Hard Rider

He fucked me harder, deeper, his breath labored as he strained to hold back. Suddenly, I felt him pull out, and grab my legs, pushing my knees against my stomach, my thighs pressed together. He slammed into me, making me scream at the intensity, driving me to the very edge of that cliff of pleasure, and then pushing me off just to watch me fall.

My fingers twisted my nipples as I came, spine arching, pussy dripping down his balls, my slit wrapping itself tighter around him with each contraction. He groaned, slamming into me again, the first spurt of his cum splashing against me, hot and thick and perfect. He shuddered, each spasm filling me more and more with his seed, until it spilled out and down the curve of my ass, my juices running with it, our pleasure too much for my body to contain.

With my body wracked and wrecked with shudders, he finally let his body lower and cover mine, his forehead pressed against my forehead, his eyes demanding mine to open, a demand I could feel even in the darkness.

“I love you, Bex Carter,” he growled, his cock finally wilting inside me.

“I love you, Cross DuFrane,” I moaned in response, leaning up and meeting his lips; it hurt, my mouth still cut from the gravel, but it was worth it. He was worth it. Cross was worth any pain, any heartache. How could I have ever forgotten that?

One thing I knew: I would never forget it again.

Cross

Riding without my colors always felt wrong, but sometimes it was necessary. Like crossing over into Blackhawks territory, another thing which felt wrong. There wasn't any sort of noticeable difference from our territory to theirs, but I knew it the instant I crossed that invisible line, the hairs on the back of my neck standin' up.

There weren't a whole lot of reasons for a Crusader to enter Blackhawks territory. In fact, I'd never done it before. But I knew where I could find their clubhouse, and that's where I directed my Vincent, well aware of the looks I got along the way. Even riding without my colors, I was a stranger. Just like we would know if a stranger rolled through our side of town, the Blackhawks could sense my otherness, and it put them on guard. Understandably on guard.

But I wasn't there to stir up trouble. I was there to find Jase Bosswell, and beat him into his own grave. A week had gone by, and while Dutch made a big show of sending brothers out to comb the streets, no one had come up with the asshole's location. Of course, Dutch knew, but he wasn't telling. He was lyin' through his teeth, which was what I'd come to expect.

With our side of town fairly scraped clean, I was bound and determined to find him on the other side. I was sure the Blackhawks would give me passage. I wasn't going to get in their way, just see what I could see.

But as I rolled up to their clubhouse, which was actually built around a bar called Stucky's, I started to wonder if I was overestimating the clubs' graciousness. Those dirty looks only seemed to get dirtier as I let myself in through the front door, and the sound of my entrance had half the bar taking to their feet.

I'd never felt more alone, and wished I'd taken Blade and Grinder up on their offer to come with me. I thought I'd have better luck going solo; be less intimidating that way. As it was, all I could do was hold my hands up in the universal sign of peace, and ask the room at large who I could talk to about a beer.

Seemingly satisfied that I wasn't there to shoot up the place, the men slowly started to return to their seats, though they didn't take their eyes off me. I went straight to the bar, where the man tending wore the Blackhawks patch, claiming him as treasurer.

“Fortuna,” I said, eying the handle sewn into his lapel. “Nice. I'm Cross DuFrane, Dead Crusaders, Sargent-at-Arms.”

“DuFrane,” Fortuna said, growling as he leaned on the bar. “Grinder?”

“My old man,” I said, pleased with my progress so far.

“Huh,” Fortuna grunted. “And what the hell're you doin' here?”

“I'm hopin' I could speak with someone about a little issue I'm havin',” I said. “I'm not here for any trouble, just want permission to take a look 'round your side of the city.”

“What in the hell for?”

“Lookin' for a man who beat on my woman,” I said. Fortuna did not look impressed. “Don't know where he's hidin', haven't had any luck in our territory. He's not from here. Not one of us. Probably thinks an ape hanger belongs in a zoo.”

“Huh,” Fortuna said again, studying me. He was Grinder's age, or older. After what felt like forever, he walked around the bar, leaned down a long hallway, and hollered: “BEACON!”

