HIS VIRGIN VESSEL: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (War Cry MC)

by Nicole Fox

  “I won’t!” I screamed, and yet I stumbled back. As he approached, he seemed to grow taller, while I, now, cringing, was shrinking.

  BOOM! I did not see him pull the trigger. I did not see the bullet fly. I only heard the gun go off, had only a moment to think, “I am dead.”

  But no pain erupted. I opened my eyes (for I had clenched them shut at the sound) and looked down: but there was no blood on my clothing.

  Eyes wide with wonder, I lifted my gaze to Blade.

  He was gaping at me, open-mouthed, like a fish yanked from the dark and slimy safety of its underwater home. The gun was still in his hands, now trembling, and even as I watched, his fingers gave a mighty twitch so that the weapon tumbled down to the floor. In astonishment, he looked from the gun, and then to his chest, which was blossoming with blood like red roses emerging from snow. It soaked his buttons, wicked up to his lapels, and flowed into steady streams down to his pants. As if in slow motion, he reached to his heart and touched it. His fingertips sank in as if it was jelly, and not bone, hidden beneath his shirt.

  “You…bitch,” he gurgled, and then toppled to the floor. In horror, I watched him fall––that is, until I noticed the man standing behind him.

  “Dominic!” I gasped, practically fainting with happiness. He had his legs spread in an athletic stance and his leather pants and jacket gleaming, while in his hands he held, completely level and sure, a smoking, glinting gun. With a smile, he released the trigger and slipped it back into the holster on his hip.

  “Are you okay, Erica?” He asked, stepping over the still body of Mr. Blade with his steel-clad combat boots. I nodded, feeling at once both weak and incredibly, unbelievably strong, as he took me into his arms.

  “I am now,” I murmured, opening up his jacket to rest my face on the soft cotton shirt beneath. He laughed and ruffled my hair. His fingertips smelt of gunpowder.

  “You were doing pretty well on your own,” he complimented, kissing my forehead. “You’re a strong woman, Erica.”

  This made me, for a reason the dream-me could not yet understand, feel terribly sad.

  “Thank you,” I murmured. He missed me, and my sadness fled away.

  “Now come on,” he whispered, picking me right up off my feet. With a single flourish, he swept everything clear from my desk and laid me across it.

  “But, Dominic!” I protested, twisting to gaze at Mr. Blade, still bleeding on the floor. To my surprise, the body was gone, and without a drop of blood in sight.

  Dominic winked at me. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve done this sort of thing before.”

  And then he ripped my underwear from my hips.

  How different it is, when a man treats you possessively, yet you want to be possessed? How different, when you want to be roughed up, because it shows you each other’s strengths, not your weaknesses? And yet, in my dream, Dominic was not a complete barbarian. He knew I was shaken by what happened. So rather than simply driving it inside me, after tearing off my panties and yanking up my dress, he slid slowly to his knees and grinned.

  “Pretty pussy,” he cooed, reaching up with a single finger and stroking me. Gently, he looped my legs up and over his shoulders and kissed my inner thighs.

  The cool touch of his lips was soothing. The bristle of his jaw was titillating. He traced the outline of my hip bones with his fingertips as he slipped closer and closer to my core.

  His tongue was warm and wet. It left traces of moisture on my skin, and when he breathed they lit up in cool highlights.

  My pussy throbbed, opening up for him, even though he had barely touched it. I felt lubrication filling me up, flowing from my opening to surround my clit, and to coat my lips.

  “You slut,” he murmured, and then dipped into me.

  I moaned, rocking back on the desk. So vivid was the dream that I could feel its cool, lacquered wood beneath me, and even the slight discomfort of a pen poking into my back. That was how much I desired him, my imagination filled in every single detail.

  Especially, of course, the feel of him eating me out.

  “Ohh!” I groaned, feeling wave of pleasure after waving of pleasure washing over me, as he flicked my clit with his tongue. His fingers scraped along my belly, drew a course down my innermost thighs, and then spread my lips open, inviting him in deeper.

  “Yes!” I cried. “Yes!” He stroked me, so that my wetness flowed even further, coating his tongue and painting his fingers with a glistening gloss. My hands clutched at the edge of my desk, and my thigh muscles squeezed against the sides of his neck, but he did not protest. He went with me, matching my strength, rocking with the convulsions of my body.

  At last, I felt myself cum. Wetness flooded out of me, soaking my lips and even his chin. He stopped, then leaned away, grinning as he wiped his mouth.

  “You deserve that,” he whispered, rising to his feet. “You deserve to feel so good.”

  And then, he rammed his cock into me.

  My low moans erupted into screams as my whole body convulsed with pleasure. My legs automatically went up and closed around his neck, so I that I could feel the full, thick, throbbing length of him entering me with every thrust.

