Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 76953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
My cock twitched at the mental image of sliding that material downward and sucking one of her nipples into my mouth. Of hearing her shocked intake of breath followed by the whimper of pleasure, then the sensation of the shiver of need as it racked her system.
That thought was immediately followed by her clothes on the floor, me on my knees, and her panties yanked to the side.
A girl like her, I bet she tasted like fucking sunshine.
Even as that thought formed (and my cock pressed against the fly of my jeans), I saw someone ram into her.
Her arms flew up to try to stop herself from flying forward.
Then her hand grabbed a massive ice sculpture cock. Then broke the damn thing clear off.
A silent laugh shook my chest as I watched the absolute horror on her face as she looked down at the giant dick in her hand.
The smart thing after having a fucking sex fantasy about a princess would be to turn and walk the fuck away without engaging.
Did I do that?
No.
What can I say? My life had been a series of bad decisions.
The problem was, now that I let one fantasy about her through my defenses, it felt impossible to talk to her without my mind going places it never had before.
Like noticing how shiny her hair was and imagining how silky it would feel wrapped around my fist as I fucked her from behind, that plump ass of hers rocking back against me as I thrust.
Like realizing she smelled like coconut. And how I wanted that scent spread across my bedsheets.
Like noticing that when you mentioned cocks, she blushed. Despite being surrounded by them at the divorce party.
I couldn’t help but wonder if that flush spread across her chest. If it would tint her skin if I whispered filthy things in her ear.
Thankfully, the server with the cock cupcakes interrupted before I could notice anything else about the woman who I could not ever, under any goddamn circumstances, put my hands on.
I couldn’t even claim it was the worry about physical punishment that I was fixated on. It was more than that. Deeper. It was the loss of something that had started to mean a lot to me.
I have to admit that when I first prospected to the club, it had kind of just been a logical step for me. With my history, there was no getting a decent straight job. Also, with my past, continuing with a life outside of the law made the most sense.
Guys like me, we didn’t do normal well. Some part of me, for better or worse, craved the uncertainty, the violence, the danger.
Prospecting for an arms-dealing biker club would ensure I experienced those things, but also some stability financially.
After time in prison, then a damn halfway house afterward, both where I lived on pennies, the promise of a steady income was what intrigued me most about the bikers.
Once I was in, though, it quickly became bigger than that.
I hadn’t expected a biker club to feel like a family. Yet that was exactly what they were. A family. And I’d unwittingly become a part of it.
Suddenly, there was shit I’d never had before.
Homemade soup from one of the OG old ladies when I caught the fucking plague one winter. A stocking full of candies I didn’t even remember telling anyone were my favorites. People taking care of me when I got shot.
I hadn’t been prepared for it.
And that shit got past my defenses.
It mattered.
They mattered.
While I didn’t dare to call them family, knowing how much of an outsider I was, I orbited around that family circle.
I didn’t want to lose that.
Not even if I was sure Gracie was the kind of woman who wrapped a man up in arms and legs and cried out in his ear as she came.
“Fuck,” I said, dragging a hand over my short hair and exhaling hard.
“That bad, huh?” a voice asked.
Turning, I saw Matteo Grassi making his way over toward me.
He was about what you’d expect of a mafia guy in this area: tall, fit, well-dressed, traditionally good-looking, and a little mysterious. Though Matteo lacked that hard edge that his brother, the capo dei capi of the crew, had.
“Huh?” I asked, then realized he was talking about the weeds under my feet. “Well, it ain’t good. But if I managed to get rid of the mint one of the princesses planted in the backyard, I can get rid of this shit.”
“Any chance you can get rid of it and get new grass growing before June? That’s our busiest month. Until then, we can have photographers choose other areas. But this spot is popular.”
“Yeah. Shouldn’t take that long. Point me to your groundskeeper, and I can give him a plan.”
After that, my afternoon was spent discussing plans with someone who I assumed wasn’t an actual groundskeeper, but a mafia associate.