A line forms. Men of different patches and ranks wait patiently—respectfully—to greet him. Whoever he is, he’s someone of importance. I watch as he nods to most, takes the hands of several and hugs only a few. He towers over everyone, making even the largest men seem small. At five foot ten, he makes me feel small—miniscule even.
My view of him is blocked by the crowd. I want to edge closer, but remain where I stand—at least twenty feet from him. Still, his presence is overwhelming and I feel my body heat with the knowledge that he is here. When the crowd breaks slightly, I find him looking directly at me. It’s as if he knew I was here—watching, wanting and desiring him. He stands tall and patient until the last man greets, before lifting his chin to Linda behind the bar.
With a smile, she passes him a tall glass of whiskey—straight up. A flicker of anger I can’t comprehend sparks inside me at the exchange. I don’t like the way she looks at him. I don’t like the way she tucks her hair behind her ear or averts her gaze, as if she were shy—which she’s anything but. I have no right to be possessive over this man whose name I don’t even know, but I am.
He drains the glass of whiskey—still standing just inside the door. Handing the empty glass back to her, I see his lips move and watch her blush crimson at whatever he said. My anger deepens and as much as I want to feel ridiculous or stupid about my reaction, I don’t.
Inquisitive, sparkling green eyes find me. Lazily, they rake the length of my body before coming back to meet my own. The very corners of his lips quirk as he walks slowly but purposefully toward me. I’m aware of the women who watch him. Their eyes sweep from him to me—noticing my obvious attraction. I don’t care. They can think what they want. And if I look as desperate for him as I feel, then I don’t care about that either.
Despite my effort to force a cocky grin, I remain as I am—mouth slightly parted, eyes hooded and breathing ragged. The closer he gets, the more wanton I become. Desire doesn’t just reflect in my eyes and my reaction—it pools between my thighs and floods my naked sex. As he nears, I’m afraid he’ll smell my arousal. Another part of me hopes like hell he does.
His gaze never faltering, his stride never slowing, he clasps my hand in his as he passes—forcing me to turn and follow him down the long hall. This is a man who doesn’t ask for others’ permission. He doesn’t care that he’s being greedy or that my company is meant to be shared among all the brothers. He wants me for himself, and he’s taking me—silently claiming me even if it is just for a little while.
Just as before, he steps back and allows me to lead him inside my room … my sanctuary—the one place that I call mine, yet it feels like it belongs to him now. Hell, I feel like I belong to him. The scary thing is, I want to be his. At least for right now, in this moment.
I turn to face him. My intentions are to ask him if he wants music, even though we can still clearly hear the song playing in the front. But when I look at him, my words catch in my throat. His chest is a hairsbreadth away from mine. The scent of leather and whiskey wafts into my nostrils. I’m so close, I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes—those eyes—compelling and masterful.
“Hello, Love.” Son of a bitch. His deep tone is low—hungry.
“Hello,” I squeak out—sounding, feeling and probably looking like an amateur instead of the clubwhore veteran I am.
The back of his fingertips slide slowly up my arm. Goosebumps break out everywhere he touches, despite the heat I feel. He continues to drag them softly to my neck—his eyes never leaving mine. With the slightest amount of pressure, he grips my throat in his calloused hand.
I feel trapped—captured by not only his embrace but his promising glare. But I can’t decide what it is exactly that he’s promising. It doesn’t matter. I’ll take whatever he gives me. He walks, forcing me backwards until the back of my knees hit the bed.
He guides me down—his body covering mine as his hand moves from my throat to my waist. He lifts me further on the bed—climbing on top of me as his hands slide up my sides and push my shirt over my head. Dipping his mouth to my breast, he takes my nipple between his teeth. I moan when he tugs slightly—feeling a jolt of electricity shoot straight to my core.
My hands cup his face—forcing him to release my nipple and look at me. I don’t want the foreplay. I don’t need his mouth to tease me until I’m primed and ready for him. My pussy has ached for him since he walked through the door. My core is trembling in anticipation of his cock. I’m ready. The question is, is he?
