Page 22 of Diary of a Biker Queen

“No,” he said again. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to come.”

I let out a noise I was sure I hadn’t ever made before. One filled with need and frustration. I so desperately wanted to press my fingers inside myself and relieve some of the pressure.

But I was powerless to ignore him. My brain shouted sassy, smart-assed remarks at him, and yet some other part of me moaned at him bossing me around.

“Watch me, princess.”

He stroked himself harder, faster, pumping his hand over his cock. He leaned his other on the shower wall and groaned. His balls tightened, his muscles tensed, and white spilled over his hand as his moans echoed around the room, bouncing off the tiles, and hitting me straight at my core where it hurt the most.

Which is exactly what he wanted. He watched me pant helplessly, my thighs trembling with a need to release the ache inside me.

But he didn’t let me come.

He washed his hands and turned off the water. He grabbed a towel, fit it snugly around his waist, and then stopped in front of me. “You’re going to watch me do that every morning, princess. You’re going to watch me fuck the club bunnies here at night. You’re going to do whatever the fuck I want you to do, like a good girl.”

I hated this. Hated he was being such a prick when I knew deep down he wasn’t. That this was the armor he used when he’d been hurt.

I hated that I’d been the one to hurt him.

And yet, every word from his lips only made me want him more. In that moment, I would have agreed to anything he wanted if it meant he’d touch me. “Yes,” I whispered.

He smiled smugly and then leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Good girl.”

He walked out of the bathroom before I could crumple against the wall, wondering what the hell had just happened, and what sort of deal I’d just made with the devil.

8

LYNX

Dear Diary,

I think I accidentally made a sex tape.

Reaper was at my bedroom door so early the next morning it should have been illegal. He stared down at me, hands on his hips, with an annoyed look on his prison-tattooed face.

I blinked at him. “What?”

“Get up.”

“No thanks. Sleeping is good.”

“Sleeping is for people who didn’t brutally murder a man, carve their calling card into his back, and made me sleep on the fucking couch just in case he tried to do it again.”

I grimaced at him. “Well, it worked, didn’t it? I didn’t try to kill anyone.”

“You dreamed about it though, didn’t you?”

I fell silent, hating he knew me this well. Hated he was so in my head. And yet I knew I needed someone to be because it was fucking dark in there by myself.

Reaper dug through my closet until he found my sneakers. “Come on. We’re going for a run.”

I didn’t argue with him. My entire body was strung too tightly. I knew the feeling well. It happened every time I’d lapsed like this. After the man I’d killed at the prison, I’d run laps of the yard, pushing myself until my body literally hit failure point and Reaper had to drag me back to our cell because my legs literally couldn’t hold my weight.

It didn’t stop the urges altogether, but it held them back long enough to function.

I made myself get out of bed and shoved my feet into my shoes. Within minutes, Reaper and I were off on a jog through the wooded paths within the compound that stretched across hundreds of acres.

He set a cracking pace, one that had me winded pretty quickly because I hadn’t done much of this since we’d gotten out.