Hard Core: Biker MC Motorcycle Club Menage Steamy 3 Story Bundle Set (Hot Tales From a Hard Road Book 1)

by Motorcycle Club Thrills

  Then he pulled her hair and dragged her face to his pulsing red erection. He held her by her hair and jaw, and she almost gagged as he plunged his thick shaft into her mouth.

  Saliva ran over her lips as his hot bolts of acrid, salty jizz spurted into her throat. He fucked her face repeatedly until he began to soften.

  Even then, he held her face pulled right up to his pubes. He panted as his fingers twisted in her hair.

  He shouted, “Woo-hoo!” as he pulled her off him and held her with her face upwards, forcing her to look up at his hard, rippled body and into his cruel eyes.

  “Now, you can’t say that weren’t good fucking.”

  He straightened himself up, buttoned his pants and let her into the bathroom to clean up. Though he stood by the door, he wasn’t paying much attention to Tiffany, so she took her time and tried to recover.

  The shattering orgasm had left her knees trembling. To distract herself she studied the panel nailed over the window. Her legs quivered and her hands and arms shook so that it was hard even to wash.

  Her concentration wouldn’t settle. There were four or five nails holding the panel on each side, so about twenty in all. They weren’t driven all the way in, and so they could be bent back or pried out. It wouldn’t be easy and it couldn’t be done without a metal tool.

  Why did her body react the way that it did? Count the nails again, Tiff, she told herself. Stay calm. For once the voice in her head was strong and reassuring.

  The window itself was screwed to the frame. The only way out would be through the glass, and she had no idea what would be on the other side. So far, fucking the bikers seemed like a more solid plan, although this one wasn’t likely to melt with gratitude.

  As Tiffany splashed herself in the cool water, she felt strong, as though she really had washed something away. She still ached and stung all over, and heat burned raw in her ass. When she slipped back into the room, still wearing only her top and panties, and she felt, in some ways, more exposed than before.

  The biker had a blunt lit. He took a draw and offered it to her. She hesitated.

  “If I were you? I’d take all the fun I could get right now.”

  She took the joint and drew deeply on it, letting the smoke curl up over her face. She watched him. His was the first face that she’d seen in more than a day. The only face she’d seen since she left the mall, really.

  After she held the smoke in for a while and then let go she said, “Good weed,” through her teeth. Tiffany heard the quiver in her voice. She was shaken to the core. She had planned to submit to any of the bikers, all of them if necessary, but she hadn’t been at all prepared for what had just happened.

  The fact that he had made no attempt to hide his face made her fearful. Still she wanted to show herself calm and strong, and hope that the brute would feel something, some kind of allegiance to her.

  The biker smiled as he took the joint back. “Courtesy of your considerate captor.” Surely this man must be a psychopath. Whatever the implications, though, at least she should try to talk to him. His male brain was should still be at least a little loose with endorphins and hormone release.

  “Have you given the demands to my Daddy yet?”

  A grin stretched over his mouth. “Your old man’s going to play ball, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  He acted as though they were buddies sharing a joint. Was he really that delusional, or was he just putting up an act—was this just a callous front? Was he planning to kill her even as he smiled at her, having just taken her by force?

  He handed her the spliff and headed for the door, saying, “Sweet dreams, princess.”

  “I might save some of this. Lend me a lighter?”

  He smiled and handed her a plastic disposable.

  As he closed the door behind him, Tiffany’s jangled nerves overcame her and she shook uncontrollably. She buried her head in the pillow, and her teeth clattered together as she sobbed.

  She allowed herself the release of tears, but not for too long. She knew that she needed to stay strong. She had met something and the awful depth of that encounter, something she had known was there. Something she hated. It was her.

  The pent-up anguish made her want to howl, to cry out for her daddy, for her sister Jesska, even for her momma. It felt good to let the dam break, even though she guided the flow. She would only let herself go so deep, and she had to keep it in a channel. She couldn’t have it spilling out all over or she would be lost, but she would allow that torrent to flow as long as it needed.

  She shook and sobbed. Her quaking breaths into the wet pillow made her face hot and the rhythm of her shaking chest took her to a place she didn’t want to be. She accepted it, took it as part of the tide, and allowed all the old images to flash by, just as long as they kept moving.

  It felt like forever since she’d seen her bed, her room, her stupid soft toys. She felt like an awful chasm had opened between her and everything that she knew, everything that was part of her life. She shook as she sobbed. Would she ever get out of this?

