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I always do.
You can’t miss it when blood is your favorite pastime.
“One day you’re going to let me fuck that pretty pussy of yours, Leather,” he quips, tucking his knife away.
“How do you know my pussy is pretty?” I tease, crossing my arms over my chest. He points a finger at the dead guy.
“That’s how I know. If you can kill a guy with finesse, you’ve got a pretty kitty.” Laughing, I dry my gloves off on his shirt. His face pinches slightly before his eyes twinkle with lust again.
“I don’t really see how that correlates, but whatever you say, Onyx.” Gliding past him, I know he always gets his panties in a twist when someone calls the guys by their names when on the clock.
He scoffs, raising his voice an octave. “Okay, Blaine.” I swear to God, I feel my fucking eye twitch with the name. Taking a deep breath, I count to ten. Instead of pushing him more, I respect his position in the club. Another executioner. He earned his biker name because he prefers to use his bare fists.
“You going to the clubhouse tonight, Knuckles?” I ask, shoving my key into the starter of my bike.
“Is that where you’re going?” Flicking it over, I let my baby purr to life between my thighs. She rumbles and coos while I straddle her. I have had her since my teens, but I will be damned if I give her up. She’s an oldie but a goodie. Matte black with a dark blue leather seat, she’s got blue underlights that bump to the beat of any music I play.
“I mean, I need my pussy taken care of,” I joke, putting rubber to pavement. His laugh drifts behind me as I fly down backroads.
One thing about me? No matter how much I read and see on the news about brains being carved into the roads, I refuse to ride with a helmet. The feeling of wind slapping your face, letting the breeze flow through my hair, it gives the feeling of being free. Growing up in the MC life wasn’t as bad as kids might perceive it. Us lifers, who grew up in this world and decided to stay, were given our respective positions based on our talents.
Mine was seduction. They never anticipated little ol’ me to be in a biker gang. Well, that was until I got slashed from temple to lip by a rusty, jagged blade. Now I have this wicked scar that nobody finds appealing, so I take an executioner style approach. Makeup can only hide so much. Unfortunately for me, it doesn’t hide a shitty personality.
Chapter Two
Leather
"Fuck, yes! Harder, daddy,” a jacket picker squeals loudly. Sipping my daiquiri, I do my best to tune out the whores getting fucked into oblivion around me. Am I jealous? A little, but I have put myself into a self-imposed dry spell.
Littered around the clubhouse are guys with jacket pickers. Some guys are pounding them into the wall so hard there may be an indent later. Others are bent over tables getting plowed from behind. It’s an erotic sight, but it’s not really my scene anymore.
Getting railed into by a dude with an anaconda in his jeans is a life mission for some women, but I have had that shit. I have been around the block, been there, done that. I rode guys in the booths while my ass hung out. I have had a dick in my ass and a dick in my pussy in the middle of the club, but I don’t want mindless sex anymore. The constant bouncing around, reteaching a man or two how to find a clit, my preferred angles to hit the right spot, everything. It’s tiresome, and I just don’t want to do that anymore.
The only problem? I also don’t want a relationship. Some guys perceive women to be below them. Not women who are affiliated with a biker gang that helps exterminate others, especially those who harm children. I’m not someone who is going to roll over and become a good girl for a man. Men are the weaker species, expecting someone to wait on them hand and foot, waiting for food to be put on the table for them. Not only that, but relationships tend to make people forget their sole purpose. My purpose is with this club and helping innocent people in any way I possibly can.
I have deduced that men are a distraction. Unfortunately for me, I learned the hard way that guys only want two things. Pussy and power. I have been used by others who get promoted up the ranks, and I refuse to do that again. I refuse to be that girl again. Women will take over the motorcycle world one day, and I hope that I’m around to see it.
Speaking of women’s genitalia, the moans around me seem to get louder and louder. If I were in a lighter mood, I would have thought the sounds were erotic. But right now? They are only making me feel worse.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy good, wholesome, live porn. In fact, I may dabble a little in it myself, but I’m just feeling particularly…prickly?
No, that’s not the feeling. Maybe it’s the fact that they are getting laid and I’m not. Do I want to get laid? Absolutely. Do men suck? One hundred fucking percent. Which rounds me back to why I can’t have a permanent male in my life, and also takes me to the point that I don’t want to have meaningless sex. Contradictory, I know. I don’t want a male in my life, but I also don’t want to have one-night-stands. It makes perfect sense to me. I live for helping those who can’t help themselves, and I will sacrifice myself to do so.
Slugging back the rest of my drink, I stave off a brain freeze by dropping a twenty dollar bill and stalking up to my room. Irritation bubbles through me as I slam the door shut and flop back onto my bed. The only way I will be able to ward off the noises of the women downstairs is to put headphones in, but I will be honest. They are making me a little horny. I’m a human, good sex is contagious, I swear.
I’m no better than a man. Oops?
Unlacing my studded heel boots, I shimmy out of my leather pants and lay them off to the side. There’s still blood on the front, dry and crusty. Flakes fall onto the floor, dark and contrasting with the ugly pale colored carpet. Shaking myself from the momentary trance, I reach to pull my panties out of the way, but that’s a solid perk I forgot about. Leather pants means no panties required. Smirking to myself, I roll my jacket off my body and toss it over the chair in the corner with my shirt and bra following closely behind.
I reach into my night stand, grabbing my pretty blue rechargeable wand. She’s got several settings, but I prefer the last one. The one that has solid vibration at a high power. Flicking the bottom on, the familiar buzz courses to life. Dropping onto my bed, my thighs fall open on their own accord. My core pulses with need, waiting ever-so impatiently for friction.
“Shit,” I hiss as the cold tip presses against my clit. My hips jerk in reaction, already building to my favorite feeling. Distant moans from the main clubhouse spur me on, the wand dancing over my sensitive bundle as the knot gets tighter and tighter. “O-oh god,” I stutter, teetering closer to the edge as I rim my cunt.
Pushing a single finger in, my eyes flutter closed, immediately imagining two huge guys. I recognize their faces as the two guys that I owe my life to. Prez's handsome features pop into my brain, weaving through my mental barricade. With his black hair and deep eyes, that man could lure a woman to her death like a siren. No wonder he’s now the president. The man is a fucking monster.
Walking behind Prez, is Knuckles. His bloody fist lands on his president’s shoulder with a cocky smirk covering only half his face. He’s been vying for a taste of me since we were teens, yet I haven’t been able to do it. I never wanted to sway into a world where he didn’t exist, so there was a wall built to keep us both safe. His deep hazel eyes scour my naked lower half as I swear I put on a show for them. My hips wiggle in front of their hungry eyes, their cocks sitting in their hands as they stroke them. My moans call out to the two men in my imagination, waiting for them to just touch me.
Please me.
