by Carmen Faye
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
Bjorn copyright @ 2016 by Carmen Faye. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
BONUS BOOK – CAPTURED
OTHER WORKS BY CARMEN FAYE
ASH
PLAYER
DARE
SEAL
OWNED BY THE BAD BOY
CHAPTER ONE
“You stick that big fat cock in me and fuck my pussy!” Peyton screamed as Andrew Moore, President of the Saracens Motorcycle Club, fucked her.
They were in the sex room, the room in the Saracen’s clubhouse where the club girls and members could go when they wanted to have a little extra fun. The room wasn’t large, but it had a padded floor and walls, so you could fuck anywhere and not get hurt, along with a sex swing, whips, flogs, balls, Tantra chair and various silky ties and binds. Right now, they were using only the padded floor and walls.
“You like that, you fucking bitch? You like my big cock in your tight little pussy?”
“Oh my fucking God!” she wailed as loudly as she could. “You’re making me come so hard!” she cried again, putting on a good show for those she was sure were listening. The padded walls could contain only so much of the sound, and she and Andrew had a reputation to keep up. The louder she was, and the more he felt like a sex god, the more freedom she had, and freedom was what she needed.
She’d become a club girl for the Saracens about three weeks ago, wanting to get in on the hard fucking and partying the club was known for. Andrew had picked her up almost immediately and taken her for his own. She had enjoyed the envious glances of the other club girls when he’d taken her to the sex room the first time, but it hadn’t taken long before she realized she’d made a mistake hooking up with the Saracens, and especially Andrew.
Andrew was just what she wanted in a man. Big, muscled, hung, and best of all, into sex. She loved fucking, and for the next three days, they were fucking three or four times a day, and fucking hard, just like she liked it, but then it started to go wrong.
“Goddamn, you’re a nasty slut,” he growled as he pulled out of her and flopped to his back. She turned and threw herself across him, taking his cock into her mouth as he pulled her around and placed a leg over his shoulder and began to lick her pussy. She ground her pussy into his face as she swallowed him, relaxing her throat to take all of him she could. He began to hammer his cock into her mouth, and she took it, letting him face fuck her.
She pulled him from her mouth so she could catch her breath while stroking his hard cock hard and fast. “You’re going to come so fucking hard,” she growled, trying to wind him up. She let him lick her as she plunged him into her mouth again, and again he pounded his cock into her.
“Fuck!” he yelled, throwing her roughly off of him. He was bathed in sweat, and she was working him up to hard orgasm, but he had a lot left to give this bitch yet. She was fucking incredible, one of very few women who could match him. “You almost made me come, you whore,” he snarled as he jerked her roughly to her feet and slammed her against the wall.
She was as tall for a woman, just under six foot, and built like a fucking porn star, but she was all natural and he loved how her titties flopped when she was bouncing on top of him. She backed off the wall and tried to turn, but he shoved her hard into it again as he slammed into her from behind.
“Oh…fuck!” she screamed as he held her hips and pounded into her furiously hard.
“That’s right, you bitch! Scream!” He slapped her hard on the ass, once, twice, then a third time because he knew she liked it, making her ass cheek turn red.
“I’m coming again!” she cried, pushing back into him so he wouldn’t slap her ass anymore. “Fuck! I’m coming so hard!”
He smiled. He’d lost count of her orgasms, but that had to be at least her fourth or fifth, and he wasn’t done yet. He continued to slam into her, grabbing her big tits and squeezing them hard the way she liked. She shrieked in pleasure as he mauled her breasts and worked her ass into his crotch.
He could feel his orgasm pressing in on him again. He pulled out of her to give himself a break, but she turned on him, throwing herself into his arms to try to drive him to the ground. He dropped while holding her arms and pulled her down with him. Peyton was a wild woman today, even more so than normal.
She fell across him then immediately rose up and took him inside. He watched her breasts bounce as she fucked him, then reached up and twisted them hard.
She cried out in pain as he manhandled her breasts. She liked to fuck hard, but Andrew had crossed the line too many times, and had crossed it again. When he had started getting too rough she had complained, but her complaints only seemed to encourage him and he’d gotten rougher still. She had complained again, and even cut him off for a couple of days. When he’d finally asked why they weren’t fucking, and she told him, he’d laughed it off as a misunderstanding, but when she took him again, he was even rougher than before. That’s when she decided she was getting out.
He began to slap her breasts, making them sting, but she kept her mouth shut because crying out only encouraged him. Taking this last brutal fuck from this asshole was her price of escape.
