Captive Ride (Death Lords MC 8)

“You don’t come until I tell you to,” I order.

“No. I can’t wait,” she pants.

“You will or I’ll pull out,” I warn.

She narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

I pull back, just a fraction. Because she can’t grab me with her hands, she does one better. She squeezes her cunt muscles so tight, I swear my eyes cross.

I let out a helpless laugh. “Fuck, Amy. You don’t fight fair.”

Being with her is going to be a constant battle, but I knew that and I love it.

There’s no chance of me drawing this out, not when she’s working her pussy against me like she’s competing to win the Kegel Olympics. Next time, I’m going to fuck her for hours.

For now, I’m going to hammer this cunt until she’s screaming so loud her throat aches.

“Look at your pretty cunt sucking up my cock,” I tell her, drawing her eyes down. I pull out slowly so she can appreciate how fucking hot it is. My cock is engorged and wet with her lube. She looks like she’s devouring me.

“It’s…you’re so big,” she says in amazement. “I don’t know how you fit inside me.”

Her unintentionally filthy words make my head spin, and I’m two seconds from blowing my load.

“Viewing time is over, Amy.”

I withdraw and flip her around again and take her hard against the sink. She grunts with each thrust of my hips against her, but it only takes three strokes and she’s off, flying. Her head falls forward and her body loses its ability to hold itself upright. I clamp an arm around her waist and thrust that last stroke in before jumping over that cliff with her.

She slumps against me, all the fight out of her. Two hard orgasms will do that to a person. I carefully untie her wrists, wipe a warm washcloth over her tits, torso, and cunt, and carry her sleepy head to the bed.

In the bathroom, I say, “Fuck it,” and sweep every last bottle, jar, and tube into the carryall. She can sort it out later.

Chapter 5

Amy

I wake up to a hand over my mouth.

“Shh.” Flint’s whisper is nearly voiceless. “You’ve got visitors. I’m going to get up, and when I leave the room, you roll out of bed. Don’t stand. Roll. Got it? Nod your head if you get me.”

I nod. People in my house?

“Good girl.” He presses his lips against my cheek. “Go to the bathroom. Get a can of hairspray, and wait.”

He rises soundlessly from the bed and pads to the door. He pauses, and it’s at that point I see the wicked gun in his right hand. I strain to hear the intruders, but the only sound is the whirring of my old furnace, chugging along on its last breath.

He slips out, down the hall, and I beat back the urge to run after him. I do as I’m told because if there’s anyone capable of fighting off an intruder, it’s Flint. And it’s not the big bruising body I’m putting my faith in, but the cold killer that lurks inside.

I know what the Death Lords is—a club that skirts around the edges of the law. The President called on me to bail out his son who’d killed a skinhead in a skirmish outside a bar. They’d given me enough information to help deal the son’s case down to an involuntary manslaughter charge, and he served only three years.

Only. At the age of nineteen, he was already a felon. But having a record was true for many of the Death Lords—most of the charges were related to violent assaults. None against women. I would have walked away and said damn the consequences if I’d found out that they were mistreating women. That’s my hard line. You can rip off the taxman, you can kill a racist, but do not hurt a woman.

My priorities are messed up. Sometimes I wonder what I might have become if I’d worn the white hat in the courtroom and not the black one. But my path was set the moment my uncle died in prison, serving a life sentence for a crime he didn’t commit. Too poor to have decent representation, he took the fall for some rich guy with enough money to hire a raft of lawyers when my Uncle Dale couldn’t afford even one. He had to make do with a wet-behind-the-ears public defender whose law degree was so fresh you could still smell the ink on it when you walked into his shabby cubicle of an office.

I huddle in the bathroom, bottle of hairspray in hand. The stupid thing isn’t one of those big aerosol cans everyone used to use before aerosol was deemed to be dangerous for our ozone layer. My hairspray is a pump-action thing with a fine mist that probably can’t shoot a spray farther than a few inches.

But I can imagine what Flint would say if he came in here and I didn’t have something in my hand. “Amy, goddammit I told you to grab a bottle of hairspray. You think this is a game? Maybe you need a spanking to remind you who’s in charge.”