  And here’s the nice thing about dreams: at first, he was still clad in his leather jacket. Its metal zippers bit into the flesh of my thighs, increasing the feeling of roughness, of the domination he had over me. And them, as his pounding grew, and they began to rub, the jacket suddenly vanished. He was naked before me, all of his scarred, embattled, tattooed muscles flexing and posing with every piston-like movement of his body. The contact of his skin on mine caught fire, while my g-spot sang as his rock-hard rod pounded into it. I knew it was a dream. But that did not stop me from cumming. Hard.

  “Yes!” He roared, slapping at my breasts then covering my mouth with his hand, so that my screams were muffled. We were, after all, in my office.

  This only completed my feeling of subjugation, of his total conquest over me. My eyes rolled back in pleasure. My hands fastened over his, not to pull it off, but to pretend to.

  “I’m gonna cum in you,” he growled, as his thrusting increased. I felt myself growing dizzy, about to burst.

  I felt the explosion. A deep feeling, a wellness surged through me, hot and comforting as a bowl of soup on a cold winter’s night. Slowly, the dream faded, and just as gently, I felt myself awaken.

  Sleepily, I reached down and touched between my legs. I was soaking wet, and my pussy was throbbing. I had cum in my sleep. That had never happened to me before.

  Sighing deeply, I rolled back onto my side, reliving in my head the wonderful images from the dream. And not just the sex. My feelings of victory and power as I told Blade off. The sight of Dominic’s smoking gun over Blade’s dead body. Strangely, the violence did not bother me. It made me feel warm and better than ever.

  Though earlier that night I would have said it was impossible, I snuggled up, still inhaling Dominic’s scent, smiled, and fell immediately to sleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dominic

  With a little help from the Vet and several nights split between resting and a bottle of tequila, my wound healed just fine. It would become yet another scar on my battered torso. In a year, I would barely remember how it happened.

  Our heist continued in its planning stages. Though we were determined, there remained a lurking suspicion that we were missing something: some dark element yet unseen by our most perceptive eyes.

  And yet, even with the enormity of the heist looming before us, there were still boring, everyday tasks that required the attentions of the president of the Broken Spires: checking out club prospects. This was a duty that I used to enjoy––determining the toughest, smartest, and most loyal of new prospects. And yet, now I was bored with it. These young men seemed like wolf pups to me: savage, undisciplined, and naive. They yipped at me like I held the last piece of meat in all the world, and they’d do anything to have it.

  Still, I imagined it w
ould probably go better than scoping out another Crooked Jaws bar. Plus, I didn’t want the likes of Fernando or Dorian picking out the new recruits. They tended to focus too much on violence, picking bullies and thugs. But if my years as president had taught me anything, it was that brains were far more important than brawn.

  And both together were deadly.

  I selected a neutral bar for our meetup. It was a tourist trap, filled with way too many out-of-towners to ever be a permanent home to any club. In many ways, this made it a good place to meet prospects. They had less of a chance for being assumed Broken Spires and killed for it.

  There was another benefit as well: dumb, blonde groupies.

  The two young men I wanted to talk to were sitting at a table with two such specimens: tall, full-lipped, wide-hipped young women with breasts the size of cantaloupes. They practically could have been twins. And though I could tell, even all the way from the entrance to the bar, that the men were trying to command their attention, both of them looked immediately at me when I walked in.

  I suppose that being the president of a major motorcycle club does give one a certain amount of glamour.

  All four of the occupants of the table immediately moved over as I approached, offering me ample seating space. I took it, then spread myself out like a cat, commanding an entire quarter of the table. I laid my boots across a chair, unzipped my leather jacket, and held a single hand in the air. A second later, a drink was in it.

  I had not yet said a word.

  The prospects and the groupies stared at me in awe. If I was the laughing type, I would have chuckled. The men gaped. One was missing a tooth, obviously punched out in some barroom brawl. The women leaned forward, pushing up their breasts with their arms, their ruby-red lips glistening like cherries as their slightly bovine mouths hung open.

  I sipped my drink and continued to look at them in silence. This was important. I was not going to offer them anything or welcome them in any way. If they wanted to be part of the Broken Spires, they would have to fight their way in, tooth and nail.

  “Uh, hello, Sir,” one said, shifting in his seat and offering me a hand to shake. “I’m George.”

  I gazed at him, as a lion gazes at approaching prey too insignificant to bother with. I did not shake his hand.

  “A biker’s hands are his most important assets,” I growled at last, enjoying the group’s increasing discomfort. “I advise you not to offer them about so freely.”

  George snatched his hand away as if it had been burned.

  “Now,” I continued, suddenly sitting up and looking serious. “The first thing you need to know is not to call me ‘Sir’ when we are not in Broken Spires territory. It is unlikely that we would end up seeing any of our enemies here, but let’s not give them the opportunity. Capisce?”

  They nodded. The one sitting next to George said, “Yes, Si….Mr. Molina.”

  “I suppose that’s better,” I remarked dismissively, resuming my nonchalant poise. I turned back to George. He, at least, had the balls to speak first. He got points for that. “So, tell me, George. What can you offer my club?”