Her face twisted in pleasure as he slapped her large breasts, then tweaked the nipples. She cried out in pleasure and he twisted harder, giving her as much pleasure as she was giving him. She ripped his hands away from her breasts and pinned them to the floor as she began to fuck him even harder.
“You like it rough, you fuck?” she snarled before she kissed him, sucking hard on his lips and tongue as she tried to drive him through the floor with her hips.
“Fuck! I’m going to come!”
“Come on, you fucking bastard. Come in my pussy! Fill me up with your come!” she snarled, trying to push him over the edge to get it over with.
With a lunge of his hips, he rolled her to her back then plunged into her again, driving into her hard and fast. He clamped a hand over her neck, choking her. She could breathe, but barely, and she began to struggle to get his hand off her throat.
He roared, squeezing down even harder before removing his hand. He reared up, jerked his condom off, and after a few hard, fast, strokes, pinched his cock hard and moved to the side so he could come on her face. She smiled and opening her mouth to catch his essence as he shook and shuddered a moment before falling across her. She didn’t mind him coming on her, so long as he didn’t come on her face, but that was the one thing he always did. The thing that really pissed her off, however, was after he did, or if he came in her mouth, he wouldn’t kiss her again until she’d cleaned her face or rinsed her mouth out.
“Fuck,” he gasped as he panted. “You are such a nasty bitch. You make me come so fucking hard.”
“Me too, Stud. You’re so fucking good. The best I’ve ever had,” she purred, even though she hadn’t climaxed even once, and hadn’t the last several times they’d fucked.
It wasn’t always like that. Before he’d turned into a complete asshole, she had really enjoyed fucking him. She could take some of his roughness to get him off hard, but he wasn’t respecting her limits and the roughness was getting out of hand.
He rose up and off of her. No cuddle, no touching, no nothing, not even for a couple of minutes. Just fucking. He sat on the sex chair and started putting on his clothes, but not before he wiped himself dry with her shirt. “Was it good for you?”
“The best, Stud,” she lied, using the nickname he liked.
“Get up. I got shit to do.”
She rolled over, propping on her elbows. She had been practicing for the past eleven years, since she lost her virginity at seventeen and discovered the joys of sex, how to best display her body. Laying like this pressed her breasts up and together and gave him a good look at was he was going to be missing, the fuck.
“You’ll be back later?” she cooed. Not that she cared because she wouldn’t be here, but she wanted to know how long she had before she’d be missed.
“A few hours.”
She nodded and rolled over and stretched, playing her role of the well-fucked and happy bedmate to the bitter end. “Hurry back.”
“I will, Baby,” he said pulling on his pants.
As she dressed, he opened the door from the sex room and strutted out. She’d really turned up the acting in the last five days, when she decided she was getting out. It kept him from getting suspicious and also kept him from putting her on too short of a leash. He had started getting possessive and wanted to know every move she made, so she had spent the last few days stroking his ego.
“She said she wanted pearls,” he joked as he disappeared around the corner, “so I gave her a pearl necklace.”
The laughs of rough men made her grimace. “And if I had a dollar for every time you satisfied me, I could buy a cup of coffee,” she muttered as she began to dress.
She finished dressing and sauntered out and down the hall, putting a lot of swing into her hips for his benefit if he was watching, then turned into the bathroom so she could wash her face and fix her makeup and hair. When she was out on the street she didn’t want to look freshly fucked.
She ambled out of the bathroom and swayed to Andrew, who was sucking on a beer with his brothers.
“I’m going to go shopping, okay, Stud?”
“Jesus! That’s all you do: shop.”
“Give me some money,” she purred. “I’m buying something special for you. I’ll show it to you when you get back.”
He pulled her in roughly. “Yeah, I bet you can’t wait for that, can you?” he sneered as he massaged her breast through her top.
She kissed him thoroughly. “I got something for you any time you want it.” The men laughed, but as she hoped, he pulled out his wallet and gave her five twenties. “Thanks, Stud. You won’t be disappointed.”
“You want someone to go with you?”
“No. I’ll take a cab. I don’t want to feel rushed.”
He nodded, handed her forty more to cover the cab, then promptly ignored her again as she strolled out. When she came to the Saracens, she and Melissa didn’t have shit, and they still had most of it left, but over the last few weeks they’d put back a few bucks here, a few bucks there. Enough to buy two train tickets out of town.
They’d hoped the club would take care of them, until they could get on their feet, but the price had quickly gotten too high. As bad as it had been for her, it had been even worse for Melissa.
