Then, shook her head and forced herself to clear it. “Don’t try to distract me with your sexy talk.”
“I seem to recall you lovin’ my sexy talk.”
“Ryker!” she gritted out, exasperated.
“Fine. If you want to know. I’ll tell you.” He spoke very quietly. “Freddy Mercury Rollins.”
She frowned.
He took a swig of beer and shot her a sidelong glance. “And if you tell anyone? I will smack that fine ass of yours until you can’t sit for a week.”
Not much of a threat, since she considered a good, hard spanking to be foreplay now. Her lips twitched. “Did your mom have a thing for Queen, or something?”
He made a face. “I ain’t had enough to drink for that kind of conversation.”
“No wonder you went with Ryker.” She pasted on an innocent, wide-eyed expression. “Can I call you Freddy?”
“Fuck no!”
She continued to tease him. “So, have you ever sung along with his songs when they come on the radio?” She rocked back and forth on the stool. “Groove on a little Bohemian Rhapsody? Maybe rock out to Another One Bites the Dust?”
He slapped her ass, hard, and she could feel herself getting wetter. “No, But I do love Fat Bottom Girls.” He gave her behind a squeeze. “One of my favorites, in fact.”
She pressed a hand to his crotch and she could feel his cock, thickening through the fabric. “Hmm, I can see that.”
Right then, one of the hellions Ryker had been dancing with slinked by and she winked at him before taking a stool at the very end of the bar.
He leaned over to get a better view. “You know, she’s got a nice ass too. Not as good as yours, but it’ll do. What do you say? You in the mood for a threesome?”
She murmured in his ear, “you said once I could bust your balls in private if I became your old lady.”
“Yeah, so what?” he agreed, staring down at her. He raised a wicked brow, practically daring her to say something about it. The big jerk loved making her jealous, probably just to prove she cared about him. “Where’s this headed, darlin’?”
“I’m giving you fair warning. I don’t consider ball busting a metaphor. You touch her or any other hellion ever again?” she purred. “I’ll play croquet with your balls. It’ll make what I did to Carl look like a love tap.” She couldn’t even be shocked at her own boldness anymore. She had officially become a bad ass biker babe. After all, in addition to dating an outlaw, she’d already helped beat up ex-boyfriend.
He howled with laughter, obviously pleased by her possessiveness. Then, he chucked his empty beer in the nearby trash can and got to his feet, only to sling her over his shoulder.
She yelped in protest and he slapped her ass for good measure.
“Get a room!” Shepherd called.
She shrieked with laughter and pounded on his back. “Put me down!”
“Not a chance, Pinky! I gotta have me some of that juicy ass. Right now. I picked you up here and I ain’t ever puttin’ you back down.” With that, Ryker carried her off to the boardroom.
Keep reading for a preview of the next book in the series, Hot as Hades, Four Horsemen MC #2.
Hot as Hades Blurb
Cowboy is a former rodeo star and a member of the Four Horsemen MC. He spots Daisy Weston stripping in a club owned by the Raptors, a rival club. The Raptors have taken Rose, and Daisy is determined to free her at any cost. With Cowboy acting as her bodyguard and guide to the outlaw world, she is getting closer to discovering Rose’s whereabouts, one lap dance at a time. Despite his better judgment, Cowboy finds himself falling for the pretty ex-marine and putting her in harm's way every night is becoming more and more difficult. Can they rescue Rose, before the Raptors discover they are working with the Four Horsemen?
Chapter One
I want her.
Cowboy tried to shake the mental hold the stripper had on his dick. Something about the blonde tempted him and it should have been hard to keep his interest. After all, he had just bellied up to a busty bar of options.
Far as his cock was concerned, she was the only woman in the club.
He tried to focus on his surroundings, instead of the woman dancing on stage. Not much to report. Although his twenty-something self would have loved the Pussycat Palace’s brothel vibe, Cowboy had outgrown that stupid shit for the most part.
The place left a lot to be desired. Cheetah fabric covered the booths, with cheap black acrylic tables. Fake gold stripper poles lined the stage and the long catwalk. The Palace waitresses walked around in tight white tank tops which featured a nearly naked woman in a cat costume, along with black Daisy Dukes that showed a generous amount of ass.
Well, the outfits weren’t that bad.
The music sucked though. Cowboy pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to fight off a headache as the DJ started up George Michael’s I Want Your Sex. He’d never really cared for 80s artists because all of the music sounded the same to him. He loved old school country, Johnny Cash in particular.
Cowboy needed to get some info and he’d hoped the dancers or the waitresses would be a bit more chatty on such a slow night. But they’d been skittish, dodging his questions and giving him a wide berth. Other than the club owner, the bouncers, and himself? No bikers. Just a passel of drunken, horny military dudes crowded around the main stage hooting and hollering at the women.
That and a man in a very expensive suit.
He kept to himself in the corner, scribbling away in some leather bound notebook. Somethin’ about Suit Guy bugged the shit out of him. All buttoned up and squared shoulders, he didn’t react to the dancers. What man comes to a strip club and ignores the main attraction? And while Cowboy glanced in his direction, the dude actually yawned. Yawned?!
