Her Secret Pleasure (Death Lords MC 2)

Chapter One

Judge

“See Schmidthead has a new sweet butt?” Jay Handfield says in a half whisper, half shout. The kid is a new prospect but the likelihood of him patching in seems dimmer by the day. Handfield is playing blackjack with the Death Lords’ other new prospect, Abel Drake. The stakes were who would have door duty at the monthly mash and by the look of the pile of peanuts in front of Drake it would be Handfield. Again.

“What makes you say that?” Drake asks, not looking up from his cards.

“If she was anywhere near me I'd be boning her. He had her in the front of his cruiser last week. And someone saw them together at Hilltop Cafe. Eating dinner.”

“Sounds suspicious. Eating at a diner,” Drake replies drolly. Drake is an eight-year Marine vet with a low tolerance for bullshit and an easy way with the wrench.

I share a rueful glance with my companion, Chuck Lang. Lang is a nomad, a biker with no club allegiance. He’s a restless soul a few years older than me. I first met him at a one percenter biker meet up down in Missouri. I went there to get away from the responsibilities of being the president of the Death Lords. I usually left with more obligations than I arrived with. Like a daughter and now a favor for the nomad across from me.

“She’s got red hair,” Handfield continues, not realizing Drake’s uninterested. I don't require the members of Death Lords to be book smart but they’ve got to have some instinct or intuition. Otherwise it’s easy to get fucked up.

It used to be regular folks shied away from the leather vests with our profane patches. Recent television shows have made us a curiosity and that increased interest makes everyday life a little more dangerous…and I’ll admit, at times, a little more interesting. But the new attention means the club has to be more intuitive or they’ll find themselves ass up on someone’s social media feed or in a bar fight with civilians trying to show off for their girlfriends.

These days, I’m looking for members that have something to offer other than blind loyalty.

The Death Lords don’t need to be bigger, but we’ve got room in our family if there’s a worthwhile civilian who needs a place to rest his boots.

“Red hair, huh?”

This attribute appears to interest Drake but not for the reason Handfield thinks. Drake eyes Chuck’s dark red hair, raises an eyebrow in my direction and gives his head a tiny shake.

The little encouragement is all Handfield needs to keep going. “Creamiest skin. Tons of freckles. Kind of makes you wonder what she looks like downstairs.”

“You gonna take care of the loudmouth or am I?” Chuck growls.

With a jerk of my chin, Drake gathers up the cards over Handfield’s protests and hustles the kid out of there before Chuck decides to defend his daughter’s honor.

“This is why I’m asking you to keep an eye out for her.” He points a hard finger at Handfield’s retreating back.

“Because a smartass kid thinks Pippa is good looking?” I’m incredulous because Handfield is exactly right. Pippa Lang, Chuck’s daughter, is a babe and it’s not only the red hair and freckles that makes my dick stand up. It’s her husky laugh and the confident way she moves. At forty-two, I’ve little interest in the baby pussy that keeps showing up to club parties. I want a woman and I got a sense about Pippa Lang. Her red hair would look real fine spread across my pillow.

“No,” he scowls. “It’s that she couldn’t wait to hook up with your fucking chief of police. He’s the bastard that got your son sent away and I don’t want him anywhere near Pips.”

“How old is your daughter, Chuck?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“She’s a little old for you to be telling her what to do and a helluva lot too old for some friend of her father’s to be interfering with who she dates.”

“Shit, Judge, she’s my only kid and I’m trying to do right by her. Doing right by her means keeping the scum away.” He’s disgruntled and I’m not in a pacifying mood.

“Not to be a shithead, Chuck, but about a year ago you were sitting at this very bar telling me your kid didn’t speak to you because you’d spent so much time on the road, moving around.”

The red of his face indicates he doesn’t like this reminder. He clenches his fist and then releases his breath in a forcible rush, deflating like a popped balloon. His anger is spent as quickly as it was roused. “Yeah, fuck, you’re right. But that’s even more of a reason I don’t want her with Schmidthead. She’s dating him to spite me because he’s got the badge and I’m the fucking outlaw.”

Lang did a stint down in an Arizona federal penitentiary fifteen or so years ago for something he’s never shared. I could’ve looked it up but he’s due his privacy.

“Guess she doesn’t realize she’s scraping the bottom of the ganger barrel with Schmidt.”

My lame quip eases the tension and Lang laughs. “Got that right.” He pushes to his feet. “I need to get going. Have some plans over in Rapid City and I’m not going to make it if I don’t get going.”

I walk him out of the old converted granary that serves as our clubhouse.

“I’ll keep an eye out for her but if your girl has any sense at all, she’ll show Schmidt the curb. He isn’t single because he wants to be but because he reeks of asshole. Doesn’t take long for a smart girl to pick up on that. Give your daughter some credit.”

