by Rie Warren
I gripped my cock, rubbing the tip over that rosy hole over and over again, watching her belly tremble. I slowly rolled a finger over her clit, and at this angle, her vulnerable pussy flowered open, deep pink, deeply hot.
When that sweet tiny glistening hole—the other one—pressed open, I took advantage. Another nudge and the top of my cock was grasped inside.
I stopped, all my muscles flexing. Harsh breaths driven from my chest. My dick just barely inside.
“Am I hurtin’ you?”
Peyton tilted her head up and looked down, her eyes pinned to the point of entry with her hips propped up on a pillow.
She drew in a great gust of air then fell back, bracketing my biceps with her hands. “No. No. Just . . . slow. You have to go slow.”
I swallowed. Wasn’t sure how long I could be in control of this. Bareback and in her ass . . . Not moving another inch forward, I kissed her with the fury of my love, waiting, waiting.
Wanting.
A tiny gasp and another arch of her hips, and I was welcomed inside her most secret place.
Peyton murmured as I slowly edged deeper—just one short thrust at a time. Her head rolled back and forth, and my toes curled with the heat enveloping me an inch at a time.
Shaking, I sent the last of my shaft home and held so deep inside her my mind exploded.
Her nails dug into my arms before her hands coasted up to my shoulders then down my back. And she opened. The tiniest bit more. Accepting all of me inside her.
“Pey.” My ass flexed and I lowered over her. “Goddamn, woman.”
She gasped in short bursts then moaned when I rasped my cheek against hers before finding her lips with mine.
“I gotta move. Gotta . . .”
She nodded, biting at my lip, tugging at my shoulders.
Peyton clasped me like a glove, and when I drew out of her, the wet suction almost bent my mind in half. The slow ingress back into her ass pushed a groan from my chest. And she keened, drawing me deep.
Slippery and wet. She was well greased, and so was my cock.
Slow and deep, I fucked her as she held onto me, urging for more, more, more.
My thighs flexed. My chest tightened. My sight went swirly.
The hot, silky, tighter than tight depths of her—surrounding me bare—was gonna get me off so fast.
But not as fast as the realization she liked it. Peyton liked me fucking her ass. The slippery glide got easier, and the wet slap of our bodies resounded throughout the room. Her nails tore along my shoulders. She dug her heels into my straining thighs.
She hissed in a breathy voice, “Fuck me,” then her fingers rolled between our slamming bellies.
Her fingers squelched inside her cunt, and I backed off just enough to watch her get herself off.
So. Fucking. Hot.
“Oh, God, Rafe.” Her desperate cry of pleasure set my balls on edge.
I tunneled deep, my hands on her tits, my lips at her neck, my cock ready to combust.
Seriously railing into her, I joined my fingers with hers, bringing her to a furious orgasm. The second she clamped down, I bit her nipple and slammed every single part of me inside.
A blinding rush of white-hot fire zipped down my spine. I hunched forward, shoving my cock deep, come spewing, every throbbing spurt of agony and release.
Release.
Fucking. Hell.
I pumped everything into Peyton, and she eagerly accepted it, drawing it all out. Her hot ass suckled my dick. I threw a few more thrusts into her, just to see my come-covered cock open and own her again.
Afterward my head dropped back on my shoulders. I pelted out air. Kinda wanted to Tarzan-beat my chest.
I settled for draping my arms around her—other than that, moving was almost impossible.
“You okay?” I asked.
“My ass is wet?” She snuggled in tight.
“Oh yeah?” Wolfish grin.
But I did the gentlemanly thing, scooting from under the sheets and quickly hitting the bathroom for a hasty cleanup before I returned bedside with a warm washcloth.
“Now what are you doing?” Peyton chewed on the corner of her lip when I gently spread her legs open.
I tried to wipe the smirk off my face while I softly swiped my—ahem—overspill from her pretty backside. “Gloating?”
She smacked me on my chest. “You’re not supposed to be smug about it.”
“Remember what I said about three times?” I shot the washcloth in the direction of the bathroom.
“Unbearable.”
