Making the Break (Beating the Biker 2)

“I’ve got time.”

“As I said, way back in 1947 in Hollister, California, the American Motorcycle Association held The Gypsy Tour Race. Thousands attended the race, and in the space of three days partied like it was 1999.”

“Wait. I didn’t think we were time traveling here.”

“Bear with me. The media picked up on the story, making it seem that the bikers were tearing up poor little Hollister because of bikers’ wild and wanton ways.”

“Oh yes,” said Chrissy, licking her lips. Was that involuntary or on purpose? Either way it made her rose-colored lips glisten with invitation. An image sprang to Saks’ mind of biting that lip and hearing her squeal. He cursed. This history lesson was doing nothing to curb his insane drive to take the woman on the couch. “I know something about those.”

Oh damn, oh damn, damn, he thought. “The stories, were, of course, not true,” Saks rasped.

“Yes,” said Chrissy, “because bikers are such fine upstanding citizens.”

“Should your sarcasm insult me?” asked Saks, arching his eyebrow.

“Oh, no. I like it when you’re upstanding.”

Oh fuck, oh fuck, ahhh fuck. Was she trying to seduce him? Must. Resist. “Sly innuendo notwithstanding,” he said, struggling to regain his composure.

“Something like that,” said Chrissy, looking up at him from under her thick eyelashes.

Damn. If she didn’t stop being so sexy, he might have to take her over his knee and spank the bad right out of her. In fact, that sounded like a good idea. Saks loved the thought of Chrissy’s hot body warming his lap while the palm of his hand roughed her sweet, round ass. Not too hard, mind you. Just enough to turn her on. His cock twitched in agreement.

“In any case,” continued Saks as he warred with his libido, “one infamous line in a story read: ‘The trouble was caused by the one percent deviant that tarnishes the public image of both motorcycles and motorcyclists.’ The conclusion was ninety-nine percent of bikers are law-abiding citizens, and the ‘one percent’ are nothing more than ‘outlaws.’”

“You,” said Chrissy, “take your motorcycle club history seriously.” She turned and landed on the couch, sitting too close to him. Her sexy thighs were inches from his, close enough for him to lean over and kiss her without effort. But his battered body reminded him that things had not worked out well this weekend, and staying away from her was the best thing for his health. Unfortunately, his twitching cock disagreed. Her perfume reminded Saks of her silken heat when he was inside her.

She twisted her body so that her elbow sat on the top lip of the couch, thrusting her luscious breasts toward his face. She did it so casually, as if she was unaware of the effect this pose had on Saks—or, rather, his cock. The damned thing stiffened as if trying to meet her luscious globes.

“Are there are one-percenters in this area?” she asked.

“Yeah. Though the ones we keep running into are the Rojos.”

“Sounds Hispanic.”

“They are.”

“Bad men?”

“Yes.”

It hit Saks that his answers had now devolved into one- or two-word answers, as his cock demanded more attention than the conversation.

“Damn,” said Saks as he twisted his head to look out the window. He desperately hoped the shift in his seat would hide his rock-hard cock. “Why isn’t that truck here yet?”

Disappointment flashed in Chrissy’s blue eyes and Saks regretted his words. But he needed to get away.

She let her arm drop onto the couch. Saks was very aware that her lower lip stuck out in a half-pout, which spun him to the periphery of his control. “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. The sincere way she delivered those words made Saks feel like he did something horrible to force them from her.

How do women do that? he thought. How do they apologize and make you think you’re the biggest dick in the world at the same time? “For what?” he said.

“For saying I’d never marry a Rocco man. I was shocked when I found out who you were and, well, I didn’t act in my right mind. You have to admit that finding out the man you’re sleeping with is the man your parents want you to marry is weird. And upsetting.”

“You went to bed with me and didn’t regret it until you found that out. Chrissy, that hurt.” What the fuck? When did he get girly and admit his feelings?

“I’m sorry,” she said plaintively, as if she felt his emotional bruise. “How can I make it up to you?”

Saks’ mouth suddenly became as dry as the Sahara. “How do you want to make it up?”