  He blinked, seeming nervous to be put on the spot. Then, after a second collecting himself, he launched on several long-winded stories about his exploits as a young man: his drug dealings, bike races, pseudo-masculine things of that nature. Within thirty seconds I determined that he would make a fine grunt, but would never amount to anything much more than that. However, I allowed him to continue speaking, for something else had captured my attention.

  One of the women was trying quite obviously to catch my interest.

  As George talked, she leaned all the way down against the table, so that her breasts pooled against its surface, and her cleavage swelled. She bit her lip, a sexy, manipulative pose, and allowed her hair to flow down her sculpted shoulders, a lovely (if obviously fake) yellow-blonde. Even as I watched, her hand snaked its way up to the collar of her shirt and hooked a single finger around its edge. Like a woman drawing back a curtain, she slid the fabric across the smooth skin of her breast, until, for the slightest instant, her nipple peeked out.

  My eyes narrowed, but that was my only response. Meanwhile, the man seated next to George, audibly gasped. The girl winked, and hid her nakedness away.

  “How about you?” I asked him, pausing so he could provide me with a name.

  “Drew!” He burst, wrenching his gaze away from the woman. I smiled. He was agitated, distracted. Making this the perfect time to put him on the spot.

  “So, Drew,” I whispered, leaning close, switching on my aggression. “You ever been inches from death? A knife? A gun? A cinderblock? Ever had someone a second away from killing your fat ass? What did you do, huh, that makes you think you’re worth the Broken Spires?”

  He blinked at me like a fish out of water, and to keep him perturbed, I immediately switched back to my lazy, careless pose, a slight smile on my face as I watched him trying to gather his thoughts like a clumsy man struggling to hold a hundred greasy ping pong balls in his arms. Finally, his mental engine wheezed and coughed and sputtered into a start, and he began to respond.

  Already bored, I shift my gaze over to the girl again.

  She turned in her seat, extending her legs outward so that they were visible beyond the table. Long, full, and deeply tanned, they tapered down to muscular calves followed by petite ankles and little white feet, tied––uncomfortably, I’m sure––in multi-strapped red stilettos. They were sexy as hell, but ridiculous to walk in. I grinned at her. I have a theory that the more uncomfortable a woman’s heels are, the more discomfort she is willing to handle in bed.

  I was sure to be testing that very shortly, I was certain.

  With a look of utter disdain, I turned back to Drew, who was just sputtering out after a clumsy story involving him and his friends getting slammed underage, then hiding from a couple of police officers with nightsticks. He was white as a ghost and seemed worried that I might, in fact, attack him, simply to see how he’d respond. I decided to let the poor guys off the hook. They were idiots anyway. I wasn’t going to get much more out of them.

  “You’ve done well, boys,” I lied, offering them the first smile that did not look like I was about to take a bite out of them. “I think I’ve learned enough to let you into the first level. We’ll see how you progress from there. In the meantime, let’s drink and get comfortable.”

  I raised my hand again, and, without even looking, gestured to the table as a whole. Within seconds the waiter appeared and supplied all five of us with shots.

  I winked at the girl. “To exciting new opportunities,” I toasted, and everyone drank.

  George and Drew immediately turned to each other, offering congratulations for making it this far and ordering yet another round of shots. Of course, they had to wait awhile to get them. I man needs presence before he can start demanding things like that. I leaned closer to the girl and whispered, “If you want a drink, you just ask me. You hear?”

  She nodded, so hard that her porn-star tits bounced everywhere, to the point where I wondered if they could hit her in the chin. She offered her hand for me to shake, and, unlike the man’s, I took it. Fake nails, long as talons, scrape against the calloused flesh of my palm. They were pink as lemonade.

  “I’m Lizzie,” she squeaked, her voice at once both rasping and babyish. “What’s your name?”

  I scowled at her, convinced at first she must be joking. But no––she genuinely did not know who I was.

  This is going to be way too easy, I thought.

  “Dominic,” I said, releasing her hand and dropping mine to her thigh. She squeaked again but did not protest. Instead, she opened her legs wider, so I could see past her red sequined dress down the long, delicious length of her inner thigh.

  So, so easy.

  “So tell me about yourself, Lizzie,” I requested, offering her yet another drink. She giggled, and went on to tell me that she just graduated high school, and was taking a year
off to putter around America before returning to college. When I asked her what major she was going for, she answered, “Oh, whatever one I think will help me get a husband!”

  I grinned at that and asked her if she was doing that tonight, and she chuckled. “No, silly!” Was her reply. “I’m just looking for a good time!”

  So, so, so, easy.

  Grinning, I offered to show her my bike, parked in a private alley behind the bar, where only the owners of the place and I could access it. I had this arrangement with most of the bars I frequented. Not only did it keep my bike safe from Crooked Jaw vandalism, but it made for an awfully convenient place to take slutty groupies like this one. Instantly she agreed, so I took her by the hand, led her out the door and to the back of the bar. I held onto her the whole time not out of romance, but because she was so drunk that she kept on weaving around and bouncing off the walls.