HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “Did I tell you to suck on that shit for a minute, and then spit it across the fucking kitchen?” he asked as he continued to finger fuck me.

  “No, thir,” I said over the pieces of remaining ice I was shuffling with my tongue.

  He reached for the bowl and plucked two more pieces of ice from it.

  “Here,” he said as he held them in front of my face.

  Oh, fuck.

  Luckily, the previous pieces were almost melted away. I poked the other two in my mouth and sucked on them like a mad woman, hoping my desire alone would melt them instantly. After an amount of time I’d be incapable of guessing, I realized once again he was fingering me and had probably never stopped. My sole focus had become getting rid of the ice he was making me suck on, which left little room for me to enjoy the sex.

  As the small pieces finally dissolved, I opened my mouth and sighed.

  Finally.

  “Here,” he said as he handed me two more.

  Son-of-a-bitch.

  I poked the two pieces of ice into my mouth with much reluctance. I considered chewing them and allowing him to spank me as punishment until his arm was too tired to swing the paddle, but opted to at least attempt to entertain him.

  As I sucked on the cubes and became all but hypnotized with his fingering of me, the sound of his belt unbuckling caused my eyes to widen slightly. I bit my lower lip in anticipation and pressed the ice against the roof of my mouth with my tongue.

  He pushed his finger downward, stretching my pussy open from the force. While I leaned forward, pressing my chest into the countertop and wondering just what the fuck he was doing, his cock slowly slid inside and joined his finger as an instrument of my pleasure.

  Now finger fucking me and shoving me full of cock at the same time, but on alternating cycles, his cock slid out as his finger slid in, and vice versa. With my mouth full of ice, and my mind trying to decide what in the hell was going on, I felt as if I was being fucked by at least two people at the same time.

  After several strokes of preparation, he was now fucking me with full force, sliding his cock all the way out and slowly pushing it in until his hips pressed against my ass. His finger had been swapped with what I was pretty certain was his thumb, and the web of his hand was wreaking sexual havoc on my swollen clit. I swallowed the little remaining ice, and closed my eyes as I rested my head on the countertop, doing my best to focus on the fabulous feeling of having him fuck me.

  He leaned forward, pressing his chest against my back and forcing my boobs into the countertop. As I opened my eyes his hand gripped my jaw and turned my head to the side.

  “When you reach climax, I want you to scream. Is that understood?” he breathed into my ear.

  “Yes, Sir,” I responded through my tightening throat.

  He released my jaw, pressed his hand against my back, and slowly but rhythmically began to steadily fuck me into the edge of the countertop. Feeling his cock inside of me was so much different than anything I was used to, and although I wasn’t sure of the difference was purely from his increased girth, or if it was a result of me being more in tune with my feelings, I felt no real need to determine the answer.

  I simply enjoyed every minute that Jackson was fucking me.

  As every one of my muscles slowly tensed and my clit began to develop the itchy feeling, the sound of his hand in the bowl of ice shifted my focus for a split-second. After a second or so of no demand on his part for me to eat another piece of ice, I assumed he must have eaten it himself. I sighed lightly and attempted to focus on my quickly approaching climax.

  His cold fingers in between my butt cheeks startled me slightly, but the piece of ice he slid in my anus caused me to immediately inhale a choppy breath.

  Without any other indication of his action, he continued to fuck me while his thumb worked immediately below his throbbing shaft, and the web of his hand pounded against my clit. All things considered, it was just too much.

  The ice cube in my ass was an oddly satisfying sensation, but was one more thing demanding my focus, and prevented me from allowing myself to relax. I desperately wanted to concentrate on him fucking me, and, ultimately, reach climax.

  While he continued to slap his hips against my ass and force himself completely inside of me, the freezing sensation in my ass eventually subsided. Now completely focused on being fucked, I once again clenched my eyes closed and relaxed onto the countertop.

