“Thanks for the pep talk.” Stepping around her, I hold the door open for her to leave. With a heavy sigh and a frown, like she pities me for not accepting her help that I don’t need, she leaves. Closing the door, I lock it and tell myself to make damn sure I install a deadbolt ASAP.
What is it with people who always try to save someone? And the damaged ones are the worst. How do I know Linda is damaged? Because anyone who is a part of this life has to be. The MC isn’t for normal people. It’s for rejects, fuck-ups and the disturbed.
It’s for people like Luke whose grandfather was one of the founding members. He never had a fighting chance of a different life. Even when his father tried to protect him from it, Luke’s always been a biker at heart—it’s in his blood.
It’s for people like Dallas who grew up privileged, but without parents—parents murdered by an ex-member of the very MC her husband is president of. From the day she turned eighteen, she became the club’s property and she didn’t even know it. When she found out, she realized it’s what she’d been missing in her life all along.
It’s for Red—a struggling drug addict who needs around-the-clock support and reassurance. She was traded from one shitty foster home to another. The MC is the only real family she’s ever had.
It’s for all of them. In some way or another, they’re damaged and the only thing that can fix them is this club. The same can be said for me too. After all, being fucked up is how I got here in the first place.
*****
Time flies when you’re having fun. Before I know it, Saturday is here once again. It’s a little after midnight and the clubhouse is packed. There are over twenty patches here. They rank from Hangarounds—men who are being considered for prospecting—to president and everywhere in between. The problem with this many men is there are not near enough women to go around.
Most of the men here are Renegades, but there are several Eagles and a few members from other neighboring clubs. To me, they’re all the same. My job is to treat them all as if they were Renegades. It doesn’t matter what patch they wear or what title they hold. They’re here for a good time. And I aim to show them one.
“Prettiest fuckin’ titties I’ve ever seen,” the man whose lap I’m occupying says. He cups one of my breasts in his large hand. At the touch, my already hard nipple puckers further. Beneath my ass, I feel him harden. “I bet they taste good too.”
I give him a sexy half smile, daring him to try. Since I suck at names, I’ve been calling him and the rest of his buddies seated around us “honey” and “baby.” They don’t care what I call them. When you’re surrounded by a group of men and you’re wearing nothing but a pair of shorts so short your ass cheeks hang out the bottom and a pair of killer heels—you can get away with just about anything.
Hot, wet mouths surround my nipples. The man on my left sucks softly while the one on my right nibbles across the sensitive flesh. I giggle, because they like that shit, and allow their hands to roam my body and indulge themselves. I’m beyond ready to take this party to my room, but they seem to be enjoying the public show that’s drawing a crowd. Perfect. The more the merrier.
Leaning my head against the back of the couch, I close my eyes and get lost in the feeling of everything around me—the wandering hands, pleasing mouths, hardening cocks and lustful looks I’m drawing from the circle of men. This is my sweet spot…my happy place…my empowering moment.
A hand reaches between my thighs—squeezing me through my jeans. Back arched, head pressed further into the soft leather, my eyes open into tiny slits. My constant fluttering lids and small window of vision limits the amount of focus I have on anything. But something in the distance—something separate from the crowd—pulls at me.
Sparkling emerald green eyes shine through the cloud of smoke and muted lighting. It seems nearly impossible for me to notice them from here, and the only thing I can figure out is that they must glow in the dark. Intrigued, I lift my lids in search of this mysterious creature that silently appraises the show from his seat at the bar.
He’s massive, even sitting down. I guess he’s every bit of six foot four. His shoulders are wide--the muscles in his arms evident even through his black hoodie that is partially hidden beneath the heavy leather he wears. His neck is strong—powerful, thick and the only thing exposed to me other than his face…that face.
It’s dusted in dark hair as if he hasn’t shaved for a few days. But it’s not enough to hide how smooth, square and perfectly sculpted the curve of his jaw is. His hat is turned backwards and sits low on his head, stopping just above his green eyes that are intense, dark and brooding. They’re fucking paralyzing—pulling me in and making me forget everything that’s still happening around me.