Cowboy shrugged. Weird as it was, it didn’t happen to be his business and he had much more pressing concerns. Like sneaking a glance at the stripper again.
Great rack. He could get lost between those big tits. Damn. She had just been fucked hair, a blond tumble of curls surrounded her pretty face, like she’d left some lucky bastard’s bed moments ago and he’d been running his hands through it all night. Her tight ass cheeks peeked from beneath a tiny skirt. She’d topped off the outfit with red, fuck me heels, and black thigh highs trimmed with crimson bows.
He loved the tat on her shoulder. A lioness growling, teeth bared, and claws out. It extended down the line of her back, and then disappeared beneath a red corset. Made him wonder if she was a wild cat in bed or a sweet purring pussy.
When he tore his attention away from her, he noted the rest of her co-workers were in a daze. Sure, strippers usually regarded horny guys with bored expressions as they danced. But these girls? Lifeless. Nothing but a row of pretty painted zombies shuffling around the catwalk as George Michael crooned about gettin’ some. He supposed they could be junkies. Cowboy recognized the signs. They had red-rimmed, spaced out eyes, dull h
air and skin, slowed reaction time. Not to mention they were skinny as understuffed scarecrows.
His girl didn’t look bored though.
She eyed the crowd, evaluating them, and then marched down the catwalk like a drill sergeant traipsing by the new recruits. All obey my commands and kiss my boots attitude. He had no clue why she had come to the Palace, but he’d bet his blue Harley Fat Boy, it wasn’t to strip.
When she reached the edge of the stage, she launched herself at the poll and spun on it like a wild thing. Women usually seduced the pole, treated it like a lover to be gently rubbed against. Not his girl. She attacked it and then forced it into submission, upending her body on the rod, and then clenching it with her strong thighs. Squeezing.
Holy fuckin’ shit.
Cowboy had a boner the size of Texas in his Levis. He’d love nothing more than to explore every single inch of her long, powerful legs. He couldn’t help but think of them wrapped around his waist as he fucked her.
Oh hell yes. He could back her up against a wall, drive into her while she clawed up his back, coming for him again and again.
He drained the rest of his lukewarm beer and tried to pull his shit together. He had a job to do. He’d come to question the girls since the Raptors were out on a run and he shouldn’t be sitting here getting his motor revved.
The Four Horsemen, his MC, had gotten wind that the Raptors had been trafficking in women, using them for profit. From what he’d pieced together from the night of the living dead strippers on stage, there had to be some truth to the stories. That sort of shit didn’t sit well with the Four Horsemen. He’d bring the info back to his club and they’d sort this out, preferably the hard way.
The Horsemen were something of an anomaly in the MC world. They had many ways to earn, but none of them involved using women. By far their favorite business, a very lucrative one at that, involved karmic facilitation, a Horsemen term for meting out some richly deserved vigilante justice. Usually for profit and hell, sometimes just for fun. In other words? What goes around comes around to bite you on the ass.
The club motto wasn’t Think on Your Sins for nothing.
Unfortunately, he was in a holding pattern until he conferred with his brothers. Cowboy felt naked without his Four Horsemen cut, the leather vest which marked him as a member of the MC. He wanted to shut this thing down. Tonight. He fantasized about drawing his Colt, rounding every single one of these dickheads up, and then making an example of them, all by his Lone Ranger self. But he knew it would be suicide.
And he’d gotten over his death wish a couple of years ago.
He scanned the back of the club. Two big guys served as bouncers. They both had to be pushing three hundred and fifty pounds, easily six and a half feet. Both of them wore Raptor prospect cuts, so they hadn’t been officially let into the club. Like a fraternity, potential members had to pledge before they became full members.
Down the hallway, to the left of the stage, he spied the Raptor meeting room. The club symbol, a bird of prey with talons bared, had been carved into the wooden doors. Took some balls, to put your MC’s club house in a strip joint funded by drugged women.
He couldn’t help but eye the pretty stripper again.
And damn if she didn’t look good enough to eat. From the way his dick reacted, you’d think he hadn’t seen a woman in years. Even though he’d gotten a blow job this morning from one of the hellions, naughty girls who hung around his club. Nothing special, but it had drained his balls and cleared his head. Well, until he saw the stripper.
The wild cat locked eyes with him and wrapped one, long, lean leg around the pole, held on tight. Then bucked against it. Hard. Again and again as he watched every fucking movement. He imagined her thrusting against him like that, as she rode his cock.
He clutched the empty beer bottle in his hand, worried he might bust the fucking thing.
She shimmied away from the pole, teasing him with more glimpses of her panties beneath the fabric of that short skirt. Then, turned and rocked her ass back and forth to Warrant’s Cherry Pie, pausing only to glance at him over her shoulder and then she winked.
Oh fuck me.