“More like unstoppable.” Truth.
I captured her lips in a slow, seeking kiss. “Decided somethin’ tonight.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I love you.”
Her arms twined around my neck. “I already knew that. What else?”
“We’re gonna have another kid.”
“What?” She popped upright, almost toppling me from the bed.
“Easy, darlin’.” I kissed her forehead, sweeping my hands up and down her back. “But this time I’ll be here for everything.”
Relaxing in my arms, one of her hands slipped between us, weighing my slick, resurgent cock. “Is that so?”
“Yeah.” My voice rumbled. “’Specially if you keep that up.”
“Not if you keep fucking me in the ass.”
“That’s just for special occasions.”
“And when are we having this other baby?” She skimmed her entire body against mine in a sinuous move.
“As soon as I knock you up.”
“That’s my man. Always the romantic.”
“You want romance?” I pulled her hand to my lips.
The big diamond shined on her ring finger, one emblem that needed another very important one.
“Gave you my heart, Peyton Fox.” I framed her face. Kissed her tenderly. “Asked you to marry me.” I still couldn’t believe she’d said yes. “And I cannot wait to make you my wife.”
“Oh, Rafe. I love you, you know that?” Pulling me down on top of her, she pressed her lips to mine, parting them softly. “And I can’t wait to give you another child.”
“You really mean that?” A tidal wave of emotion hit me hard and fast.
“Yeah, I do.” Peyton rubbed her cheek against mine, her mouth coasting to my jaw and then my neck.
“Wanna start now?” I rocked against her with a grin, my cock already hard again.
Her thigh hitched up to my waist, and she rolled her hips. “I think I could accommodate your needs.”
“Sassy.” Releasing a groan, I slid the underbelly of my dick along her slippery folds.
“Yours.”
“Yeah.” I shivered when Pey tilted just right and the head of my bare cock merged into her. “Gonna get you that Super Bowl ring too.”
“Is that so?” Her flirty smirk disappeared as soon as I thrust hard, lunging all the way inside her.
“Absolutely.” Flipping her on top of me because I wanted to watch her ride, I bucked up as she slipped down my cock glistening with her juices. “But first I’m gonna give you a good hard fucking.”
Peyton moaned loudly, our bodies smacking together.
I kissed her into silence, gathering her hair in my fist. “Remember, we don’t wanna wake up Callum ’cause of the wild animals.”
Proudly perching up on top of me, she took me inside, velvety, softer than ever. “Let’s see how quiet you can stay, Mac Daddy.”
Keep reading for the first chapter of
RUSH
Carolina Bad Boys 5
Hot girls, hot cars, and time behind bars . . . I’m the most unsuitable dude for pretty girl-next-door Shiloh Lockhart.
http://amzn.to/2bPI62b
Chapter One
The Girl Next Door
IT WAS MAY WHEN Boomer and Rayce returned from their honeymoon, and they stepped into the Retribution MC bar nothing short of . . . exultant. Yeah. Pussy word probably learned from a poetry book during my prep-school-
good-boy years, but it was true.
Fuck if the newlyweds hadn’t been through ten thousand different versions of hell—alone and together. Rayce’s dad abusing her. Boomer losing his folks in a car crash he blamed himself for. Then finding out the man who’d raised Rayce—I used the term raised lightly—wasn’t her blood relation after all. Thank fuck for that.
Boomer, the big man who kept his emotions close to his chest, had been bitten hard by the love thing the second he’d spotted the Ladies of Redemption MC hottie, the only female mechanic at Josh Stone’s booming lowcountry garage.
They made an amazing couple, and everyone in the joint immediately stomped to their feet to welcome their homecoming. Shrill whistles, loud shouts, beer bottles slamming on tabletops . . . And of course some fucking wiseass started pumping “Another One Bites the Dust” over the speakers.
Tucker watched all with his big gray handlebar mustache trembling, his bright eyes a little damp.
The most un-fucking-believable thing of all: Tucker Freeman, our MC treasurer, all around Grandfather MC, and apparently a former preacher man—was Rayce’s real dad.
How was that for a happy frigging ending?
