Betting It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 11) (6 page)

Stone’s eyes narrow, like he’s considering that. After a second he shakes his head. “I don’t buy it. He always has your back.”

“Oh, like yesterday? Gunner knew enough to stay out of it. I wasn’t getting into that ring until Jack mentioned my injury. He gave me no choice but to prove I could throw down while I’m hurt.”

He cocks his head and pulls back a little. “Okay. I can see that.”

But Gunner’s grinning. “I only kept quiet because I knew if I spoke up, everyone would start thinking I’ve got it as bad as Blowback.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I mutter and take a long drink to fortify myself. Apparently the clowns aren’t ready to stop juggling their balls yet.

“It’s all depends on the scope you’re looking through, gorgeous. You see Blowback trapping you. Everyone else sees it as him having your back. Hell, even the day you were patched in. Everyone was squabbling until he says the only thing that matters is if you can fight. You remember?”

I’m not fucking likely to forget. “He also said he didn’t think I could.”

Gunner’s grin only widens. “He knew you could. The first board meeting after Widowmaker sponsored you, Blowback asked him how long you’d been fighting. That was after he watched you for about a day. So Widowmaker told us he oversaw your training himself. At the patch meeting, I figure Blowback decided the only way to shut the assholes up was for you to show them.”

So much bullshit. Of course Stone wades back into it. “And I figure what happened then is the same thing that always happens now: He just can’t deal whenever someone starts throwing crap at you for more than a few seconds. He tries to hold it in, but then he snaps, and jumps in to defend you without thinking it through.”

“Oh, that’s real funny.” Jack doesn’t do
anything
without thinking it through. “You guys are so full of shit.”

“Nah.” Stone chuckles, looking pleased with himself. “But you can believe that if you like.”

“What I believe is that you’re a pair of pussies.” I set my beer aside and stand.

Still grinning, Gunner comes up off the edge of the table. “Look at you, using pussy as a demeaning term even though it pisses you off whenever you’re dismissed for possessing one.”

“You mean she’s insulting us?” Stone pouts like his feelings are hurt. “I just figure she’s always talking down to our meathead level.”

“And perpetuating its derogatory usage.”

“Aw,” I say and give Gunner’s chiseled jaw a condescending little pat. “It’s real cute when all that book learning comes out. But big tough bikers don’t like a Mr. Smartypants. So you just sit quiet and look pretty for Mama Lily, all right?”

Laughing, Gunner nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And take it as a compliment, dickhole. That’s what I do. When someone says you’re a pussy, you say ‘thank you.’”

“Thank you, Zoomie,” they chorus.

Damn straight.

Outside, the sun’s dropping behind the mountains and casting long shadows. I expect the ride to clear me out but I don’t even get onto the main road before Jack crowds into my head again. Jack and every bullshit thing Stone and Gunner said.

He always has your back.
Yeah, sure. That’s why I’ve had a knife in my gut for five years. That’s why I’ve carried around an ache that won’t go away.

That’s why my chest is tight now, like a giant fist is squeezing my ribs. Because some stupid part of me wishes it was true.

But I know it’s not. Gunner said it all depends on the scope you’re looking through—and both he and Stone are decent guys, so they’re looking through a decent-guy lens. Jack isn’t a decent guy. A decent guy wouldn’t force someone to follow through on a bet like this. Instead he could have asked, “Hey, Lily, want to fuck?” and I’d have said yes.

God damn it all. Despite everything, I’d have said yes in a heartbeat—and Jack is the only Hellfire Rider who’d have ever gotten that answer from me.

He’d just needed to ask.

And this bet? Sure as hell isn’t about having my back. Jack’s got some other purpose.

But no matter what that purpose is, I’m going to burn his intentions to the ground.

I’ve got two hours, so I ride. The highway first, but Jack’s still in my head and I can’t get him out. I turn off toward the Newberry caldera and speed toward the peak, but it’s not long before I have to slow. Pavement gives way to rough gravel. The sun’s setting, and rounding the hairpin turns in the growing darkness demands my full attention. No more Jack.

Not until I’m heading back.