  I opened my eyes slightly as his finger fumbled between my butt cheeks again. The freezing cold water dripping along my inner thigh was all the proof I needed that he was going to do it again.

  And he did.

  One ice cube in my ass, and another in my already full pussy…

  My freezing cold ass was soon forgotten as my pussy became my only focus. Everything he had done before continued, but the water from the melting ice worked against my natural lubricants, causing the act of fucking to become much more brutal, create far more friction, and in turn, arouse me even more.

  Incapable of even understanding all of what was happening, my mouth was agape and my mind was reeling. The sound of his hips slapping my ass echoed throughout the small kitchen, filling it with the sounds of nothing but sex. My eyes widened and I stared into the dining area searching for answers to my question of what was happening to me.

  His hand gripped my neck, forcing my head to the side. As his mouth pressed to mine, his hand grasped my neck tighter. Our tongues tangled together became yet one more thing my mind had to dissect, and it was beyond full of sensations, feelings, and his previous shallow demands.

  Kissing Jackson was beyond pleasurable, and almost incapable of putting into words. As he continued to kiss me deeply and squeeze my neck, my pussy began to throb from deep inside.

  It was coming.

  He clenched my neck a little tighter as he bit my upper lip.

  And that was it. I began to shudder from head to toe. I raised myself onto my tip-toes and moaned into his mouth. He released my lip from his teeth, turned my head to face forward, and growled into my ear.

  “Scream, you sexy little bitch. Let it out,” he growled into my ear as he thrust himself into me.

  “Whaaaaat…”

  “The…”

  “Fuck…” I bellowed into the room as the equivalent of small electric shocks pulsated throughout my body.

  His hand still gripping my neck, he turned my head to the side and kissed me deeply. As I continued to have more slight mini-orgasms with almost each slowly decreasing stroke of his cock, he proceeded to kiss me.

  After a few more strokes, I was done. It was obvious he realized it, as he stopped fucking me at the exact time my pussy went into some hyper-sensitive state. As he flopped free of my throbbing muff, he leaned to the side and gazed into my eyes. As I did my utter best to force myself to smile, he picked me off of my feet and plopped me onto the countertop.

  And it was at that moment, while he stood directly in front of me gazing into my eyes, his body covered in sweat, muscles tensed, chest flaring from his heavy breathing, and his biceps still littered in the soil from our having planted flowers together, that I realized I wasn’t only being fucked by Jackson Shephard.

  I was deeply in love with him.

  Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Six

  JACK

  August 7th, 2006

  The time during the middle of the week that I typically spent riding alone or with whichever of the fellas was available quickly changed. If someone had asked me one year prior if my schedule would ever change, I would have laughed, knowing I would never make an adjustment to my daily pattern of living life. Now, spending time with Em was more important to me than spending time with anyone, my brothers in the club included.

  I didn’t think less of them, nor did my value or perception of the club change, but my way of living life clearly had. For the first time in my life, the club and my woman had equal shares of my attention, heart, and plans for the future.

  As we rode do
wn the highway toward town, my mind was where it often went after a late evening ride on a beautiful summer night. The sun hadn’t set just yet, and it wasn’t quite dusk, but it was the few minutes of time immediately prior to it. Low western clouds shaded the last remaining rays of sun, and the sky off to our left side was glowing with pinks, purples, reds, and oranges. Gazing off in the distance, I didn’t pray, but I did something.

  I filled so full with gratitude for what my life had become that something inside of me clicked, like a switch had been flipped, leaving me appreciative of simply being allowed to live life. As Em’s hands rested lightly against my thighs, I twisted the throttle and got one last run at freedom before slowing down to come into town.

  “It’s like being an angel,” Em said as we rode into the edge of town.

  “What?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “Riding. It’s like we’re angels,” she said.

  I nodded my head. “Something like that.”

  I felt her shift her weight as she leaned back and faced the sky.

  “I love it,” she screamed.