Beacon; their VP. Good. I was getting somewhere. Fortuna came back to the bar and nudged his head in the direction of the hallway. Every eye followed me as I approached the hallway, and didn't leave my back until Beacon himself appeared from a doorway.

“Who're you?” he asked, sounding annoyed. The room behind him seemed to be an office.

“Cross DuFrane, Dead Crusaders, Sergeant-at-Arms,” I said, offering my hand. Beacon's mouth split wide into a soggy grin, but he didn't take my hand.

“Well, shit and shillelaghs, come in, we been wonderin' when one of you would show your sorry faces 'round here.”

Beacon didn't wait for me to respond before turning back into the office, which was surprisingly tidy. Even Dutch's office looked like a sty compared to this. Not a single empty beer bottle lay on the floor, and the only ashtray was clean. That didn't stop Beacon from punching a cigarette from his pack, and I did the same with my own, to be congenial.

“So, you here to tell us why the fuck you've been sendin' those pansy-ass prospects of yours onto our streets?”

You could have slid the chair right out from under me, and it'd have the same effect on my heart and stomach. I remember that at that particular moment, the sun must have come out from behind the clouds, and the window behind Beacon filled with a brilliant summer light. My cigarette smoldered between my lips as I blinked, probably lookin' as stupid as I felt.

Beacon, impatient, opened his hands and jerked his body forward.

“Anyone home? Shit, did they send the village idiot?”

“I don't have a damn clue what you're talkin' about, I'm afraid,” I finally managed to say. “This is the first I've heard about it.”

“Huh,” Beacon said, brow furrowing. “Then why are you here?”

“I'll tell you, in a minute, but what was it you said about our prospects? They've been riding on your side of the city? In their colors?”

“Naw,” Beacon said. “Even y'all ain't that dumb. But if you think we don't know what a Crusader prospect looks like, you're doing us a mighty insult.”

“I don't mean no insult to you,” I said, leaning forward to ash my cigarette, my mind chuggin’ along at approximately seventeen hundred miles an hour. “I'm just tryin' to figure this out, 'cause I'm not exactly a peon, and I don't know shit about this.”

Beacon sighed.

“It's happened three times now over the past month, our patrols have spotted your prospects ridin' around like...like scouts,” Beacon said, his eyes narrowing again. “It's only out of respect for the truce that we haven't come over to y'all yet. One more time, and I was gonna send our Sargent over to knock some sense into y'all. You sayin' you didn't send them boys over here?”

“Not me,” I said. “And not our VP, and none of our patched members.”

“But...?” Beacon led.

“I can't speak for Dutch,” I said, quickly, flatly. Beacon would know Dutch's name, just as I knew Beacon's. I didn't want him getting any ideas before I had the chance to form some of my own. “But I doubt he'd do it either. It's possible these boys are dumber than we thought. I'll have a talk with them presently, and I'm right sorry for their ignorance.”

Beacon did not seem sated by my excuses or apology, and I didn't blame him. This was serious shit. The truce between our clubs was the only thing keepin’ us from an all-out territorial war. And if we did go to war, I knew as well as anyone, there'd be no winners. It'd be an eye for an eye until the whole city was blind. I wasn't tryin

' to lay down my life for greed, and I didn't expect any self-respecting Crusader to feel any differently.

But was Dutch still a self-respecting Crusader? I wasn't so sure.

“Well, this puts a shadow on the favor I came here to ask,” I said, rubbin' the back of my neck, trying to change the subject as quick as I could. “I don't expect I have a snowball's chance in hell.”

“What's the favor, Cross DuFrane, Sergeant of the Dead Crusaders?” Beacon didn't look very favorable at all.

“I'm after a man who half-killed my woman,” I said. “And since we've struck out on our side of town, I was hopin' I could swing around your side of town. Just for an hour or two. But in light of my prospects' foolishness, I can understand you denyin' me the honor.”

Beacon studied me, tapped his cigarette out and lit another.

“What kinda man you lookin' for, exactly?”

I pulled out the picture Bex had given me and slid it across the desk.