“Appreciate it though. I’m not going to win any father of the year awards, but I love her all the same.”

The following day I ride over to the town square. As luck would have it Betty Carmichael is sweeping the already clean sidewalk as I park my bike. She probably heard the growl of the motor and came running out. If there’s a town crier in Fortune, it’d be Betty Carmichael. Although there’s a Walmart Superstore at the edge of town, there’s enough of us who buy local to keep Betty’s grocery in business. Because of that she thinks she knows everyone’s business and the shit she doesn’t know, she makes up.

“Morning, Judge,” she calls out. “What brings you to town?”

“Got a book at the library on hold. Picking it up,” I reply, the lie sliding off my tongue with ease.

“Library’s not open for another half hour,” she says.

“Want to beat the rush.” I wink at Mrs. C’s openmouthed surprise and mount the three steps up into the library. The library shares space with the only movie theater in town. It seems like an odd combination. Books on your left and movies on your right but the shared space is the only way For

tune keeps a library at all.

The former librarian, Mary Reed, retired at the ripe age of eighty and moved down to Florida. The low-paying position remained unfilled for six months until Lang shot through town. He’d told me that his daughter was a young librarian in Eau Claire and might be interested. I passed the word onto Councilman Daniel Montclair and the rest was history.

Lang didn’t need to ask me to watch over his daughter because from the moment she zipped by me driving into town in her cherry red convertible I knew she’d be in my bed. Schmidthead is a tiny detour, a dry and sexless one from all accounts I’ve heard.

The Hilltop Cafe dinner ended with her pushing him away and slamming the door in his face according to Easy who’d been idling down the road. We keep tabs on Schmidthead at all times. Getting a lockdown on Pippa’s activities is a bonus for me.

The library is two small stories with paperbacks upstairs and reference, hardcovers and movies downstairs.

“Sorry, we’re not open yet,” Pippa calls out from the little room behind the circulation desk which I suppose is her office. Looks like it’s no bigger than a closet.

“Thought I’d come early and beat the rush.” I lean against the counter and admire the view. Pippa, the redhead, is wearing a pale pink silky shirt tucked into a straight skirt that is hitched up to about midthigh as she crouches near the door, rifling through a box of something. The fabric is pulled tight over her ass. Jesus, I love skirts.

She straightens at my voice and turns slowly toward me. I suck in my breath at the sheer provocativeness of her shirt. It’s got a cutout right between the buttons that keep the shirt closed and a fabric tie around her neck. There’s a tiny hint of cleavage in that oval expanse of flesh and I want to dive in with my tongue. If this is what she’s wearing during the day I can’t wait to see her nighttime attire. My jeans get a little tighter.

“The only rush here is during story hour and you look a little old for Clifford The Big Red Dog.” Her gaze sizes me up in about two seconds. Appreciation glints in her eyes as she takes in my six-foot-three-inch frame and as her eyes drop to my cut the look transforms into…I can’t tell exactly. Regret? Disappointment? “Did Chuck send you?”

I’m not going to lie to this woman because lying to a woman you’re going to fuck is a recipe for disaster. “Yep, but I would’ve come anyway.”

She leans against the doorway and folds her arms under her breasts. She probably doesn’t realize it but her actions push her generous tits up into that open circle.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I like knowing the people of Fortune.” And I want to fuck you silly.

“Is this where you offer to take me to dinner and then bed?”

Shit, I like her. “Sounds like you’ve had that offer before and turned it down.”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t like getting turned down so I think I’ll make a different request.”

This surprises her and with a quirk of her lips she steps closer. “I’m all ears.”

I reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet. Flipping it open on the desk, I say, “I’d like to apply for a library card.”

Her mouth drops open and forms a perfect rosy circle, one that would fit nicely around my cock. She laughs and steps to the desk. “Okay. That’s smooth. Ask the librarian for a library card. Best pickup line I’ve heard yet.”

“How do you know it’s a pickup line?”

“It isn’t?” She arches an eyebrow.

“No, it most definitely is but since I foresee coming to the library frequently in the future, I’ll take the card too.”

She purses her cherry stained lips to contain a smile and bends her head to read the information on my license as she fills out the card application. “I’m afraid to ask why you’ll be coming to the library frequently.”

“Because I’ll want to fuck you here,” I answer matter of factly.

Her pen stutters at my plain words. She stills and looks up. This time I clearly read the expression. It’s regret.

“I’m not going to deny you’re an attractive man, Hank Harrison,” she begins.

“Call me Judge.”

She rolls her eyes. “Is that your road name?”

“You know what I like? Among so many other things I can’t wait to enumerate when you’re naked and sated in my bed, I like that you understand my world. Yeah, babe, that’s my road name but it’s also the only name anyone’s ever called me since I was about seventeen and patched into the Death Lords.”