  That became her turning point. Yes, dammit. Her eyes opened and the shaking stopped. Yes. Fuck you, you sleazy fucker. I would have given you what you wanted, but you had to get off by taking it from me. Well you know what that makes you?

  Her fists clenched and her eyes hardened. That makes you small and stupid boy. A boy who can’t be on a level with a woman. A boy who doesn’t have enough man in him.

  Yes. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, Mace. I WILL get out of this, and I’ll get out intact. Whatever it takes. Tiffany’s jaw set firm. If I have to, she thought, I will burn you down. That thought grew in her and filled her. It straightened her up and she felt its power.

  She simply pinned her wretched feelings on Mace. If I get the chance, she thought, I will kill you, Mace. I will be looking for that chance.

  Her sobs and shaking had stopped. The wet pillow had absorbed all that she was going to give.

  Back in control, Tiffany reminded herself of the two real gains that she had made. By getting him to give her the lighter, she had made Mace make a gift to her, to do something for her with nothing in return. That was important.

  Perhaps even more important, she now had a weapon.

  Chapter 8

  He touched her shoulder and left his hand there while he looked at her. She put her hand on his. She could feel it. He knew. He knew and he cared. She saw his jaw working.

  His voice was gentle, “You okay?”

  She didn’t know how to play it. She had what she wanted. Tenderness from this man who had made her feel so wonderful and alive. She was getting human feeling from her kidnapper. Also, she had the possibility of a rift between him and the others, or between him and Mace, at least.

  Tiffany pressed her lips together tight and nodded. Her eyes were wet but she closed them. Could this be the wedge between her captors she needed? More likely, this would be the point where everything started to go wrong and people got killed.

  If she became the source of the rift, though, she saw how easily she could be the target. It hadn’t looked like such a great plan to start with. Now it seemed that it could turn into a disaster. Tiffany was tired and she ached all over.

  More than anything, she wished that she could just curl up in this strong biker’s arms and rest. When he put his arms around her, she wanted so much to sob into his strong chest, to soften and melt into his hardness, to have him take care of her.

  With all the will she had, Tiffany resisted the urge. She relaxed and drew what comfort she could. Less than he was willing to give, she felt sure. That thought built her strength. He wanted to give her more, and she held back. I AM going to get through this, she thought, with his help or without it. She felt safe with him, but she was in real danger here. She knew she could not afford to depend on anyone to save her.

  His voice was soft and warm, “It’s going to be okay.”

  She gripped his shoulder. She said into his chest, “Tell me ho
w.” He felt so strong. Don’t go there, Tiff, she reminded herself. Take his strength, draw from his strength, but stay sharp. Don’t lose yourself in it.

  The rumble of his voice made it even harder. “We’re asking your daddy for something that’s easy to give. It’s not money, not even something that will compromise him.”

  Talking about her daddy muddied her feelings even more. She gently pulled away to look in his face. He said, “I can’t tell you what it is, but I’m sure that he’s going to do it.”

  “He’s not a man you tell what to do.”

  “I don’t doubt that. But he’ll do it to get you back.”

  Maybe he will, she thought, after that he’ll hunt you like a dog. She knew Daddy was certain to be hunting him already.

  He gave her shoulders another squeeze. “It’ll be all right. You have to believe that.”

  Chapter 9

  Jack Berringer pulled into the almost empty parking lot in front of the small diner. There was one other car, a beat-up Honda, two police cruisers, and a black van with black windows, probably FBI. Four uniformed officers stood by the door with two other men in lumpy suits and dark shades.

  Jack recognized one of the men, Detective Frank Gracey, by the steps and lifted his hand in a breezy wave as he approached, squinting into the sun.

  “Hey, Frank.”

  “Good morning, Judge Berringer.” Frank was head of a major task force dealing with gang-related crime. He had appeared as a witness and as an arresting officer in Jack’s court on many occasions.

  Jack asked him, “Can a man get his breakfast here?”

  “Oh, sure, Judge. We’re keeping a watch on someone inside, is all.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “Shouldn’t be. I wouldn’t poke him or call him names, though.”

  “I shall keep it in mind. But there’s no reason I shouldn’t go in for some eggs?”

  “None at all.”

  “Only, there don’t seem to be any other customers.”

