Notorious Devils MC Complete Collection: BoxSet

by Hayley Faiman

  His lips crash down on mine, and his warm, wet tongue slips deep inside me. I taste him, and he tastes like sunshine. He is warm and masculine, and I melt into his body. I hear one of his hands rustling his clothing, and then the sound of his pants dropping onto the tile flooring fills the air.

  My body is whirled around again, and his hand is on my back, pushing my chest and cheek against the cold kitchen countertop. Before I can say a word, I feel his boot kick at my ankle, spreading my feet farther apart. One of his big hands is at my waist as he forcefully pushes himself inside of me.

  It burns.

  I’m not ready.

  My body isn’t ready.

  I haven’t been touched in eight months, except when the need was too much and I touched myself, which I wasn’t even very good at. It usually just left me even more frustrated.

  “Pax, that hurts,” I cry out in pain.

  He isn’t listening to me. He is pulling out and thrusting deep, over and over again. I can’t help the tears that spring from my eyes as he fists his hand in my hair and pushes into my body. Then he stills, groans, and I feel him fill me with his release.

  We haven’t talked about birth control at all. He used condoms before he left. I had no reason to be on anything while he was gone, and I’m still not. He could have just gotten me pregnant, and I would have this memory, forever, as the way I conceived a child.

  “That was good, babe. Thanks.”

  He slaps my ass and pulls out of me.

  I don’t move. I can’t.

  I see my shirt hit the counter next to my head. Finally, I stand up, against the protest of the screaming pained area between my legs, and I pull the shirt over my head. I look at the face of my handsome husband, and my whole body shudders. He is blank. Blank face, blank eyes—freaking blank.

  What happened to him over there?

  What did this to him?

  Eight months ago, he treated me like glass, like something so precious he couldn’t believe that he had me all to himself. Now, I don’t know what he’s treating me like, but I don’t like it—not at all. I also don’t understand any of it. I don’t understand the sudden change, and it scares me.

  “I’m gonna go out drinking with the guys. I’ll get some food while I’m out. Don’t wait up,” he says, his face impassive.

  “Paxton,” I whisper, feeling his release slide down my thigh as my tears slide down my cheeks. I’m lost in a sea of confusion and pain, both emotional and physical, as I search his cold eyes.

  “Don’t nag me, all right? You got fucked. What else do you want?”

  I shake my head. I didn’t want what he just gave me—not today, and not ever.

  “I never asked for that, Pax. You hurt me,” I whisper.

  Something flickers through his eyes before they become a blank mask again.

  “Wasn’t good for you? You don’t like it? Maybe you should fucking leave then,” he growls as he walks away, grabbing his bag before he leaves, slamming the front door behind him.

  I don’t know what just happened. I feel totally clueless, shocked, hurt, and upset.

  I make my way to the bathroom and clean up, noticing the blood mixed with semen and crying a little bit more. I shower and slide into bed, forgetting the pedicure I had been giving myself; forgetting everything happy and good that I had planned for Paxton tomorrow.

  I need a friend, but I can’t call anyone. There are people in the support group I could reach out to, but they are all spouses of Paxton’s coworkers. I can’t tell them what he just did to me. Besides, I’m embarrassed.

  I have nobody. Nobody but him.

  I cry myself to sleep after taking a handful of ibuprofen, and hope, for the first time since I met him, that he won’t come home.

  Several hours later, I’m awakened by a noise.

  I look at my clock. It’s four in the morning. There’s a loud crash, and I bite my bottom lip before I hear his curse. My husband is home, apparently. I don’t know where he’s been all night, but after his ill treatment of me earlier, I don’t really care.

  I sit up and make my way downstairs to see him trying to walk up the staircase. He keeps stumbling backward. For every step he takes up, he stumbles down two more.

  He is trashed.

  I choke back the stupid tears that begin to form. I walk right up to him and tip my head back, wrap my arm around his waist, and proceed to help my drunk, asshole husband up the stairs. I should leave him down here to his own devices, but I’m afraid he’ll fall and really hurt himself.

