He wasn’t soft in high school—not by any means, but three years in prison with nothing but lifting and working out to do turned him hard. Every edge of him is sharp and cut and…large.
I open my mouth wide and take him to the very back of my throat. I love how he tastes, his unique musky smell, the texture of his velvety soft skin overlaying that increasingly stiff shaft. My moans aren’t manufactured porn sounds. They are real signals of my desire for him, for this.
Inhaling through my nose, I open my throat and swallow the large ruddy tip down. His strong thighs begin to shake when the muscles tighten around him.
“Oh baby. Oh Chelsea, baby…”
This is what I love about giving my man head. He loses all semblance of control. This hard man becomes putty in my hands. He can’t think. He can’t form sentences. He can’t do anything but reflexively surge against my mouth wanting in deeper.
I take him as deep as I can until my nose is tickled by the soft, curly strands of hair and then I withdraw all the way to the tip. Looking up I can see that he’s gone. His eyes are pinned on me, his hand has swept away the hair from my face, but he’s lost in a world of pleasure. His breath is coming rapidly and his hand grips my hair with a little too much force. He’d never be this rough if he knew what he was doing.
But there’s something about seeing him lose control that turns me on all the more. Between my legs, the gush of liquid is from my own answering desire. I swallow him down again, bobbing faster and sucking harder than before.
He makes inarticulate sounds and pushes against my face and pulls harder on my hair. A tap on my head gives me the warning I don’t need. I know he’s coming. I can feel the tension beneath my hands, feel him swell on my tongue. I want to swallow him whole and so I ignore that feeble tap and open my mouth even wider.
And I’m rewarded. He comes with a guttural groan, not a shout, a sound that rises from deep within and lasts almost as long as the salty streams of come spurt from his dick.
I take it all in, even wiping the side of my mouth to lick up the last precious drop. After he’s spent, he drags a shaky hand down over his face. “Baby, you are killing me.”
“Hope not.” I press my face against his firm stomach. I can hear it gurgle. He’s satisfied one hunger but his body is telling him he can’t live on sex alone. “I’ll need you later.”
“Yeah? How about now?” He leans down and slants his mouth over mine, kissing me and tasting himself. His own spunk has never bothered him. He’s always said if I can swallow it, so can he. I love that too.
He’d never ask me to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. And that’s why I’m here in this dingy house, uncertain of what today may bring. I know that no matter what happens, my future will always be with Grant “Wrecker” Harrison.
One large hand in the middle of my chest topples me over. The sheets are ripped away and even though I hear his stomach loudly protesting, he scoots down until his mouth is between my legs. “I’m hungry.”
“I can hear it,” I joke.
“That shit can wait.” His long tongue flicks out and licks at the arousal the blow job generated. “This can’t.”
Who am I to argue with that?
18
WRECKER
My old man gave me my road name when I crashed my first two wheeler at age four. He’d given me a gas powered scooter and sent me off down the road where I promptly ran into two trashcans pressing the accelerator instead of the break. According to him, it was the first and only real argument that my mom and him had ever had. Since she died when I was a kid, I don’t remember.
She wanted him to ease up, maybe have me peddle around in a big wheel for a while but Dad was bullheaded and said I would never learn if I just didn’t climb back on.
“He’s a Death Lord. So he wrecked. Least he didn’t lay down his bike,” I remember him saying proudly. He ruffled my hair and set my bike upright. After a quick inspection to make sure that I hadn’t broken anything, I was placed back up on the bike. I raced it back to the house and crashed into the fender of his old Ford pickup.
My road name was cemented. Road names are an important part of our biker world. Like the cut and the patches, the road name identifies our brotherhood. Abel, the newest Death Lords MC patch, doesn’t have a road name yet. In my book, Abel suits him fine because he knows how to get shit done which is why I let him go five nights ago to take care of a Misery MC patch who decided club life wasn’t for him anymore.
I trust Abel to take care of business and to watch my back so when I emerge from the bedroom and see Abel leaning against the wall opposite of the door, I know immediately we need to talk.
“How about some breakfast?” I ask, shrugging on my cut.
“Sounds good. There’s a diner about four blocks away.”
“Chelsea wants to take a shower.”
“That’s fine.” He pushes away from the wall and starts down the stairs. “I’ll wait downstairs.”
