Winston: Savage Kings MC - South Carolina

by Hart, Lane

  Winston

  Savage Kings MC - South Carolina

  Lane Hart

  D.B. West

  Contents

  Foreword

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon from Lane Hart and D.B. West

  Also by Lane Hart and D.B. West

  About The Authors

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.

  The authors acknowledge the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.

  © 2020 Editor's Choice Publishing

  All Rights Reserved.

  Only Amazon has permission from the publisher to sell and distribute this title.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editor’s Choice Publishing

  P.O. Box 10024

  Greensboro, NC 27404

  Edited by All About the Edits

  Cover by Marianne Nowicki of www.PremadeEbookCoverShop.com

  WARNING: THIS BOOK IS NOT SUITABLE FOR ANYONE UNDER 18. IT CONTAINS SEXUALLY AND PHYSICALLY VIOLENT SCENES THAT MAY BE A TRIGGER FOR SOME INDIVIDUALS.

  Foreword

  Winston is the second book in the new Savage Kings MC series about the South Carolina chapter.

  If you missed Roman, the first book in this series, you can read it here: https://mybook.to/RomanSKSC

  If you would like to read the complete, original Savage Kings MC series, it’s available now on Kindle Unlimited: https://mybook.to/SavageKingsMCboxset

  Synopsis

  Winston Prescott has been a grumpy SOB for the past ten years. None of his brothers in the Savage Kings MC knew why, until the day one of them makes the mistake of posting a sexy centerfold on the wall of the clubhouse.

  The gorgeous model posing topless on sports cars and motorcycles isn’t just any girl. Her name is Zoe Donahue, and she also happens to be Winston’s stepsister.

  While the two haven’t spoken since the day Winston reluctantly let Zoe go so she could pursue her dreams, an explosive reunion is on the horizon.

  Zoe’s been holding a grudge against Winston for how things ended the day she left. Now, she’s home for a week, and her plan is to torture her brooding stepbrother by wearing as little clothes as possible while promising Winston she’ll never let him touch her again.

  Winston will do anything it takes to earn Zoe’s forgiveness. And this time, he isn’t going to let her leave without putting up a fight.

  Chapter One

  Winston Prescott

  Ten years ago…

  “Tell Zoe you changed your mind. Tell her she can’t leave!” I shout at Martin Donahue when I barge into his office in a panic Saturday morning. He’s always spoiled his daughter because her mother died when she was a baby, but this is going way too far.

  “I wish it were that easy.” He pushes his laptop away from him to lean back in his desk chair. “But Zoe’s eighteen now, and I can either let her go or have her resent me for the rest of her life for missing this opportunity.”

  “At least she would be safe,” I mutter. “Who’s going to look out for her when she’s flying all around the world?”

  “It’s sweet of you to worry so much about your stepsister. Really, it is,” he remarks.

  “Someone needs to!”

  “Winston, you know I love Zoe more than anyone, more than your own mother! But sometimes this is what you have to do when you love someone—you support them when they follow their dreams, even when it hurts.”

  “I don’t like it,” I tell him through gritted teeth.

  “Neither do I!” he says with a chuckle.

  “She should be going to college, not traveling the world with some fucking modeling competition.”

  For the past two years, I’ve been waiting for this day, for Zoe to graduate high school and leave the city—hopefully the state—to go to school, far enough away that I stop thinking about her and all the dirty things I obsess about doing to her. She’s constantly tempting me with her too-sexy outfits and bikinis around the pool. I had to move out of the house when she turned sixteen because it was too much. She was too much.

  But every day after school, she still stops by the shop where I work to flirt with the other mechanics, flaunting what I want but can never have, right in front of my face. Her father would castrate me if I ever laid one of my dirty hands on her, and I owe him everything for saving my mother five years ago from her abusive husband.

  “College would be my preference as well,” Martin says. “Zoe, however, has decided that she wants to pursue a career in modeling. And she worked hard for this chance. Maybe when she returns in six months, she’ll have had enough of the fashion industry and finally go to college.”

  “You think so?”

  He laughs. “No, but one can hope.”

  Fuck.

  “Ah! Look at the time.” Martin stands up and grabs his suit jacket from the back of his chair. “We should get going. Her party starts soon, and she’ll give us hell if we’re late.”

  “I’m not going,” I tell him.

  “This your way of punishing her for leaving? She’ll never forgive you.”

  If I had my way, I would punish her by bending her over and spanking her perfect ass until it was bright red and she agreed not to leave. Since I’m nearing my breaking point of doing just that, I plan to stay far, far away until her plane leaves tomorrow.

