by Rie Warren
He stood still, big, muscled . . . and totally confused.
“I’m not that easy, sugar.” My sister catwalked down the center of the building, cutting a clear path away from Tail.
“And that’s a motherfuckin’ mic drop.”
“Told.”
“Slammed.”
“Thank fuck.” I breathed a sigh of relief.
Tail watched Maddy’s escape with a deep frown, like he couldn’t believe what just went down.
Him.
Turned down.
“I’m so proud of you, Handsome.” Shy rested her palm against my chest.
“What?” I scowled. “I can be a grown up, too.”
“Yeah.” Brodie seemed to make it his specific duty to ride my ass. “He’s all growed up, Shiloh.”
I flipped the fucker off with one hand, elbowing him in the ribs with my other arm.
Shy laughed, spinning to disappear into the crowd.
“Hang on, woman. Explain yourself. What’d you mean you’re proud of me?” I pulled her back to me. “Because I exchanged pleasantries with my parents, or I didn’t beat Tail’s head in for hitting on Maddy?”
“Well, both. Of course,” she said, slipping up to kiss my cheek before she started swishing away again.
“Hey”—I towed her to me again—“how come you call me Handsome sometimes and other times Max?”
“Depends on what kind of fucking I’m in the mood for later.”
She escaped from me just like that.
Gulp.
Instant hard-on.
I needed a longer damn T-shirt.
Sexy wench.
Aside from Brodie’s congrats, fucker impromptu words earlier in the day, there were no speeches. It was all music, beer, mingling, hanging out.
I did, however—at Shy’s prompting—give my blessing, standing in front of everyone to shout out, “Drink like you ride!”
And riding . . . that was exactly what I had planned for my woman.
Walking out with Shy beside me—the party still running full throttle—I sat on my first class ’59 Harley Panhead and helped my first class lady on behind me.
Everyone followed us out of Retribrewtion.
I revved the thunderous engine, pushed my shades over my eyes, and pulled Shy’s arms around my waist.
We roared from the parking lot where folks sprayed foaming beer from bottles and friends let out wolf whistles and family watched our victory ride.
I was tempted to pull over halfway to the condo so I could lay into Shy on my bike, but I had more class than that.
Sort of.
Maddy was on lockdown duty. I just hoped she didn’t get locked in with Tail. Because if that happened I’d have to have a talk with him in the morning . . . with my fist in his face.
I didn’t spend much more time worrying about shit other than how fast I could get Shy on a flat surface because she had wandering hands, and my hands were on the throttles, and my dick was an iron pole in my jeans, throbbing every damn time her fingertips glanced across my groin.
We reached the condo.
We left a trail of clothes all the way to the bedroom.
I think I might’ve dropped Shy’s panties in the elevator.
My bad.
I’d collect them as soon as I was done fucking her through the bed.
Wet kisses.
Seeking hands.
Bare bodies colliding together . . .
She fitted a condom on my cock, pressing me to my back. Her tits swung in my face, and I slavered over them as she slid down my upright, aching pole.
With a cushion positioned for her knee, Shy rode me like a shameless hussy.
My neck corded.
My hips punched up.
I wrapped my hands around the headboard, cranking it between my knuckles.
So turned on as she grinded on me, getting her own fuck-joy from my drill-hard cock. Bouncing so her clit rubbed against me. Bouncing until I had to cup her tits again and pull at her nipples.
My toes curled.
My eyes drifted closed under heavy lids.
My neck craned back.
“Uhhhn.” I groaned, her tight wet heat enveloping me over and over.
Sexy Shy slid down on top of me, her breasts crushed to my chest. “You like that?” Whispering with a tongue-lick to my ear, she rotated her hips that hot-wet-swirled my cock deep inside.
“Yeah.” I gripped her hair, bringing her lips to my mouth. I bit and licked and kissed at her. “Love it.”
I bucked up, my hands landing on her ass with a loud smack.
She shot up, undulating like a fuck-sorceress, her bright-tipped tits tilted to the ceiling.