Chelsea’s not part of the club but the vibes in the Misery MC’s clubhouse are off and I don’t want to leave her alone. I don’t think anyone of these fuckers would touch her. I pistol-whipped a guy for spouting off about her so the entire crew knows that she’s off limits. But you never know and I wouldn’t trust most of the guys in the Misery club to watch my second cousin’s cat let alone my most precious possession.
I stick my head back in the door. “Breakfast in about thirty?”
She wrinkles her nose but nods. “Yeah. I’ll have wet hair but it’s not like I want to be here alone.”
She dons one of my t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants and brushes by me on the way to the bathroom. There’s only two in this house. A small one downstairs that just has a sink and a toilet and a larger one with a tub and a shower up here. In the basement there’s a drain and a shower head used by Junior, the president of the Misery MC. Chelsea took one look at the dark, dank basement with its exposed brick walls and dirt floor and noped out of there faster than I could say her name.
It does look like a place where a serial killer dismembers his prey. Junior doesn’t have a killer vibe to him, not like Easy or Michigan, the Death Lords enforcers, but there is something off about him. It’s always the quiet ones who surprise you the most. They’re the ones in the aftermath of some bloody, inconceivable horror that neighbors refer to as nice and quiet and all of this is a complete shock.
I’m not turning my back on Junior any time soon.
Downstairs I find Abel flicking through messages on his phone while two hungover Misery guys are shoveling cereal into their mouths. Only Abel acknowledges me with a tip of his chin. The other two pretend I’m not there.
Junior ambles out of the kitchen, polishing an apple on his sleeve.
“Guess I don’t have to ask whether you had a good morning,” he jokes. One of the guys laughs but given that I’m the only one who’s been laid steadily since I arrived, I chalk it up to juvenile envy and ignore them.
“What’s the plan for the day?” I ask.
Junior bites off part of the apple and chews it before giving me an answer. He never responds right away and I haven’t figured out whether making me wait are power plays to try to display his dominance or whether he’s a thoughtful guy, picking and choosing his words carefully. Doesn’t really matter because not only am I patient—I learned in prison that the sun always rises after the long dark night—but also because the name on the back of my cut is Death Lords and the only club I’m accountable to is that one.
I take a seat next to Abel and wait. If Chelsea wasn’t upstairs getting ready, I might have tagged Abel and we would have taken off while Junior chokes on his fucking fruit.
“There’s a shipment of goods coming down 94 and working its way down to Chicago,” he says finally. “Another club asked if we’d handle the transport through the cities and down into Wisconsin. The SS out of Madison will pick it up around Eau Claire.”
The SS are a bunch of skinheads rumored to be loos
ely affiliated with the Eighty-Eight Henchmen, a West Coast supremacist club. I don’t know any of the SS personally but Judge, my dad and the president of the Death Lords MC, might. “What size is the transport?”
“Two moving trucks.”
“And how many bikers?”
“Six.”
Abel coughs next to me. I hear the word he’s not saying though. This sounds like a big clusterfuck.
“You’re taking two moving trucks escorted by a parade of bikers down Interstate 94? That’s not going to raise any red flags,” I say sarcastically.
The other guys at the table—Riot and Coffin—stop eating. No one argues with Junior, apparently. I can’t stop comparing Death Lords to this club. My dad’s secure enough as president that he doesn’t mind people arguing with him, particularly members of the club. Granted, he’d never come up with this shit kind of solution. If you are moving hot goods from one end of the country to the other using motorcycle clubs like a relay race, you are bound to raise the suspicions and hackles of police. It’s not like these fuckers don’t communicate with each other.
Junior stiffens. “Not my plan. I’m just along for the ride. Not all of us have custom chop shops we can rely on to pay our bills. Some of us got to take jobs where we can find them.”
He’s not wrong. Calling this place a dump is insulting dumps everywhere. There’s yellowing on the ceiling and walls were water damage has seeped through the drywall and curdled the paint. The floors are hardwood but so worn through that in many places the plywood floor base is showing through.
“How many of your members rely on club money?” It varies from club to club. Some of the established clubs whose sole purpose is running illegals from drugs to guns pay for every member in the club—their rides, their housing, extra spending cash. If you leave, everything is left with the club.
Most everyone who belongs to the Death Lords has an outside job. The Death Lords money is enough to provide for the basics—basic food, basic housing but most everyone has a regular job. Dad implemented that rule way back when saying that it helped make the club look less like a gang and more like a recreational, weekend hobby even if it wasn’t.
Men who went to bed with their bellies full and their bank accounts healthy were less likely to narc out the club for the less than above board activities.