“Fuck me,” I demand, leaning up to run my tongue across his lips. He crashes his mouth to mine—his kiss hard as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. I can taste the whiskey, the leather, the strong male scent of him…a concoction that screams danger.
This man is dangerous. I can see it in the eyes of his brothers when they look at him. I can feel the thickening of tension whenever he’s present. I can smell the fear of men who surround him. It’s the danger that draws me to this man—this nameless man who doesn’t ask, but takes what is his. In this moment I am his.
Hard, rough hands push my skirt up my thighs before sliding back down my naked legs and spreading my knees. He leans back, greedily drinking in the sight of my bare pussy that’s open for him. “I can smell you,” he growls, his green eyes darkening with lust.
My hands move to my breasts. They feel heavy, my nipples sensitive to their touch. His eyes follow the movement, his jaw clenching further at the sight. “Play with your pussy.” His words are deep and throaty—dirty and erotic.
I do as he says, finding my lips damp and hot with arousal. He watches me slide my finger between my folds—rubbing the length of my pussy before circling my clit that throbs for his touch.
Reaching behind him, he fists his hoodie in his hand before pulling it over his head. His movements are hurried, but precise. He pulls a condom from his pocket, ripping the wrapper with his teeth before opening his pants and releasing his massive cock. Sheathing it, his eyes drag up my stomach, stopping momentarily on my breasts before meeting mine.
“I wanna fuck you hard.” His accent thickens with the words. He’s asking my permission, without really asking at all. Regardless, I nod my head in agreement. I’m still nodding when he grips my hips and pulls me to him—lining his cock up with my slick entrance.
In one deep thrust, he impales me. My breath catches in my throat, but he doesn’t stop before pulling out and thrusting hard into me again. It’s almost painful—his onslaught brutal, unforgiving and the best fucking thing I’ve ever felt.
Pain quickly morphs into indescribable pleasure as he pumps in and out of me—pulling almost completely out before driving in again. My back arches. My moans become louder as I feel my climax building. I feel him everywhere when he’s inside me. His large cock reaches places I’ve never had the pleasure of feeling one before—deep inside me past the barrier that no man has ever touched.
I’m nearing my orgasm. My walls tighten around him. I’m ready to let myself go, but his voice momentarily paralyzes me. “Don’t come, Love. Don’t you dare fuckin’ come.”
But he’s too late. I’m too close and the need for release is too powerful. With a scream, my pussy contracts around him—squeezing him tightly. I hear a muffled “fuck” as his pace quickens. Moments later, he’s pulsating inside me. Deep, guttural moans fill the room and I’m not sure if they’re coming from me or him.
I clench my muscles tight—milking everything from him. It earns me a look I can’t quite decipher. His hips jerk, the tiny movement enough to send another wave of pleasure lapping at my core.
“You don’t listen very well, do you?”
I give him a lazy smile, my body sleepy and sated. “I tried. You’re just too good,” I whisper, unable to form a more audible tone.
His eyes roam appreciatively over my body, then his brow furrows with concern. “You look tired,” he says, pulling out of me. I wince, unsure if it’s at the emptiness or the tinge of pain I feel now that my body isn’t in orgasm overload.
“Long day. Long night.” As if to confirm it, I yawn.
He walks to the bathroom, and my eyes fight to stay open as I watch him. When he disappears behind the door, I promise to rest my eyes for only a moment. Then I’ll demand his name. But first, I just need a few minutes…
CHAPTER 7
I don’t wake until the sun is well above the horizon. I glance at my clock to find it’s after eight in the morning. I’m naked, tangled under the covers that I don’t remember climbing beneath. Thoughts of last night flood through me, and I clench my sex—still feeling where he was…how deep he was inside me. Sitting up, I take a moment to stretch before pulling a T-shirt over my head and padding quietly down the hall.
No one around here is crazy enough to be up at this hour after a party like last night, so I’m not expecting company when I walk into the main room. The first thing that gets my attention is the music. It’s classical, and not the dark, creepy kind. It’s soothing and peaceful. Almost like sleep music.