As I roll into Pine Valley, my chest is tight and my gut knotted, but the tension isn’t an ache now. I don’t know what it is. My emotions won’t settle. The stupidest crap runs through my head—like wishing that I hadn’t taken the ride, that I’d gone home and picked up the laundry scattered around every room. Like regretting that I hadn’t made my bed or taken care of the dirty dishes piled in the sink. I’m not a slob, but I’m messy, and Jack’s a hardass about keeping the clubhouse’s garage uncluttered. His auto shop is an OCD dream. Everything’s in order and has a specific place. I haven’t been to his apartment but I’ve heard it’s exactly the same. My house will probably flip his clean freak switch.

But that’s what I want. That’s what I want, damn it. He thinks he’s got everything under control. I just want to tear that control apart, to rattle him. If anything, I should have ridden home early so I could throw more shit on the floor.

It’s full dark as I turn onto my street. Automatically my gaze runs down the block to my driveway, where my headlight beam catches the gleam of polished chrome.

A heavy thump beats through my chest. My fingers tighten on the handlebar grips.

He’s here. Straddling his bike with his boots planted on the concrete, all in shadow except for the faint glow from the streetlight and the sweep of my high beam. I’m not late. It’s only just nine. He must have been waiting a while, though—at least a quarter hour. The security lights above the garage door would have turned on when he rolled into the driveway, and since he’s waiting in the dark, that means the fifteen-minute timer has already shut off again. But he’s sitting easy, like the waiting is nothing. Like he’d wait a lot longer for me to come.

For a second my throat is an aching lump. God, I wish he hadn’t done it this way. I wish he hadn’t used a bet. Because just seeing him, knowing what’s going to happen, my body feels like it’s being dragged toward his, taut with awareness. The leather of my kutte lies heavy against my breasts, the soft cotton of my shirt rough against my hardening nipples. Suddenly this entire ride with the bike rumbling between my legs just seems like a precursor to having Jack between them.

If he’d just
asked
, we could have set my bed on fire. Instead it’s going to be a fight—one that I’m going to win.

And it’s time to go all in.

I hit the remote for my garage door and the security lights pop on. From the outside, my split-level looks like a smaller version of the Brady Bunch’s house but it’s been completely updated inside. Despite having put a ton of work into the interior, the previous owners wanted to unload the property as fast as possible after the bottom fell out of the market, so I got lucky and snapped it up a few months after I returned from Afghanistan.

As I pull in, Jack rises from his bike and slings a pair of saddlebags over his shoulder. Not a change of clothes. Though he’s won a full night with me and his auto shop opens early, his apartment is right above his garage. He doesn’t need to bring anything for tomorrow.

Judging by the bulge in one of the leather packs, though, he’s definitely brought something. Maybe a whole damn gallon of lube.

I pause in the driveway, my engine idling, partially blinded by the brightness of the security lights. “Want to push her into the garage?”

If Croc’s gunning for him, leaving his bike outside overnight would be like painting a target on my place. Jack’s already painted that target on his own chest. I don’t like it but he’s probably got some kind of plan working. Best not to have it turned sideways by this bet.

“I’ll roll her in.” His deep reply is barely audible over the noise of my engine. “You’ll keep sharp after?”

Watching out for the Hangmen. “Always.”

“You call me if you get a buzz on the back of your neck. I’ll take care of it.”

If I get a feeling someone’s hanging around the area or is a little too interested in my place. I can’t stop Stone and Gunner’s words from popping back into my head, but Jack’s offer to take care of any trouble isn’t for me. It’s just what he does for the club. He’d tell any patchholder to call him. My chest tightens up anyway, so I simply nod and ease my ride forward, slipping into my spot in the garage. Even with my dad’s old truck taking up the second bay, there’s plenty of room for Jack’s bike.

God, and she’s a sweet ride. He’s got two Harleys he switches between. One is a blacked-out Iron 883, which serves as his workhorse. But this is his baby, a 1959 Sportster. She doesn’t have the most powerful engine and she’s not tricked out; she’s just solid and runs like a wet dream. That’s where the real beauty lies—in the care Jack has taken restoring and maintaining her.