Almost a week ago, Melissa had come to her crying after the latest round of sex with a club member and said she wanted out. By then Peyton had her fill of Andrew, too, and they’d made a pact. Peyton would leave first because, as Andrew’s girl, she had a little more freedom, then as soon as she could slip away, Melissa would join her. They were going to run north of I-90, out of Saracen territory and meet up at the Teutonic Knights’ bar, near the train station.
So far, so good. She was out, and with enough cash to buy the tickets, with a little left over. She wasn’t ready to give up the leather clad, body builder, motorcycle club, bad boys who got her motor running, and settle down with an accountant just yet, but just because she liked bad boys didn’t mean she was going to let some asshole slap her around. Her or Melissa.
CHAPTER TWO
“I’m just saying this is going to be trouble, that’s all,” Whiteshirt said as he spun the beer on the table. Their contact on the docks had just left, $250 richer, after informing them the Saracens had lost a load of guns. A major load of guns.
“We didn’t have anything to do with it,” Ironside pointed out.
Hafdan Gustaffson, Whiteshirt to his brothers, shook his head. “I know we didn’t have anything to do with it, but that doesn’t mean they won’t think we did.”
Bjorn Lothbrook grinned. He appreciated his best friend and VP’s caution, but sometimes Whiteshirt worried too much. “You’re worse than an old woman. They know we’re pulling out of guns. Hell, we handed them our drug business. If we’re trying to get out, why would we bother stealing their guns?”
“And you don’t worry enough. Maybe they’ll think we did it just to fuck with them.” Ironside was a good man, and a better leader, but he sometimes forgot the leader of the Saracen’s wasn’t as logical and level headed as he was.
The Teutonic Knights and the Saracens were the two major outlaw clubs in Cleveland. The Knights were formed in 1951, the Saracens five years later. The two clubs had fought viciously over territory and the gun and drug trade until the ‘80s when a stalemate was reached. Under Ironside’s grandfather’s rule, the Teutonic Knights had taken over the lakefront and the downtown, from the town of Rocky River south to I-90 in the west to Euclid and Cleveland Heights down to highway 322 in the east. The Saracens controlled the territory south of I-90 to the 480 bypass, from the banks of the Rocky River in the west to Highway 176 in the east.
Since then, the territories hadn’t shifted much and the two clubs had settled into a Cold War mentality. After Ironside’s uncle and father were busted in a drug deal gone bad, Bjorn had taken his place at the head of the table and immediately made aggressive moves out of their illegal activities. Under Ironside’s leadership, the Knights had gotten out of the drug business already, and were working their way out of guns, moving aggressively into bars and strip clubs, taking them over as they came up for sale or, when necessary, opening one from scratch.
They weren’t completely clean. They still ran three escort services and a half-dozen happy ending style massage parlors, but even those were on the docket to be phased out as their upstart porn studio, Black Knights Studios, or BKS as they called it, came online. Before, their income had come from guns, drugs, and whores. Now it came from supplying the hard men of the docks and the tie-wearing pansies of downtown with booze, naked broads, and, for mostly for the tie-wearing set, upscale pussy.
Since they were no longer directly competing with each other, things had improved with the Saracens in the last five years, but there was still a lot of bad blood between the clubs, and the standing death warrant if you were caught on the wrong sid
e of I-90 was still in place.
As they moved out of the guns and drugs, the Knights had started turning a blind eye to the transportation of contraband passing through their territory, so long as the goods stayed on I-71 and no patched member of the Saracens crossed the I-90, but that left the Saracens exposed until their goods were in their territory or loaded onto a ship. It was an unspoken agreement that had stood for two years, but it looked like someone got greedy and took advantage of that exposure.
Nothing happened on the docks the Knights didn’t hear about, and they’d just heard that a load of guns coming in from Europe left the docks on schedule but never made it south of I-90 where the Saracens were waiting.
“What do you suggest we do?” Ironside asked. “It’s not like Andrew and I can get together over a beer and sort this out.”
Whiteshirt grimaced. “I’m not suggesting we do anything. All I’m saying is we should be ready in case the Saracens decide to make trouble.”
“Okay. That sounds like a good idea,” Ironside agreed. “What do you suggest we do?”
Whiteshirt began to squirm and Ironside grinned. “That’s what I thought. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer worrying about everything all the time. If you have an actionable suggestion, we’ll move on it, but until we know when, where, or even if, the Saracens are going to come at us, there isn’t a lot we can do.”