My fingers flitted through her damp soft curls, and I found her clit. She wound higher. Clenched tighter. The slick glove of her hot flesh almost twisting the come out of me as she orgasmed.
Braced against my chest, Shy licked my ear, her breath as sweet and hot as her steamy cunt. “Mmm. Help me turn around.”
Oh fuck. Reverse cowgirl.
Breaths beat in and out of my chest. I widened my thighs. I rotated her on my cock like a corkscrew.
So wet. Incredible sight.
She kept clasping my cock from tip to root, up and down, in the pussy of the century.
Sliding back and forth on my thighs, Shy docked my dick, and I saw it all—her ass spread, her pussy opening, her body lushly accepting me.
“Fuck. Fuccckk!” The gritty growl barreled from my throat.
I was barely hanging on.
Shy hit a deeper angle, swinging her hips over me.
She had some kind of sexual sixth sense—slowing to languid cock stirring circles whenever I got close . . .
Half-turning, she glanced back, all teasing, tasty, sultry. “Help me out?”
I grunted. Nodded. Curled up behind her.
Words?
They wouldn’t come to me anymore.
I pulled Shy down to my chest and laid her fully on top of me. Her back on my front and my cock rampant and rigid inside her insanely tight cunt. My hands cupped her tits, my fingers brushed over her nipples.
Pumping up into her. Feet braced on the bed. Slow at first.
Long sexy wet thrusts and harsh moaning melting sounds.
I pulled Shy’s hand low so she felt us joining together. “What do you feel?”
“You're big. Stretching me. Hard. I'm making you all wet.” Her fingers coasted from my balls to her breached pussy.
She shivered.
I groaned.
“That’s good?” she asked.
“Oh yeah.” I nipped the side of her arched neck, my tongue working circles on her skin as our fingers did the same below, where we connected, held still, thrummed hard and pulsed.
Curling her hand around the thick base of my shaft, I hilted deeper. “Squeeze me tighter.”
“Like this?”
On the next hard thrust, my balls knocked her fist.
Then fast and hard.
Longer. Deeper.
I explored her cunt taking me in, our hands wet, our rhythm rocking, her fingers slipping up toward her clit.
Moving my hands up to her hips, her waist, her tits, I flexed my ass and drove into Shy.
Slamming.
Roaring.
Coming so fucking fast and hard and forever I froze in place, tensed all over.
All my muscles released, and I fell against the bed with a rough laugh.
Shy panted on top of me.
I flipped her around, breathlessly kissing her. Sweeping tendrils of hair from her face. Linking my arms behind her back.
She kissed my chin and smoothed her palms over the tats on my shoulders.
Her silver-gray eyes looked dreamy when she propped above me, her tits doing another number on me. “Any thoughts about setting a wedding date?”
I pressed my forearm over my face, mostly to hide my smirk. “First you say I’m your lover. Then you start planning a family with me. Now you’re draggin
’ me down the aisle already?”
Shy beat a pillow against my head.
I caught the cushion after two swings and stuffed it under my neck.
I drew her down to me, my heart taking on new life all of a sudden. “I think we should get the jump on Brodie. Really piss him off.”
“Yeah? You want to get the rush on him?” Shy looked up to lick her lips, flutter her eyelashes.
“No. I wanna get the Rush all over you.” I flipped her onto her back, my mouth slanting across hers.
“I think you already did that.” Squealing, she raised her thighs to my hips and her hands to my shoulders
“I can’t wait to make you officially mine, Shy.”
Keep reading for the first chapter of
WALKER
Bad Boys of X-Ops 1
From the world of the Carolina Bad Boys and Retribution MC! A new, complete four-book spinoff series! Hot. Sex. Action. Suspense.
http://amzn.to/29ysvlb
Chapter One
Somewhere over Lebanon, February 2015
“JUST A LITTLE R&R, he said.”
I listened to Storm grumbling through the industrial-sized headgear affixed to my ears, the rotors of the HH-60 Pave Hawk whump-whump-whumping overhead and on the tail.