And thinking of his big hands working her over? I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a huge turn-on. It always has been.

Which is why I shouldn’t be checking out his ride right now. My breath feels short as I tear my gaze away, up to his face, and my lungs stop working altogether.

Between the dark night and the blinding lights, I didn’t get a good look at him outside. He’s as tense as I am, his gaze locked on my face. I can’t read anything in the flatness of his dark eyes but something’s changed. He’s a weapon, but usually I only see the broad side of the blade, the dull gleam of the gun.

Now he’s the razored edge. Now he’s the bullet.

But it’s not fear that trips my heart into double-time, sending my pulse thundering. It’s anticipation. He’ll be fucking me soon. And, God—I want him to. I want to feel his cock thrusting deep inside me. I want to be tied and taken hard.

This isn’t how I’m going to beat him, though.

Dragging in a steadying breath, I drop my helmet on the workbench and head for the door connecting the garage to the house. I know Jack’s behind me, though I can’t hear his steps. The door opens to my basement and a short flight of stairs takes me up to the main foyer. I shrug out of my kutte, taking care to hang the leather on the coat rack beside the front door. My vest is the only thing I remember to put away every single time. I never just throw it somewhere—unlike my running shorts, which have been decorating the back of my red sofa since yesterday morning.

Jack hands me his kutte. The leather’s warm from the heat of his body. I don’t let myself breathe in the scent as I hang it beside mine.

I glance at the shoulder holster he’s wearing. “Your weapon, too?”

“I’ll keep it in the bedroom with us.” His gaze slips down and he watches me toe off my boots. The road grit collected at the hem of my jeans spills onto the tile. “You went for a ride?”

“I did.” And I’m covered in a thin layer of dust. “You want me to shower before you fuck me? Or do you want to join me in the shower and we can get started there?”

I should have been ready. But he’s so quick. Before I’ve even realized he’s moved, Jack’s already caught me up against his hard body and is pushing his long fingers into my hair.

“We’ll start here,” he says gruffly and his mouth captures mine.

Kissing. I hadn’t imagined this. I’ve only imagined fucking so I’m not prepared for the thrust of his tongue or the surge of heat through my veins. God. I taste the dust on my lips and the mint of his mouth, as if after the board meeting he went home and got ready for me. He smells like soap and the hair at his nape is slightly damp, his jaw shaved smooth.

His big hands grip my ass. Easily he lifts me, wedging his thick erection between my legs. My inner muscles clench on a sharp pulse of need. A hungry moan builds in my throat and my fingers tighten in his—

Oh fuck oh fuck.
My hands are in his hair and I’m kissing him back as if I’m starving for this.

Desperately I tear my mouth from his. “Wait!”

Jack immediately stills, his dark eyes searching mine. He’s not handsome. He’s not. So why the hell can’t I ever look away? Especially now, when arousal paints ruddy flags on his angular cheekbones. When his firm lips are wet from our kiss.

I just want to make them wetter. Instead I repeat, “Wait,” while forcing myself not to grind against his rigid length. “There are rules.”

“What rules?”

“The terms of the bet were that you get to tie me up and have your way with me. So the first rule is that unless I’m tied up, you don’t touch me.”

Though I’m not bound, though he’s touching me now, he doesn’t let me down. “All right.”

“Rule Two: We never talk about this night again.
Ever.
Not to each other, not to any other Riders. As far as I’m concerned, as soon as you head out the door in the morning, none of this ever happened. I’m going to forget all about it.”

I expect him to shoot back the same arrogant crap he gave me before when he told me that I’d come repeatedly or that he’d make me a fan of anal fucking. Something like
You’ll never forget
followed by his gorgeous grin.

Instead his face is like stone and his voice like gravel. “I never expected you’d want anything different.”

The way his answer twists me up inside pisses me off. “I also reserve the right to bite anything that comes near my mouth,” I tell him. “So if you think you’re going to make me choke on your dick, think again. No more kissing, either.”

His dark gaze drops to my lips as if he’s about to test that rule. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. If I’m ever drunk and make a stupid bet like this again, you let it go.”