  “I’ve got shit to do. I’m doing a total restoration on a sixty-nine Camaro, and the shop promised the client it would be finished next week,” I lie. I am doing the restoration, but there’s no due date for a job that requires finding rare parts. “I’ve wasted enough time coming by here.”

  “Right,” he agrees. “Then I guess you should get going. I’ll tell Zoe you send your regrets.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say before I stomp out of his office, angry at him—and her—for being idiots.

  * * *

  Zoe Donahue

  “You are so freaking lucky!” Sonya gushes as she and my other friends from school gather around me at my graduation-slash-going away party.

  “I can’t believe you get to travel the world this summer!” Mabel chimes in.

  “And living all on your own!” Sonya adds.

  “I won’t really be on my own,” I tell them absently while keeping an eye on the front door as guests come and go. There has been a steady flow of people, with the exception of the one person I wanted to see before I leave tomorrow morning. “There will be tons of other models competing too.”

  All my life, I’ve loved fashion and longed to be one of the lucky women who gets to pose in gorgeous, designer dresses on the cover of magazines. I want to travel and take pictures in different countries, experience new places and cultures. And most of all, I want to be wanted, the object of m
en’s desires.

  Which is pretty stupid since, no matter how hard I try, how flirty I am, or how provocative I dress, I’ve never been able to hold the attention of one particular man for more than a few brief seconds. He’s the opposite of the boys in high school who proudly show me their dicks and beg me to get naked for them. But then again, Winston is a man not a boy. At twenty-one, he’s obsessed with cars and motorcycles.

  He’s also my stepbrother, and I want him more than anything, even my six-month all-expenses paid trip around the world or the modeling contract I could possibly win.

  “Excuse me for a second,” I say to my friends before I slip away from them to find my father and stepmother, who are talking to one of our neighbors. “Have either of you seen Winston?”

  “No, not today,” his mother answers before diving right back into her conversation about seaweed spa treatments or whatever.

  “Dad?”

  “Sorry, honey, but I spoke to Winston earlier and he said he couldn’t make it. Something about a Camaro restoration that couldn’t wait.”

  Oh my god! Some stupid car is more important than saying goodbye to me before I leave for half a year? That jackass!

  The next few hours of my party I spend silently stewing, pissed at my stepbrother and unable to enjoy myself.

  How hard is it for him to show up and say a simple goodbye? What car repair couldn’t wait ten minutes for him to at least pretend like he cares?

  Around ten o’clock, after my last guest leaves, I grab my phone and car keys, intent on finding out.

  At the auto shop across town, the lights are on and there is a line of cars sitting out front, along with Winston’s Harley. But if I have to guess, he’s the only person inside at this hour.

  Parking my Jeep, I get out and clomp toward the open bay door in my heels that are starting to hurt my feet after standing in them for hours. I’m used to the pain; it’s a small price to pay for fashion.

  I hear a rock song first before the clang of metal tools. The usual scent of gasoline and oil hang heavily in the air. Strangely enough, I love the combination, probably because they remind me of him, and of afternoons hanging out around the shop watching him work while I talk his ear off about my day. He always pretends he barely hears me, and hardly ever says a word.

  The shop is closed so he’s not expecting anyone tonight, especially me. When I step inside the open garage door, I take a few moments to drink in the half of his thick, muscular body sticking out from underneath the engine of the cherry red classic car he’s working on. I’ve always wanted to tug down the zipper of his navy coveralls to find out what he’s wearing underneath. Does he go commando? I like to think so in my fantasies.

  “Guess this car is more important than my party!” I finally remark, loud enough to be heard over the music.

  A tool clanks against the concrete and then Winston is rolling out from underneath the hood on his back, a swipe of grease over his brow and covering his big hands.

  “Thought the party was for your friends,” he remarks, using as few words as possible. He stands up and heads over to turn down the volume on his stereo without even glancing in my direction.

  “And you’re not my friend?” I ask.

  “I’m your brother,” he remarks, grabbing up a black cloth to wipe his hands on it while avoiding looking at me.

  “Stepbrother,” I correct, for the millionth time. “And why can’t you be both?”

  He doesn’t answer, not that I expected he would. Getting words out of him is like pulling teeth from a giant, grumpy grizzly bear.

  “I thought you would at least come by the house to say goodbye.”

  “Bye,” he grits out, as if the one single word is sufficient.

  “Can I get a hug too, or is that too much to ask?”

  Finally, Winston lifts his dark chocolate eyes that are the same color of his hair to me. They quickly sweep over my white spaghetti strap dress before they lower to the towel he’s still clutching in his fists.

  “Can’t. I’ll ruin your dress,” he remarks.