  Em had quickly become the perfect companion, lover, and friend. She possessed all of the qualities in a woman that I seemed to possess, short of the alpha male bravado bullshit. Her desire to be on the bike, sit quietly at home, and simply enjoy watching the world around her was equal to mine, something I had yet to find in any man or a woman other than myself.

  I glanced at the gas station on the side of the road, and tilted my head to the side.

  “Gas,” I said as I pointed off in the distance.

  I released the throttle, downshifted, and coasted until our speed had slowed considerably, the exhaust popping as the engine slowed the bike down to almost 30 miles per hour. As I leaned to the side and changed lanes, I noticed a lone bike at the gas pump. An older Harley Shovelhead which seemed to be in pretty damned good condition, the bike immediately caught my eye because it wasn’t something I would normally see on a daily basis. As we pulled in behind the bike at the adjacent pump, a man walked out of the gas station and into the parking lot.

  Immediately, he froze.

  Fuck.

  “Em, get off the bike and stand on the other side of the pump,” I said through my teeth.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Em…”

  “Yes, Sir,” she said as she climbed off the bike.

  I reached down and lowered the kickstand as I maintained eye contact with the man. After a long pause, he began to slowly walk our direction. He had a little swagger to his step, expressing either confidence or stupidity, I couldn’t decide which. In his mid-thirties and muscular, but not as big as me, he seemed to be sizing me up as he walked toward his bike.

  I needed to see the back of his cut.

  His eyes locked on mine, and still taking the last few steps before he got on his bike, he turned his body to the right, but craned his neck over his shoulder to maintain eye contact. As he turned to the side I noticed his Shovelhead colors, but no lower rocker.

  Thank God.

  I exhaled, stepped over the seat, and reached for the pump. As I shifted my eyes toward his bike, he turned and spit in my direction.

  “Got something you need to say?” I asked.

  He spit toward me again, turned around, and reached for his ignition switch.

  The last thing I wanted to do was start a war with anyone. If the Shovelheads were going to stitch a lower rocker on their cut it was one thing, but they had every right to have their MC as long as they weren’t going to try and claim what was rightfully ours.

  Allowing a man to disrespect me, my Ol’ Lady, and my colors was another thing altogether.

  I relaxed my grip, dropped the gas pump, and glared at him.

  “Show respect, get respect, motherfucker,” I said as I took a step toward him.

  “Turn around and get back on that little softy of yours, Fury boy, or I’ll make your Ol’ Lady watch me whip your ass,” he said over his shoulder.

  When it comes to fighting on the street, not many men have morals, rules, or a conscience. I had always prided myself in being the exact opposite, and never hit a man who didn’t have the ability to at least see it coming.

  “Don’t move,” I said over my shoulder, making certain Em didn’t get hurt in what was sure to be one hell of a fight.

  “Get off the bike,” I seethed as I turned around.

  He released the ignition, stepped off the side of the bike, and turned to face me. He was a little bigger than I had originally thought, and appeared to be wearing nothing under his cut. His muscular arms were covered in tattoos, and his hands were now raised and ready to fight, giving me the go-ahead to do the same.

  As he glared at me, he reached down, gripped the bottom of his cut, and pulled it off. I stood and stared in absolute shock as he hung it on the grip of his handlebars. A man’s cut is to be protected at all times, never fall into the hands of an outsider, and never hit the ground. For him to have placed it where he did, in my opinion, was a huge mistake and nothing short of an invitation.

  I stepped to him and all but lifted my chin, inviting him to take the first punch. He immediately fulfilled my request with an uppercut-cross combo.

  I leaned back and both punches swung past me, throwing him slightly off balance.

  This isn’t my first fight, you dip-shit.

  As he stumbled and attempted to regain his balance, I leaned in.

  “Get him, Jackson,” I heard Em holler.

  Don’t worry, babe, I’m going to.