Tail looped his long black hair behind his ears, jumped onto the edge of a pool table—abusing the very altar he worshipped at—and hollered, “Drinks for the happy couple on me!”
“Whose pocket’s that really comin’ out of?” Brodie Steele, Boomer’s younger brother, yelled through hands he cupped around his mouth.
“Whoever wants up next.” Tail slapped his pool cue against the palm of his hand. “C’mon. Place your bets, losers.”
The barroom—a color dubbed Whore Red by Tail, who’d taken it upon himself to repaint the place—was one big commotion of men and women dancing, drinks pounded back, music bashing from the speakers, and pool balls knocking on the maroon tables.
I shook Boomer’s hand as soon as I waded my way toward him and Rayce.
I couldn’t hear his muffled words above the chaos, but it didn’t matter. Our hands clasped in a firm grip before I turned to beautiful Rayce—she of the smart mouth, the sassy black hair streaked by jolts of electric blue, and the desperate past finally shrugged off.
I knew something about that myself.
I gave her my congratulations, not only on her marriage but also her second place finish in the US Nationals Women’s MX event.
Racing.
Hell yeah.
Knew something about that, too. Most of it had landed me in a fuckload of trouble, but the rush of high-octane speed in my sick slick Chevy Nova with the souped-up blower sure as fuck had been worth it.
Almost.
At the time, anyway.
I moved just far enough away to watch Brodie grin at Boomer before shooting off some sarcastic comment Boom instantly rolled his eyes at.
Goddamn but those two were a shitshow and a half. Full of love and laughs. Been through the worst, now they were at their best.
Me? I was just lucky Boomer—the prez—and Brodie, my best bud and the club’s veep—had taken me in. That was what they did, the Steele family, their little sis, Cat, included. Those Steeles were all hooked up now, although it was a standing MC joke Brodie still hadn’t sealed the deal with his fiancée, Detective Ashe Kingston—too many months pregnant to keep track of anymore, badass as all get out, former single mom, and . . . uh . . . my arresting officer on more than one occasion.
Yeah. We’d all been drawn together by the family Steele. Folks who had no right mingling. Ex-cons, lost souls, wanderers, and the Retribution family was growing every day.
Case in point was Bo Maverick. The latest member. A Marine suffering from PTSD after returning stateside. Then there was Kinkaid, the ex-male-stripper. And Hunter, who’d worked some kind of deep cover ops he never spoke about.
Somehow we all fit.
Even Coletrane, the big, inked dude and tattoo artist who stood behind the bar. We didn’t know his story yet, but that would come. As an officer of the club, I had a vested interest in each and every man who walked through the doors.
The women, too, many a time.
I ambled to the bar and leaned an elbow on the clean surface.
Coletrane smirked at the happy couple. “Get you a drink, my man?” he asked me.
“Sure.” Watching Hunter down the way, I raised my voice enough to be heard. “Get me some of Hunter’s whiskey.”
Hunter’s gold eyes immediately narrowed on me.
Deadly.
But I’d faced a certain kind of death before, and when Cole slid the glass to me, I saluted the cold killer . . . who could barely keep his hands off his wife, JB.
He flipped a middle finger at me without even looking, in the middle of kissing Jessica.
“Hopeless,” Cole remarked, still grinning.
“Yup.”
“Not gonna happen to me,” he uttered.
“I hear that.”
Kinkaid took up a cloth and started polishing the bar again.
Big and blond, the man’s eyes lit on me. “Keeping up with the workout regime? ’Cause if you get bored I can help you switch it up.”
He rolled his hips and performed a dance move that left most women in the joint gagging on drool.
“Thought you gave that stripper shit up,” I said.
He leaned in close. “Only do it for Sadie now. Makes her hot.”
“Forget Handsome,” Brodie—who seemed to have preternatural hearing—shouted from across the room—“oughtta start callin’ him Horse!”
“’Cause I’m hung like one?” I rallied back, and more biker babes salivated for a taste of rough-and-tumble action.
The dudes laughed, just another night of raw innuendo that usually ended in a bed full of hot sex with one honey or another.