  “Cleo, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” he groans as I push his heavy ass through the bedroom door. I snort at his words.

  “How did I get so goddamned lucky? Huh, baby?” I roll my eyes.

  He sure didn’t seem like he felt lucky to have me earlier. I strip him down to his boxer briefs and push him into bed. Then I pull the comforter over him and slide in next to him, getting on my side—giving him my back.

  “Cleo, baby,” he whispers.

  I feel his fingers trailing up and down my arm. It’s sweet, and I don’t like how just the simple act warms my heart. I want to hate him.

  “You’re drunk. Go to sleep, Paxton,” I sigh. He groans and wraps his big hand around my waist, pulling my back toward his front.

  “I missed you, baby,” he whispers as he nuzzles the back of my neck.

  It is then that I allow myself to cry again. This is the Paxton that I know. He was always soft spoken toward me, sweet, loving, and caring. That man that showed up and hurt me? I don’t know him, and I don’t like him, not one bit.

  He doesn’t push for more. In fact, his breathing evens out and I know when he is asleep before his arm on my waist becomes so heavy it pushes me a bit further into the mattress.

  The next morning, male snoring wakes me up too freaking early. I have a hot arm wrapped around my waist still, and a warm body practically on top of me. I nudge Paxton a few times before he groans and flops onto his back.

  “Fuck, what time is it?” he asks as I grab my cell phone and look at the time.

  “Ten,” I grumble.

  It isn’t as early as I had anticipated, but yesterday had been long and horrible, so I slept later than I normally would. We lie in silence, no longer touching and not even looking at each other. The ceiling is now suddenly fascinating to me.

  “Cleo,” he whispers. I feel his hand slide up the inside of my leg, and my entire body freezes.

  When his fingers brush over my sensitive center, I whimper and flinch with pain. His hand stops, and I feel his eyes on me, so I turn to look at him. His silver blue eyes are no longer cold but hold a bit of the warmth I remember.

  “I hurt you that badly?” he whispers in horror.

  I nod, unable to speak.

  “Fuck, I-I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

  It is the most beautiful thing he has said to me since walking through that front door—which in itself is pathetic as hell.

  “Why?” It is all I can choke out, but luckily he understands me. I know this because he gets this far away look on his face.

  “One of the guy’s wives left him while we were there. Had an affair. One guy’s fiancée left him because she couldn’t handle the distance. Four other guys’ long term girlfriends left them for the same reasons. We don’t really know each other, and fuck, I would die if you left me for some other guy,” he admits.

  “So you wanted to push me away?” I guess.

  We stay silent for a few more moments, and I reflect on what he’s just told me.

  “I should leave you,” I mutter.

  It’s true. I should leave him. The way he treated me last night, and then the way he came home drunk—I should be gone in the wind.

  Yet, there is something holding me back from that; maybe it’s the fact that we aren’t just dating, we are married; maybe it’s because I’m an idiot; maybe it’s because I have nobody else in the world but him.

  “I understand,” he whispers, sounding pained.

 
; “But I don’t think I can,” I admit.

  Paxton lets out a heavy breath before I feel him roll on top of me. His blue eyes meet mine and hide nothing. He looks so scared, nervous, regretful, sad, and relieved all at the same time.

  “I’ll make it up to you, baby. Fuck, I’m a fuckin’ bastard,” he mutters.

  I snort. No shit, he’s a bastard. That’s an understatement. Paxton’s lips lightly brush over mine, soft and gentle, before they slide down to my neck and collarbone.

  “I want to apologize to my girl,” he murmurs against my skin.

  I’ll let him apologize any way he wants to, when his lips are softly caressing me this way.

  “I’m going to put my mouth and tongue on you, baby. Can you handle that, or will it hurt too much?” he asks as his lips kissed down the front of my shirt, making his way toward my breast.

  His lips pull my nipple in his mouth through the material, and I can’t hold back my groan. I arch my back in response, loving the way he feels against me.