She glided down the stage steps, but snubbed the military douchebags and Suit Guy, eyes completely focused on Cowboy alone. The boys frantically tried to flag her down with dollar bills, but she strutted to his table instead. Then eased her arms up over her head and danced just for him.
She swung her hips, shook that ass. Then, she leaned over, giving him a real good view of those big tits, straining to break free from her corset.
Cowboy clenched his jaw.
She leaned down and whispered to him, her cherry mouth against his ear. “What do you say, baby? Take me to the champagne room?”
Christ. His cock reared at her words, stood up in his pants like the stripper pole she’d twirled on. He knew she had only offered him an invitation to buy a lap dance, a poor imitation of what he really craved but his cock didn’t seem to give a shit about the circumstances.
Mentally, he said no. However, his dick, the traitorous fucker, made him say yes.
Before he could stop himself, he’d gotten to his feet and followed her down a very narrow hallway to a small, empty room. Discreet, and off the beaten, the room had red velvet chairs, a private pole, and a big black coffee table that could serve as a tiny stage.
Another thought suddenly occurred to him.
What if the Raptors used the dancers as prostitutes as well? Maybe the club had the girls proposition men for sex on site. It made sense. The club didn’t have to buy or rent a separate facility or even secure a hotel room. The bouncers could even protect their “merchandise” from dudes who might damage their investment.
And this situation put Cowboy securely on the horns of a real fucking dilemma.
When it came to the wild cat, he didn’t know if his moral compass currently pointed due north. Could he pass up the chance to fuck her if she offered it up? He swallowed thickly.
Dear fluffy Lord, I hope so.
He’d never paid for sex. Never. He considered it a point of pride. The women he slept with craved him as well. Nothing but mutual lust, attraction and never a business arrangement.
Cowboy argued with himself. He’d just look, okay, maybe touch, but definitely not fuck. Because it wouldn’t be right. He just needed to know exactly what kind of bullshit the Raptors were into. That’s it! If she offered, he’d pony up the cash and make her turn on the dickheads and blab all the details.
But, she didn’t offer him anything. Not. One. Damn. Thing.
They stood staring at one another for a moment and he got the distinct impression that she’d never done this before. She bit her lip, not meeting his gaze and her confidence seemed to fade. The silence stretched in the small room. Just the two of them without the hypnotic, hard pounding music and the benefit of nearby alcohol to smooth the rough edges.
To clear the tension, he reached for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
She shook her head. “We’ll worry about that in a bit.” She stepped up on the coffee table. “For now, I want you to watch me.”
A stripper or possible prostitute who wouldn’t take money up front? His bullshit o’ meter started ringin’. Yeah, she didn’t belong here. She didn’t seem drugged and had way more attitude than any stripper he’d ever seen.
None of it added up.
She hit the button on a remote she plucked from the table and then tossed it on the carpet. Chris Isaak’s Wicked Games filled the room. Much more mellow than the bump and grind music on the main floor. Like a puppet on her G-string, he sank down in the nearest chair, duty promptly forgotten in a haze of lust.
Everything seemed to melt away, the throbbing music from down the hall, the drunken catcalls. Nothing in all of Texas, but the two of them.
She started to move leisurely, seductively on the table. He couldn’t talk now, even if he wanted to. She ran a hand down the long, graceful line of her neck and then rubbed
between the mounds of her breasts, touching herself where he longed to. Then, she turned around slowly and bent over, showing him her shapely ass as she stroked her impossibly long legs.
Cowboy gulped.
He gripped the armrests to keep from reaching for her. Fuck. Bent over like that, he could yank her panties aside, push his stiff cock in her. He could spread her wide open for him and then take her again and again, making her come for him until she pleaded with him to stop. Then he’d fuck her some more. Until they were both too exhausted to see straight. But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
What the fuck am I doing? Engaging in some masochistic blue ball torture, that’s what.
She hopped off the makeshift stage and walked to a table by the door. “I’m sorry. I forgot to offer you some bubbly, baby. This is the champagne room, after all.” She reached into a bucket of ice and pulled out a small bottle of champagne. The cheap shit. Not that he expected Dom Perignon or anything but it figures the Raptors would stock second rate alcohol. Perdition, the bar his club owned, only carried top shelf, but nothing as girly as sparkling wine.
She poured them two glasses of bubbly and then carried them both over. Her breasts nearly spilled over the top of her corset, bouncing as she walked. He wanted to see her rosy nipples puckering up, just begging to be taken in his mouth. Damn. Then, he wanted to pour the alcohol over them, lick it off her while she squealed and not in protest either.
But he settled for taking a sip from the glass she offered him, eyes glued to her chest. The alcohol tasted strange, medicine-y. It reminded him of the foul flavor of uncoated aspirin on his tongue. He took another swig of it, just in case he’d been mistaken. Nope, shit still tasted bad. Maybe because it was the cheap stuff?
“Something wrong?”
“This tastes like ass.” He grimaced. “Maybe I’m more of a tequila man?”
He started to reach around her to place the flute on the table, but she clinked her glass to his. “A toast to discovery?”
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