Just thinking about his commanding voice sends a shiver of need down my back. A scuffling noise from downstairs reminds me that my thoughts are completely inappropriate, but then I’m sore, sticky, and draped in a blanket while there’s at least one armed man running around my house.

I don’t know what the protocol is for this particular situation.

“Who the fuck are you?” Flint’s voice rises through the grate in the bathroom floor.

There’s a muffled response and then the sound of flesh hitting flesh. I wince, hoping Flint isn’t on the receiving end of that punch.

“Nice patch there. You think that’s going to protect you? Think again because I don’t give a fuck who your president is. If you’re acting on his orders, then you just went to war with the Death Lords.”

“You Death Lords are pussies,” the intruder spits back.

“And you’re dumb as shit because I’m the one with the gun at your temple, and you’re the one kneeling at my feet with your hands taped behind your back. Your little friend is out cold. I think he fell on his own knife.”

There’s another sound, a violent one, followed by a grunt of pain.

“I’m only asking one more time,” Flint says. “Who are you?”

“Go…to…hell,” the other man chokes out.

“Amy, I can hear you breathing through the vent,” Flint calls up to me. “Go on and put those clothes on I left at the end of the bed. When you’re done dressing, come down with the bag. It’s by the door.”

I do as he says because I want to live. On the floor, near the foot of the bed, is a pile of leather and cotton. The items must have fallen off the bed while we were having sex. I pull on the leather pants, marveling at how comfortable they are and how well they fit. I’ve never even thought about leather in pants before. That seemed to be a material better suited to purses, shoes, and jackets. It’s as I’m pulling the t-shirt over my head that I hear it—a sharp, muffled, but unmistakable boom.

Moments later I hear footsteps on the stairs. “Just me, Amy,” Flint announces as he climbs the stairs. I hurriedly dress, throwing on the jacket I find on the floor without even looking at it.

Flint stops in the doorway. “You’re a picture, sweetheart. A real picture.” He stalks forward and circles me, taking in the tight fit of the pants, the nipped-in waist of the leather jacket, and the way that the cotton t-shirt hugs my nearly non-existent curves.

“Beautiful,” he says. His hand cups my jaw, and the smell of gunpowder is unmistakable.

“Is there a mess downstairs?” I ask, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice. Now’s not the time for me to break down.

“Yeah, but someone will be here to clean it up,” Flint replies absently and with zero concern that he’s left at least two dead men in my kitchen. “You have a pair of boots?” He looks ar

ound.

“Downstairs by the back door.”

He strides to the corner of the room where the case holding my things and who knows what else is rests. He flings it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

My bare feet don’t move. I’m not sure what I’m getting into, and I need to know. I need to have a lot more information than the few crumbs he’s dropping.

“Is my house secure?” I ask.

“It is for the next couple of hours but after that, no, which is why you and I are taking a ride to Fortune for the night. I’ll bring you back to the cities tomorrow so you can pack up anything else you need, and then we’re taking a vacation. You been to Wyoming, Amy?” He tilts his head to the side, wearing a curious and bland expression.

That doesn’t fly with me. Yes, Flint can wring the most exquisite orgasms from my body. Yes, I have had mad lust for him for years, ever since I started representing the Death Lords member on that murder charge. Yes, having him boss me around in the bedroom was the most exciting sexual experience I ever had, but I’m a grown woman with a successful legal practice, and I’ve lived on my own for over a decade. I’ve been taking care of myself for even longer.

I’m my own person, and if Flint wants to be part of my life, he’s going to have to accept that.

“No. I haven’t been to Wyoming, but I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on, starting with why you showed up at the restaurant today and ending with why I need a clean-up team at my house.”

Flint scratches under his chin thoughtfully. “Those assholes downstairs didn’t come for me. They came for you.”

“Me?” I can’t stop the shocked squeak that comes out. “I thought they were from a rival MC. Isn’t that why you’ve been watching me all these years?”

Flint frowns. “The MC we’re keeping our eyes on is a skinhead group out west. We’re looking out for you because you did us a solid representing Wrecker, not because we thought you’d be the target of some other club.”