“The Death Lords. Is that your frat boy call sign?”

I catch on. Her dad being a nomad has soured her on bikers of all stripes. “My grandfather picked it out when he and his buddies came back from Vietnam and formed the club.” I watch her as she quickly finishes the application. “As for frat boy activities, about the only thing we have in common is that we drink alcohol.”

Snorting, she turns the paper card around and taps a line for my signature. “Let’s see. You’ve got an administrative hierarchy, secret road signs that you share when you pass each other on the highway, initiation periods, loyalty tests, and you wear clothes that have your insignia on it.” She nods toward my cut. “You’re pretty much a fraternity. Oh, and you have drunken orgies in your boys-only clubhouse.”

I stare at her for a long silent while until she shifts uneasily behind the desk. “What? Did I offend you?”

“I’m trying to figure out if it’s your dad you’re still mad at or whether you dated a biker who did you wrong.”

“Does it have to be one or the other?”

“Nah, it can be both.” My forearms are on the desk counter and I lean in. “You seem too smart of a woman to hold one man’s mistakes against another.”

She flushes and then rubs her forehead. “Truth is, Judge, I’m not in the market for a man right now. I don’t doubt that you’d be good in bed. And you don’t come off as the deadhead biker dudes I’ve run across in the past. But I’m new to town and I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.”

“You also don’t seem like the type of woman who’d let gossip stop her from doing something she wants to be doing.”

“Well, you’d be wrong. Because I am a smart woman, as you so astutely point out, I know that a small town can be both welcoming and suffocating. I’ve been here for only four weeks and spent two of them going out with the chief of police. That was a mistake. For all your prowess in bed, I’m guessing you don’t have much staying power out of it. Now I’m done with the chief, but if I start seeing you right away and that goes nowhere I’m going to be that woman who either can’t be without a man or enjoys sleeping around. That’s not the kind of reputation I want in my new home.”

I don’t like being turned down, particularly when I know it’s for reasons that have nothing to do with my partner and me. With a hand flat on the counter, I vault the barrier. She lets out an audible squeak and backs all the way into her tiny office. I kick the door shut behind me. A row of glass-fronted bookshelves stop her retreat.

I place one palm on the wall next to her head and trace a finger down her bow-tied blouse. “This is the sexiest goddamn shirt. The bow tie around the neck like a collar? The open skin beneath it with a hint of cleavage playing peekaboo? It teases a man.” I pull on the tie, not so hard that the bow becomes undone, but enough that she feels it give slightly. Under my light touch, I feel her tremble. “When you button up in the morning, do you fantasize about all the little fastenings being undone when you get home? When you pull on your stockings and smooth them over your round thighs, do you imagine someone rolling them down? When you bind your breasts, do you envision bigger, rougher hands unclasping the hooks and freeing those beauties?”

She gasps, which shoves her heavy tits against my chest. When she goes to untie her blouse tonight and remove her stockings and loosen her breasts, she’ll remember these words, my touch and the hot gaze in my eyes. Maybe she’ll touch herself. Maybe she’ll dream about me. But no matt

er what she does, she’ll remember.

I crowd her and she tilts her head up to look at me but doesn’t sidle away. The arch of her neck reveals a wildly beating pulse point in her throat. The tiny room shrinks down to her and me. The heavy breathing she’s trying hard to disguise is an aphrodisiac all its own.

“Baby, you’re breathing a little heavy. How about I help with that?” I bend down and press an open wet kiss against that flagrantly sexy space. Then I bite it. She makes an inarticulate sound and clutches my biceps. That’s all the consent I need. My hand drops away from her blouse to slide under her skirt. It’s tight and it takes a moment to get underneath like I need to but once I’m there, it’s sweet, sweet heaven. She’s wet and hot. I slick my fingers on either side of her pussy lips, rubbing hard. She pushes against them, clearly wanting something more.

So I give it to her. I thrust my hand down her hose and pump two fingers into her, eliciting an immediate moan. The erotic sound drives me crazy. I claim her mouth then, licking her glossy lips and delving in between them. Inside her mouth, I taste mint and lemon. I’m instantly addicted. I don’t want to stop kissing her or touching her. I want my cock inside her pussy, her mouth, between her breasts and in her ass. For now, though, I’ll be content with putting my mouth between her legs. I break away from the kiss and start kneeling but she catches me, as if breathing without me has cleared her fogged mind of passion and what she views as common sense is creeping in.

“No.” She tugs at my arms. I rise and lean against the bookshelf again but I don’t take my fingers from her tight pussy. Oh no. I’m going to stroke her until she comes.

“You want me. I want you. We’re two adults. Seems like an easy equation to figure out.” I push my palm against her with each upward stroke. Against her better judgment, she grinds down.