  Ruin my…? Is he serious? God, he makes me so furious! Since I won’t even be here but a few more hours, I gather my nerve and march right up to him. When only inches separate us, I do something I know is completely insane, but other than my lack of big boobs, I’m not self-conscious about my body. How could I be when I want to show it to the world as a model?

  Reaching behind my back, I unzip my dress, then let it drop to the dirty garage floor, puddling around my heels.

  “There. Problem solved. Now you can touch me and not worry about getting my dress dirty.”

  Winston stares silently at me standing there before him in nothing but my white thong for so long, I start to grow insecure, especially when the colorful pictures on the wall behind him catch my eye—scantily dressed, gorgeous women, some topless as they lay provocatively across sports cars and straddle Harley motorcycles. My cheeks redden because they are some of the most sexually explicit images I’ve ever seen. And, they serve as another reminder that Winston is turned on by curvy, big-breasted women, not scrawny, eighteen-year-old girls like me who barely fill a B cup.

  I’m about to slap my arm over my chest when Winston finally moves. His arms shoot out, grabbing me around the waist to spin me around and press my back against the cool metal work bench. I’m five-ten flat-footed, which means I’m almost as tall as him in my heels. The brush of his scruffy, unshaven jaw against my smooth cheek and my bare breasts pressed to his solid, muscular chest make my lower belly clench harder than usual whenever I’m around him. Which makes sense because I’ve never been this naked in front of him before.

  Since his arms are still holding me to him, I throw mine around his neck.

  “There. Was that so hard?” I ask.

  “Have you lost your fucking mind? There are security cameras in here recording everything!” he grits out into my ear. “And the garage door is wide open!”

  “I…I just wanted a hug goodbye,” I say sweetly as I inhale his usual salty scent from his neck—sweat from long hours of manual labor mixed with the woodsy oak from his body wash or aftershave. “I’ll miss you, even if you won’t miss me.”

  “Who said I wouldn’t miss you?” he asks gruffly against my ear as his palms give my hips a harsh squeeze.

  “I just assumed…” I trail off. So…he will miss me? And am I imagining it or are the pads of his thumbs easing underneath the front elastic waistband of my panties?

  “You’re too young,” he grumbles.

  “W-what?” I ask, because I’ve forgotten what we were talking about with his big body pinning mine to the table and his thumbs moving in circles that are heading lower.

  “You’re too young for this shit.” Wait. Does he mean I’m too young for the modeling competition, or for something else entirely? “I don’t know what Martin’s thinking,” he mutters, making it clear he meant the competition.

  “I’ve graduated and am legally an adult now,” I point out since he seems to think I’m still the same thirteen-year-old child I was when our parents first got married.

  “You’ll get eaten alive,” Winston growls, his hard chest moving up and down faster and faster against my breasts with each of his heavy breaths, making my nipples harden. “Every man you meet will be thinking about how he can get to the sweet spot right between your long, gorgeous legs.”

  His thumbs have definitely moved lower, so low he must be well aware of the fact I get Brazilian waxes.

  Wait a second. Did he say he thinks my legs are gorgeous? I was so distracted by his damn thumbs. God, I wish he would just touch me lower. But I know he won’t. I’ve tried to seduce him for years, and this, today, having his thumbs in my panties, is more than I ever expected to receive. It’s still not enough, which is why I have no plans to stop anytime soon.

  “Why do you care if I get eaten alive?” I ask. I ease my arms down from Winston’s neck until my fingers reach the front zipper of his coveralls. Slowly, I sta
rt pulling it down, hoping to distract him long enough to find out what’s underneath.

  His hands freeze on my hips before he answers, “Because I’m your brother.”

  “Stepbrother,” I correct him yet again while the zipper moves lower and lower, revealing a dusting of black chest hair. Just a little further and I get to the indentation of his abs, telling me he’s not wearing a shirt underneath. Now, let’s find out if he’s wearing pants…

  “What are you…” Winston starts to say before he takes half a step back and looks down. “Fuck!”

  At first, I think he’s pissed at me for undressing him, but then I follow his line of sight to my hip bones that are covered with black smudges from his hands. I don’t mind. In fact, I love seeing the evidence of every spot where he’s finally touched me.

  “Hold on. I’ll clean you up,” he says before he removes his hands from me and takes a step back. He stops and looks down before cursing again when he realizes he’s stomped on my white dress that’s no longer very white.

  “Great. Fucking great,” he mutters as he picks up the material between two fingers. “These stains will never come out.”

  “I don’t care,” I tell him.

  “Cover up while I go wash up and get some wet towels.” He presses the fabric to my chest, then hurries over to a nearby sink where he scrubs his hands with soap for several long minutes before he grabs a handful of paper towels. After he wets them under the faucet, he wrings them out and brings them over.