“Exotic location was the phrase I used.” I chuckled low in my chest. “Didn’t mention nothin’ about R&R.”
“Thought I’d at least be able to get my jock off without gettin’ my fucking head shot off.” Storm aimed me a look from the pilot’s seat, one sinister black eyebrow raised.
“I’ll get you a hooker in Dubai after we get out of this mess.” Unbuckling, I reached over and tapped him on the cheek, ignoring the growl that parted his lips.
In the cargo area of the Sikorsky helicopter, I checked my parachute, the altimeter, the straps of my harness, and my pack filled with all sorts of goodies. I was unofficially Storm’s copilot, but fuck it. The man didn’t need me. He could handle the chopper on his own without the usual five-man crew. He’d have to, because I was getting ready to jump ship in high-altitude, high-opening, full-on fuck-this-shit terror.
Storm snorted, and his deep voice rumbled over the ear-gear. “Unlike you, I don’t need to pay for my pussy.”
“Not after that time you caught syphilis, right, Kemosabe?” Ignoring the curses Storm slung my way, I started zipping into my fancy flight suit, checking and double-checking straps, buckles, my bailout O2 line.
Storm stepped into the back with a dip of his head. “Remember what Blaize said about covert mission?”
“The fuck. I’m always covert.” I wrapped my arms protectively around the night camo pack snuggled against my chest like it was a baby in a papoose, because I knew what was coming next.
“Hand over the flash bang, Walker.” He opened his palm.
“Goddammit. I feel naked without my C-4. You know that.”
“Gimme.” Storm advanced.
“Motherfucker.” I watched while he dexterously unzipped the side pocket of my pack, eagerly snatching the two M112 demolition blocks of putty-white plastic explosives wrapped in a Mylar bundle.
My eyes narrowed. “Blaize is a bitch.”
“Head bitch in charge.” He pleasantly agreed. “Blasting caps? Priming unit?”
I placed both in his hands, my own shaking like a meth head giving up the last of his stash.
Watching hungrily as Storm placed my precious bundles aside, I muttered, “Blaize is definitely a chick with a dick.” Tearing my gaze from my favorite weapons, I grinned. “Bitch chick with a dick you got the hots for.”
“I’d rather dip my dick into a vat of boiling oil.”
“So it can feel like when you got syphilis? That can be arranged.”
Storm cuffed me on the back of the head. He was just lucky I was trussed up like a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. Thanksgiving . . . heh. Every Native American’s favorite holiday. Not.
Blaize Carmichael was our new hardnosed higher-up at Operation T-Zone. Op T-Z was an organization quite possibly unsanctioned by the PTB of the USA, because they didn’t need to know what we did behind enemy lines, in the line of duty.
We weren’t military.
We weren’t from the CIA Viper Pit.
We weren’t Black Ops.
We were darker than that.
Unlike previous operations managers who’d relayed years of orders over secure lines and in scrambled codes, Blaize had come on the scene, giving it the personal touch with an up-front team meet-and-greet. Yeah, the woman’s touch in the form of intense head games more mind-fucking than any passive-aggressive wifey could come up with.
By the time she’d debriefed us with her high-heeled boot up our collective asses, read us the riot act, and nailed us to the wall over every single possible past mistake and mission mishap, I’d gone home and drunk a bottle of tequila.
Blaize did have nice legs though.
I rubbed my sleeve across the mask of my helmet then peered at Storm . . . then gawped at the cockpit. The empty fucking cockpit.
“Wait. Who the fuck’s flying this thing?” I asked.
“Autopilot.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Autopilot?”
“Jerry-rigged autopilot.” His smug smile did not put me at ease.
“I do not want to know.”
“Probably not, but it involves a selfie stick and duct tape and—”
“La la la . . . I can’t hear you.” Jesus Christ. I was gonna die tonight. I just knew it.
“What can I say? I’m a modern day MacGyver.” Storm waltzed into the cockpit, checked the instrument panels, and sauntered back out.
Miraculously, we were still airborne.
Maybe I should get a different job.