  “Yeah, turns out the cruisers don’t work as a great advertisement for the waffles.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “There are two armed marshals inside, but watch out if he makes a sudden move for the cutlery.” Jack looked at Frank to see if he was joking. All he saw was his own reflection in Frank’s shades.

  Inside one man sat at the center of the bright little diner. There were no other customers, only a bored waitress, a cook behind the order window, and two marshals holding shotguns. Jack said “Good morning” to the marshals and asked the waitress for ham and eggs, sunny side up and a coffee.

  He walked to the table where the man sat. He was broad and heavy-set, with long, straggly salt and pepper hair, extravagant sideburns and whiskers, and most of his skin decorated. Some of the ink was elaborate and very professional. Some was likely prison art. He hulked greedily over a stack of pancakes with bacon, and he looked to the judge like an old, worn bullet covered in graffiti.

  He was heavy and clearly strong, but his skin wasn’t tight. He was not at the peak of condition. Still, he seemed to be a man you’d think twice about picking a fight with. Whatever he might lack in tone and agility, he could certainly make up for in ready aggression.

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  The man had a voice like a rusty saw. “Free country, ain’t it?” He didn’t look up.

  Closer up, some of his markings looked like the symbols used by a biker gang, though Jack didn’t know which one. He glanced up from his eggs and he looked Jack hard in the eye. Whoever he was, Jack was sure that the man had not expected his visit.

  “Good pancakes?” Jack asked.

  “You like pancakes?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then you’d probably like ’em.”

  Conversation with him seemed to be almost a contact sport. “You seem to have quite the rock star entourage.”

  “You got a badge you want to show me?”

  “No, just passing the time.”

  “You got a microphone I should be speaking into?”

  “Okay, I can tell that you’re under police guard.”

  “Got a phone? The Nobel Prize committee should hear about you.”

  “I’m just here for some breakfast. If you want, I’ll leave you to eat in peace.”

  The man ate his pancakes noisily but he didn’t speak again. When the waitress brought the judge’s coffee, the man told her to bring him a refill. She said, “I’d never have thought of that.”

  “You won’t be wanting no tip, then.”

  “Don’t matter, you won’t be paying it either way.”

  There was a brighter gleam in the man’s eye as he turned to Jack. “Diner waitresses. What do we need an army for when we got middle-aged women can bite your head off from across the room?”

  “I think she likes you.”

  “I knew she would.”

  At a loss for any other way to get the man to talk, Jack said, “All that ink must be quite important to you.”

  The man glowered back at him for some time. Jack was glad to have gotten his interest and attention if nothing else.

  His hard eyes narrowed, and at last, he began to growl a response. “Every one of these marks carries a meaning. They each represent an event or a person of great significance to me.”

  After that, there was no stopping him. He pointed to a tattoo and described at length the symbolism and the meaning that it held for him, then another. Nothing that he said directly identified any particular person or place. They all were tales of violent struggle and brutal conflict, or of deep family bonds and betrayals.

  Several involved sudden death, sometimes more than one. To Jack they sounded like Greek tragedies.

  Jack ate his breakfast, drank his coffee and came away having learned precisely nothing specific at all. The man gave away almost no details about himself or anyone associated with him, and he told all of his stories through a smoke of almost biblical-sounding myth. Jack hardly knew any more about him than he had before they met.

  What he did know was that he had a lethally bad attitude, but the NOAA probably knew that. They might have known who he was, too, since they likely tracked him as a weather system, but Jack still had no idea. He didn’t ask Frank on the way out, either, and Frank didn’t offer to tell him.

  Jack had done what the kidnappers had told him to do but, as his Mercedes swept out across the empty lot and out onto the freeway, the whole thing made no sense at all to him. All that mattered right now was to save Tiffany. Then, afterwards, he thought, Then there will be a reckoning.

  Chapter 10

  Crouched again by the door, she heard a phone ring, then ‘Jax’s end of the conversation.

  “Hey… yeah? He went? … And? And you’re certain they met. … Anyone been able to talk to Iron?”

  Iron? Who was that?

  “No? So he’s got no idea… Must have been some surprise for him with his breakfast. … No, I bet he didn’t. You got no idea how he is then? Yup… Yup, I bet. Okay, good work.”

  Then he was talking to Mace.

  “We’ve got what we need.”

  Mace said, “Not until the morning, bro. Not till it’s done. But he took the meet?”