  I swung a left uppercut, connecting with the right side of his jaw. As he stumbled to catch his footing I swung a right hook into his ribs, causing him to lean forward and at least attempt to grab his stomach. As his hands lowered, I pummeled his face with a series of straight right and left punches.

  As he fell against his bike, he extended his arms to the rear, attempting to break his fall. One of his hands became tangled in the handlebars and he - and the bike - fell to the concrete. I’d never received any formal medical training in my days on earth, but I didn’t have to be a doctor to see that he was unconscious. I reached down, picked up his cut, and gazed down at his face.

  Not a single scar.

  Well, here’s your first, you disrespectful prick.

  I raised my boot, swung my leg to the rear, and kicked him in the cheek as hard as I could with the toe of my boot. Before my boot was back on the ground, a cut on his face opened up and began to bleed.

  “That’ll take a dozen stitches,” I said as I turned away.

  “He didn’t even hit you,” Em said as I stepped around the pump.

  “Most of ‘em don’t,” I responded.

  “What are you going to do with that?” she asked as she nodded her head toward the cut.

  “Hang it in the garage,” I said as I got on the bike.

  “Get on, we’re gonna get the fuck out of here before we get shot,” I said.

  I wasn’t so stupid that I believed all fights ended when a man hit the ground. I had enough gas to get home, and that was all that mattered.

  I folded the cut, placed it under my thigh, and started the bike.

  The ride home was a quiet one, and after we pulled into the garage and parked, I pulled the cut from beneath my leg.

  As I held it in the air and studied it, I was once again relieved there was no bottom rocker claiming territory. I proudly walked to my workbench, grabbed the hammer and four nails, and tacked the cut to the wall. After studying it for a moment, I walked to my cabinet, rifled through the cans of paint, and removed a half-full can of red paint. I shook the can in my hand, glanced at Em, and grinned.

  As I raised the can in the air and painted a big red “X” on the back of the cut, she gave her voice of approval.

  “I like it better now,” she said.

  “Me too,” I nodded.

  I stood admiring the cut, knowing I wouldn’t tell anyone of the altercation if no one asked. I didn’t need the reco
gnition, sure didn’t need to start a poll of opinions, and was never one to brag about fighting. What I had done had nothing to do with him being a Shovelhead, but it had everything to do with him being disrespectful.

  He’d have a nice scar to remember me by, and he’d have hell to pay for losing his cut.

  Me?

  I still had my pride and Em was unharmed.

  And that was all that mattered.

  Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Seven

  EMILY

  August 9th, 2006

  In high school, Laura Mora was the envy of every other girl. In middle school she had been the recipient of all of the taunting, hatred, and pranks of her classmates, primarily because of her name. Children can be so insensitive, and because her name rhymed, she was an easy target.

  Laura Mora is a whore-a.

  If I had a nickel for every time I heard that chant, I would be a rich woman. I suspected the teasing and taunting caused her to be a little more cautious with her choice of boyfriends, and as a result, by the time we were in high school, she was far from the whore everyone claimed she was.

  Her boyfriend was the football quarterback, who was the stereotypical high school football quarterback. Vince Pegalli had dark hair, dark skin, and a lightly cleft chin. He was, by everyone’s admission, perfect.

  And he was Laura’s.

  I never teased her during middle school, and actually admired her for never losing her temper. When we moved on to high school, I experienced my first real envy, and it was directed at her.

  And Vince.

  They were the perfect couple. He was popular, attractive, lettered in every sport, and his letter jacket was covered with medals. She was the captain of the cheerleading squad and the envy of every girl in school.

  During our senior year, someone put chicken guts in my locker as a joke. Although everyone told me it was Laura, I had a difficult time believing them, because I could not think of one thing that would cause her to want to do something so hateful. I carried a slight chip on my shoulder toward her for the rest of the year, and hoped one day I would be able to proudly walk past her with a Vince Pagalli of my own by my side.