“I was just fuckin’ wid ya about the selfie stick, couillon.” Storm’s guttural Cajunese came on like he’d flipped the switch from shadow operative to country boi. “Fully on automatic flight control. Wouldn’t want you to shit your pants before you take the big leap.”
“I hate you.”
“Good thing we’re in range,” Storm said.
Clapping my hands together, I put on my announcer’s voice. “Welcome to pitch-black Beirut! The terrorist hotbed of the Middle East and every operative’s favorite holiday destination for sleepless nights, unexpected espionage, and fun, fun fireworks in the form of mortar shells! It don’t get much better than this.” I fist-bumped Storm. “Eat your heart out, Disney World. Right?”
Storm’s boots rang across the metal grating of the floor before he slid open the door on the military black chopper. “Extraction in six hours. You have the coordinates.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” I saluted him with two fingers off my brow and a hand at my crotch.
“I swear to fuck, Walker, if you make me touch soil in this godforsaken hellhole I’ll shoot you myself.”
The wind screamed inside. I shouted over it. “Relax. Cakewalk.”
“That’s what you said in Afghanistan when we got stranded in the fucking mountains for two weeks straight and I almost froze my balls off.”
“I ever tell you I’m scared of heights?” I peeked outside, the rushing atmosphere almost dragging me through the gaping maw of the chopper.
The aircraft hovered at a mere 13,000 feet above ground.
“Not a fan of the Mile High Club?” Storm took my helmet when I handed it to him.
“Oh, I did that. Air Force One. Press Secretary. Took the edge off.”
“Well, I ain’t fucking you.”
I shuddered. “Fuckin’ hope not.”
“Three minutes before we’re over missile range. Get the fuck out already.”
“Hang on.” I tucked my braid into the back of my black suit.
“Don’t be such a fucking diva.” Storm buckled me into my helmet and attached the oxygen hose.
“Diva?” I mouthed at him. “Gonna tie your nutsack in a knot when I get back.”
He gave me a grin and two thumbs up before he booted me o
ut of the helicopter.
The immediate rush—the immersion into absolute nothingness—engulfed me. Cut off from the world, free falling, I swooped through the night like my spirit animal, the Thunderbird.
Fifty seconds into the HAHO jump, I pulled the ripcord, the sudden jump and bodily slump tugging a grunt from my chest as the parachute took my nosedive into a slower pace. I had thirty miles to navigate, airborne and undetected into enemy lines, while Storm disappeared above and behind me.
That was the plan anyway.
Dropping down through the elements, the Thunderbird in me wanted to stream faster. The mythical bird wanted no constraints and no ties to this political world where lines were drawn in the sand—black, white, and every shade of gray in between.
It wanted to fly.
Being Lakota meant I listened to the voices of my ancestors.
Family.
Swooping into a slipstream air current, I remembered mine. The people and the place I’d told Hunter about, finally. Some still alive. Some buried. Memories and visions surrounded me, ghosts as close as the cloudburst I broke through. I’d hidden everything away for so goddamn long sometimes I wasn’t even sure who I was anymore.
Hunter had thought I had no ties to this earthly life.
Truth was the bonds of this life tried to tether me to the land of my people.
I’d slipped free of the knot. I’d flown away. I’d left everything that mattered.
Adjusting my direction as the lights of Beirut swam below me, I checked my gages.
Fuck it. I have a new family now.
After last spring when Hunter and I had lost our entire team and then some to Victor Valderas and the Tampa Bay Outlaws, Hunter had gone off-rez. That was how I’d hooked up with this crew—The Three Stooges.
Storm: transport specialist and supply hoarder extraordinaire. He organized our shit, decided when we were running low, at which point he took over doling out water, weapons, ammo, MREs like we were broke bastards standing in the food line.
Bane: lead medic, which was laughable, because the dude literally had no bedside manner whatsoever and rarely strung more than three words together.
Justice assisted Bane with the stitches and—you know—life-saving emergency measures when needed, because it was a well-known fact Storm couldn’t stand to be in the same room as Bane longer than necessary, and I was just an unsympathetic asshole.