  “I think I can handle it,” I whisper as his hands pull my panties down my legs.

  I feel his fingers caress my thighs as he lightly spreads them open and settles his body between them. Slowly, his lips travel down my stomach, and I feel his nose nuzzle my belly button before he kisses my mound and then my clit.

  “Paxton,” I gasp, my fingernails raking through his short, cropped, dark hair.

  He slowly slides his tongue over my core and apologizes with his mouth until I come all over him. My first real orgasm since he left me, eight months ago. It is bliss. But it is also bittersweet all at the same time.

  I haven’t forgiven him, and I will never forget the way he used my body. I’m ready to move on, though. I know that it has something to do with what he’s seen or done while he was gone, and not a true representation of the man he is.

  Hurdles happened in life, and this is just that. Gram taught me that. She taught me that people do stupid things, but they can feel regret and sorrow for them, so we must always look past the stupid things and into the heart of the person.

  I fall asleep, thinking this is a new beginning. I can move on from yesterday, if this is the man I have for the future.

  When I wake up later that afternoon, he’s gone.

  Every trace of him is just—gone.

  Even his cell phone number is disconnected.

  The only thing he left was a note.

  I will only continue to hurt you baby. I can’t do that.

  I love you too much.

  Be Happy.

  PAXTON

  That selfish bastard.

  I cry until I can’t cry anymore. I stay holed up in our townhouse for four weeks, until rent is due and I can’t pay it.

  He never once tries to contact me in those four weeks.

  So I have no other choice. I leave.

  Chapter One

  ELEVEN YEARS LATER

  TORCH

  I look out at the grounds of my new clubhouse in Cali. It’s dark, but not as dark as it is in Idaho. It’s a different environment altogether here. There’s a party happening inside, but I’m not interested in the bullshit tonight. Pussy and booze aren’t on the forefront of my mind. I have one thing and one thing only on my mind—Cleo.

  In fact, Cleo dominates my thoughts on a regular basis. For the past eleven years, she’s been in my mind. She’s my biggest regret in life.

  Shit’s going down with The Cartel, and her safety has been at the top of my mind, lately. Fury, my old Pres in Idaho, thinks I need closure with her, or some shit. Honestly, I just need to know that she’s safe, and that my foul shit doesn’t leak onto her—again.

  As soon as this war bullshit is handled, I’ll be on my way, and she can be on hers. I’m never going to live peacefully, not with the demons that swirl around inside of me, but she can. I aim to keep her not only breathing, but doing so safely.

  “You got your shit locked down tight, brother,” Texas says as he walks up behind me.

  I nod, unsure of what he wants me to say. I don’t talk about myself to anyone—ever. If he’s coming to me for information on my personal life, he’ll be disappointed as hell. Even if I was a man who shared his burdens, it wouldn’t be to a stranger; it would be to one of my closest brothers, Fury or Sniper, not to this guy.

  “I’m ex-military. Medic, actually. Served two tours in Afgan and two in Iraq. You need to unload any of that shit you got inside of you, I’m here. You wanna unload it to a shrink, I got a good one. You wanna unload a few rounds into some targets, love doin’ that shit, so I’m down,” he murmurs as he sits down next to me, taking a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.

  “That obvious I served?” I chuckle, trying to brush off his offers.

  “Your haircut don’t lie. It’s not regulation, but it still don’t touch your collar, if you were wearin’ one. Plus, I see those demons that haunt your eyes every day I look in the fuckin’ mirror,” he grunts.

  “Not into sharing my feelings, but thanks,” I say.

  “Not asking you to talk about your feelings. Those demons aren’t simply feelings, Torch. They’re living, breathing things. If you’re not careful, they will grow inside of you and kill the remainder of the man you once were.”

  “That man died when I was twenty years old. The demons can’t kill him. He’s been gone over a fuckin’ decade,” I growl as I stand up.