Hunter approached, his eyes skewering the drink in my hand before lifting to mine. “Lookin’ good, dude. Now that we can actually see your face.”
“What is this?” Cole, that fuck, flicked at my hair I’d hastily pulled up at the back of my head. “A mun, right?”
“Man bun,” Brodie turned up, snickering, with his evil blond goatee and big silver rings.
I’d have blushed if I actually gave two fucks. I’d gotten my hair cut. Started keeping it off my face. Worked out. Not because I needed more female attention. I’d never had a problem pulling the ladies.
I just wanted to be me again, in some way, shape, or form. Plus Brodie was the most gigantic pain in the ass, so when he decided I had to pony up, I gave in. I’d beefed up, put on muscle, shaved my beard, become visible.
Which meant I was vulnerable.
No one would ever know that though.
Boomer stalked over after leaving Rayce to reign over the dartboards with a loud slap to her ass.
“Didn’t even know you had ears.” His deep voice rumbled.
“And gauges, too, huh?” Cole leaned over to inspect the small bone plugs in my earlobes similar in size to his steel ones.
I knocked him out of my face. “Yeah. And I got mine a long time before you, young buck.”
“Yessir, Mr. MC Ocifer.” Cole chuckled, backing off.
With all the attention I was drawing I considered going incognito again. And that was just the brothers. The ladies were completely different animals altogether, and I didn’t have enough hands to handle all of them.
I’d been lounging against the bar, just taking it all in, refusing invitations to dance or slip into the back for a fast furious fuck that often ended with a nighttime full of regrets, when I heard my name called.
Not Handsome, my roadname, but my real one.
“Max? Maxwell Rush?” a familiar feminine voice called out.
All talk subsided, and Tail jumped onto the pool table again. “Who the hell’s named after a coffee company here?”
When I located the woman who’d shouted my name, my spine straightened.
Shiloh stood in Retribution MC central—the last place I’d ever expected to see her. The pro
verbial girl next door. Shy. A blast from the past that would no doubt dredge up memories and a history better off left forgotten.
I glanced at Tail then down at my groin. “You know what they say, dude. Good to the last drop.”
Leaving the crowd to stare and guffaw, I made my way toward Shy. Fuck. Seven years. She’d grown up.
“That you, Shiloh?”
“Max!” She flew into my arms. “You’ve gotten . . . bigger.” Her eyes widened as she leaned back and looked me up and down.
That time I did blush. Before scanning her more closely. More slowly. Gone was the gangly neighbor girl from my past. The teen who’d been my sister’s best friend and become my friend in turn.
Golden-skinned, she smelled so good—something like the ocean at Sullivan’s Island when the waves rushed in. Her hair was sun-streaked rich brown and honey-gold and razor-edged from the very nape of her neck to a sharp angle below her delicately boned jaw. No ink marked her sleek flesh, not like me. My most prominent tat on my left shoulder was a motorcycle with the emblem Ride or Die. But I was inked from my shoulders to my wrists—wrenches, skulls, Once upon a wish, not to mention the massive MC backpiece.
Back to Shy, who I couldn’t take my eyes off of. Goddamn. A lot of skin showed between the sheer slouchy top just barely remaining this side of sultry instead of slutty by a flash—a band of bright color—wrapped around her tits beneath the see-through thing that sloped off one naked shoulder. Her jeans were tight, rolled up, and her lengthy legs ended in heels that added to her height but only brought her to my chin.
Gold jewelry, high quality, at her ears and her wrists. And when she hooked back her hair with a smile tipped up at me, I saw she had a bar piercing the upper cartilage of one ear.
The only spare flesh was on her ass, in her hips, and her tits, which I was pretty fucking sure I’d never stared at before—and probably shouldn’t start now.
“Get a long enough look?” Her eyes, the color of polished silver, slanted up at me.
Shy. Couldn’t even remember why I’d given her that nickname. Maybe to distance myself. Not that there’d ever been or ever would be anything between me and Miss Shiloh Lockhart of the downtown Charleston Lockharts.