He meets my eyes again. “I can’t do that. I’ll take whatever I get.”

“That’s pretty fucked up.”

“Yes,” he replies evenly, as if I’d said one plus one equals two. “Any more rules?”

Only the most important one. “You wear a rubber every single time. You brought a couple?”

“More than a couple.” He sets me down and backs off a step. “Take off your shirt.”

Just like that, huh? Well, what the hell. I’m all in, anyway.

I strip my T-shirt off and toss it down the stairs, where it’ll land somewhere in the vicinity of the washing machine. Wearing only my jeans, I stand before him. My breasts are on the small side, two pert little handfuls, but my nipples are big and tight. They’re sexy as hell when I’m as aroused as I am now, stiff and rosy and just begging for someone to suck on them.

Begging for Jack to suck on them, but he’s not even looking at me.

From one of his saddlebags, he pulls a long strip of condoms and a small bottle of lube and tucks them into his back pocket. A roll of dark cloth follows, then he slips a coil of cotton rope over his arm. Next come a pair of leather cuffs.

Holy shit. I’m not sure whether I want to know what else he has in there.

He closes the pack and slides it over his shoulder again. “Give me your hands,” he says roughly, and my pulse races as he wraps a wide leather cuff around each of my wrists. The rip of Velcro is loud in the quiet foyer when he unfastens my left cuff. “You can open them with your teeth if you want to.”

I nod and he smooths the leather cuff closed again. A small metal loop attaches to each. Jack winds the soft cotton rope through both loops and pulls my wrists together before finishing it off with a mooring hitch knot—I can easily pull that free with my teeth, too.

He tugs on the long trailing end of the rope. “Now you’re tied.”

So I am. If he thinks he’s going to lead me around on a leash, though, we’re going to have a new fucking rule. “Yes, but—”

But nothing. The rope drops from his grip and his big hands catch my waist. He drags me forward. His hot mouth latches onto my breast, and when he sucks hard on my sensitive nipple I can’t stop the sound that erupts from me, a combination of a grunt and a whimper and sheer pleasure. I clench my jaw too late—and oh, my God, his face, cheeks hollowed and eyes closed, as if he’s savoring this first taste, savoring my involuntary response.

Then his teeth scrape my nipple on a sharp tug and my legs almost give out, but it’s Jack who’s sinking to his knees, his mouth moving down my stomach, over to the curve of my waist. A shiver races through me when he licks my hipbone, then nips the taut stretch of skin above the waist of my jeans.

His long fingers pull at my belt and unbutton my jeans. My body stills, everything inside me suddenly focusing on his hands as he drags the denim down my legs. His tongue slides over my hip again before he begins making his way down, his strong fingers digging into my ass to hold me in place. I’m not even naked. I’m wearing my panties, a pair of black cotton boyshorts, but I tremble as his lips near the junction of my thighs.

His mouth reaches my pussy and he inhales. “You smell so good.” His voice is a hungry growl. “And you’re soaked.”

My heart thundering, I swallow hard and make my mouth form a few words. “I was riding. The vibration always gets to me.”

Bullshit. I need more stimulation than that.

I need more, like his warm breath whispering over my skin. Like the gentle nudge on my clit when he flicks his tongue against the drenched cotton. Like his groan when he tastes me. His fingers tighten on my ass as if he’s going to haul me closer and eat my pussy right here.

Instead he slides his arm down behind my knees and picks me up. Holy shit. Caught off balance, my lower legs still trapped by my jeans, I loop my bound arms around his neck—and he’s carrying me against his chest.
Carrying me.
As if I’m six feet of nothing, through the living room and into the kitchen, where he drops his saddlebags onto the small breakfast table. They land with a heavy thunk amid piles of mail and magazines.

Still reeling—
holy fuck he’s carrying me
—I ask, “What the hell do you have in there?”

“Dinner, since neither of us ate at the meeting. Or fuel for later, if you ate when you went riding.”

“I didn’t.”

“Good.” He continues on through the dining room, where I finally manage to kick my jeans down over my ankles. They land somewhere on the short flight of stairs leading to the bedrooms in the upper level. “There’s also more lube.”