  “Brother, he ain’t gone. Not completely. You don’t wrestle with those demons, fight them back, then yeah, he’ll be fuckin’ toast—but he’s still around. Buried deep, but he’s there.”

  “How you figure?” I snort.

  “Cause you got a whole club in Idaho that loves you, thinks of you as blood and not just because you wear that cut. You got their women frettin’ and textin’ and worried about you—buggin’ the shit out of MadDog. But then again, you got MadDog, too, don’t you?” He doesn’t say anything else.

  Instead, he stands before he snubs out his smoke, turns, and walks away. I don’t watch, listening as the door closes behind him. I continue to look out at the darkness ahead of me. It’s fuckin’ pitch-black, and I inhale the cool air around me.

  I never thought I’d be livin’ in California, not ever, but Cleo’s here. It’s her home state, and I knew I’d find her here. It wasn’t hard. Found her using fucking Facebook. I shake my head, thinking about her profile and her profile picture. It’s a picture of the side of her face. She’s smiling, that much I can see, and it’s windy, her mass of red hair flying around.

  Her account is private, smart girl, and I’m half tempted to get someone to hack into her shit so that I can look at her pictures, mainly so I can see if there is a man in her life. I shouldn’t give a shit if she’s got a man. I’ve nailed so much pussy since leaving her that I would be ashamed if she knew the exact number. Still, she’s technically my wife, and I can’t help my curiosity.

  I pull up her address, using my phone. It’s in Sacramento, three hours away from me. I can’t do a drive by tonight, but I need to see her. Being in the same state as Cleo, being just a couple hours away from her is making me antsy. The last time I was this close to her was when I was stationed in Texas and we were living together.

  When I left her I went back to my base and requested barrack housing, explaining that we’d separated. It killed me to know she was so close, yet I wasn’t in a good place to be near her. I didn’t breathe easy until she left and moved back to her home state.

  I have to know what I’m walking into in offering my protection—no, demanding it. She’ll accept, too, my shy girl. I’m sure she’s exactly the girl she was when I married her all those years ago. I can’t see that part of her changing. There’s no way she’s changed; not like I have. She lived a hard life before I even met her, and it didn’t make her coldhearted or uncaring. In fact, she was always the exact opposite.

  “Texas said that you needed company?” a sweet voice calls out from behind me.

  I tip my head to the side, cra
ning my neck around slightly to look at who is walking up to me. It’s a pretty young thing, dark hair and eyes. She’s a whore, wearing nothing but some scraps of material to cover her tits and pussy. She’s probably freezing her ass off out here, but she won’t complain, not to me—not to a brother of the Notorious Devils.

  “Not tonight, honey,” I murmur.

  “Okay,” she nods and turns to walk away.

  I watch her pert ass cheeks as she goes, thinking that I probably should have taken her up on her offer. However, I’m not feeling stable right now; the last time I fucked someone when I felt this way, I hurt her a fuck’ve a lot.

  Swore I wouldn’t do that shit again—ever.

  CLEO

  I wake with a start. Closing my eyes, I listen for a noise. There isn’t anything, until I hear my neighbor’s door slam, and then they start screaming at each other. I turn my head to the side and groan.

  It’s seven in the morning, which means my neighbors just got off of working the night shift. They’re drunk and arguing, which will lead to them being drunk and fucking. It’s a cycle I’m used to, and I don’t want to be around.

  Hurrying to the shower, I bathe and then dress in record time. I don’t have to be to work today, but I do have a brunch date, and I better get a move on it or I’m going to be late. I hurry to my crappy, maroon sedan. Well, it’s not so much maroon anymore as it is a lovely, oxidized, former maroon color.

  I drive through the city, annoyed at the traffic and wishing I would have never moved back here. I should have stayed in Texas, but there were way too many memories there. Texas holds both good and bad memories. In the end, even the good ones felt tainted, so I left. I came back to the only other place that I’ve called home, Sacramento.

  I park the car, shaking off the cloud of memories from the past, sliding out of the driver’s side seat. I then hurry into the little café, where I know my date is waiting for me.