I’m completely drawn to him—this force. He’s not beautiful like Luke, or handsome like Crash, or cute like Regg, but raw and dangerous—captivating and all consuming. He’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m acutely aware of voices around me—hands on me and mouths devouring me. But all I can focus on is the pull of his eyes…the tick in his jaw…the unyielding power he seems to have over me as if I’ve submitted complete control to this man—this Devil’s Renegade I don’t even know.
He stands smoothly, my eyes following his every move. At full height, he’s even more dominating and threatening than I could have imagined. Worn, faded jeans hang loosely on his thighs, but seem to tighten at his crotch. Or maybe that’s just my imagination convincing me what’s hidden beneath his pants is just as large and powerful as the rest of him.
Like a predator, he silently prowls toward me—his movements fluid, confident and precise. The crowd parts when he nears. Talking ceases. Hands desert me. Mouths abandon me—leaving my heavy, swollen breasts exposed. My nipples stiffen without the warmth of lips and tongues surrounding them.
He doesn’t stop until he’s directly in front of me—leveling me with a look of desire and want. Wordlessly, he extends his hand in offering. With shaky fingers, I reach out and accept it—allowing him to pull me from the throng of men. My legs are wobbly from the sudden movement, but a strong arm encircles my waist to hold me steady.
“Your room. Where is it?” His deep, husky voice is thick with a Cajun accent that’s so damn sexy, I nearly swoon.
“Down the hall,” I manage, in a barely audible tone. His eyes seem to smile at me, but his lips remain soft and slightly parted—casting cool, whiskey-scented air across my face.
Breaking his gaze from mine, his eyes roam the crowd of men around us. He offers them a slight chin tip, then fixes his eyes on me again. I feel as if he’s giving me the opportunity to say no. I won’t. It’s not that I can’t, I just don’t want to.
He waits a bit, and when he’s satisfied this is what I want, his eyes become hooded and darken with promise. The arm around my waist falls, and my entire body shivers without his heat. With my hand still securely in his, he turns and leads us toward the hallway.
I’m thankful for the short walk, which gives me a break from his penetrating stare. By the time we reach my bedroom door, the fog I’ve been in since I first laid eyes on him lifts and I feel more in control. I keep my head down and avoid his gaze as he releases my hand and steps back—allowing me to enter my room first.
“I’m Delilah, by the way,” I say, keeping my back to him as I mindlessly straighten things on my dresser.
The door clicks shut, and then I hear his voice. “I know.” His deep tone powers through me—shaking me in places that are quickly becoming wetter. He doesn’t offer his name, and I don’t mind. It really doesn’t matter anyway.
“Are you married?” Please don’t be married…please don’t be married.
“No.” I detect humor in his answer and find myself smiling. It quickly fades when I hear the sound of the chains on his vest rattling as he unsnaps them.
“You want some music?” I ask, already powering up my iPod that’s linked to the portable speaker next to my bed.
“Whatever you want, Love.” Love…It sounds so foreign with his Cajun accent—making it that much sexier.
Selecting my playlist titled “Sexy,” I put it on shuffle. I turn to face him just as the introduction to “The Hills” by The Weekend reverberates off the walls of my tiny room that just got smaller with his presence. His large body stands casually at the end of my bed—still fully clothed except for his cut that hangs from my doorknob. He’s just as mighty and forcible without it as he is wearing it.
My breathing is harsh and erratic, but thankfully the music is loud enough to drown it out. Damn, I want him. I don’t think I’ve ever been so worked up over a man. I want to taste him…touch him…feel him in places that are swollen, needy and ready—for him.
The aura of confidence that surrounds him is infectious. I feed off it—allowing it to fuel my courage. This is my expertise. This is my strong suit. This is where I thrive. I’m here for his pleasure, but I already know the pleasure will be all mine.