Love & Chrome (Motorcycle Club Erotic Romance) (The Verde Demons Book 1) (3 page)

“Boys, this is Aubrey," Tom says.

“The legendary Aubrey?” one says. “Tom never stops talking about you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Diamonds,” Tom says to the burly guy with Treasurer marked on his cut. “Come on, Aubrey,” he says to me.

Past the lobby and spilling out of two connecting conference rooms, the real party is in full swing. A leggy blonde sits on the lap of a lovely brunette. A chubby red head chugs on the cock of a skinny Prospect. Joints pass around, whiskey bottles empty, white lines are snorted by men and women too high to notice when Tom walks in and grabs an eight ball and a few joints from the table.

We walk down the hallway, past the ice machine, where he opens one of the room doors with a card key. Inside looks nothing like a cheap motel room. Instead of dingy double beds, the room is decked out with sleek furniture: black leather couches, a futon bed, and throw rugs that look like they belong in the W Hotel in Manhattan. He throws the party goods on the futon.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says. “I gotta check on some business.”

He closes the door and leaves me with the drugs, and I wonder if he meant for this moment of solitary as leased time for me to contemplate my choices. Without hesitation, I pick up the joint and light it. I take off my shirt, discard my jeans and stretch out on the futon in my bra and panties. The smooth smoke of the joint fills me with calm. There is nothing else to consider. I am home.

The door opens again and Tom steps through. “Very nice,” he says.

“You said to get comfortable,” I say as I prop myself on my elbows. “So I got comfortable.” I take a long drag on the joint. “This shit’s great.”

“Only the best for my Aubrey.” He sits down and opens the eight ball on the coffee table. With master precision, he cuts out four lines, and my mouth waters with anticipation. I hand him the joint and he tokes it as he rolls up a hundred dollar bill and hands it to me. I can taste the cold-blast sensation before it even hits my nose. I hand Tom the bill, but he waves it away, clearly enjoying my rebirth. I shrug, and hit the coke again. Tom cleans the remains up from the table with his wetted finger and slides the gritty residue across my gums, just like he has done a hundred times before. I hold his finger in my mouth and suck it softly. He smiles and kisses me slow and hot. The coke goes right to my libido and I’m ready to fuck, hard and fast and dirty.

“Take your pants off,” I say.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he says and discards his jeans to the floor.

There’s a sudden commotion in the hall. “What do you mean I can’t go in there, Diamonds?” says a woman’s voice.

As Tom scurries to the door, pulling up his pants, it opens with a key card, and a slim blonde steps in.

“Who the fuck are you?” she says to me.

“I’m Aubrey,” I say, “Who the fuck are you?”

Tom chuckles and I eye him, hoping he’ll have my back when this club cunt pulls out a knife and cuts me.

“No fucking way,” she says. “Like the Aubrey? The-one-that-got-away, Aubrey?”

“He never stops talking about you,” she says.

“We’ve known each other since middle school,” I say. “He’s an old friend.”

“Yeah, an old friend that you were about to fuck, who also happens to be my boyfriend.”

Tom looks at me sheepishly. “Aubrey, this is Alfonzo’s daughter, Candy. She looked after me while I was inside.”

The daughter of the man who made him, of course she’s his girlfriend, of course she took care of him, making sure the Verde Demon legacy stayed alive while he did time. “I had no idea,” I say.

“It’s cool. I would have done the same. After all, he’s Tom Sully.”

Candy saunters over to Tom and places her hand on his crotch. He looks at me with lust and confusion, and I get it. Not to be outdone by the blonde bimbo with a fake tan, I kiss his neck, his chest, claiming my rightful territory.

“Just like old times,” I whisper.

He pinches my nipples as he stares at me in the eyes. I’m already wet and hot and ready, and there is no way I could say no if I tried.

“Enjoy it,” he whispers in my ear.

Candy kneels behind me and slides down my panties. She spreads my ass cheeks open and slips her tongue inside. My body tingles and I remember why sex on coke is the best rush on the planet. Her wet slippery tongue rolls into my pussy then back to my ass and I moan and pant, begging her for more. Tom grabs me roughly and spins me around, pushing me down on my hands and knees. He undoes his pants and his rock hard cock springs out. I part my lips and wait for him to slide it into my waiting mouth.

“Fuck,” he groans.

Candy slips three fingers inside me, and I buck, driving Tom’s long shaft into my throat. Deeper and deeper, I inhale his cock as Candy fucks my ass with her tongue, and deeper and deeper Candy plunges her fingers into me as I build to a maddening climax.

Tom, sensing my closeness, fucks my face as drool slips from the corners of my mouth. The coke and pot, and the sheer primal rage of our sex sends me into an orgasm that ravages every inch of my body. I crumble to the floor, exhausted, but Tom and his whore are not done with me yet.

Tom snaps his fingers and Candy lies herself out in front of me, her pink spandex skirt at her waist, and no panties in sight. Tom grabs my hair and pushes my head between Candy’s legs. I taste her pussy, rolling my tongue along the folds until it opens wide for me. Tom rams his cock in me from behind and I hiss and moan into Candy’s tight wet snatch.

“You belong here,” Tom says as he fucks me raw. “You belong to me.”

Candy forces my face further into her muff. It tenses as an orgasm washes over her. She comes and soaks me with her sweet juices as Tom pounds my pussy into submission.

Without warning, he yanks himself out of me. “Turn around,” he hisses.

Candy scrambles to her knees and I follow. She opens her mouth like a baby bird and Tom unloads himself onto our waiting faces.

“You see, Aubrey?” Tom says. “Your place is here, in Las Verdes. Don’t ever leave me again.”

And within a day of my arrival, the hard life of the Verde Demons Motorcycle Club takes hold of me again. I’m a bad girl, one who hurts people, and I’m exactly where I belong.

The End...For Now…

***

Many thanks for reading my story! I hoped you enjoyed yourself because I know how much I enjoyed writing it! If you are happy with your purchase, please leave me a review. Even if you’re not so satisfied, please email me and let me know how I can do things better.

xoxox,

L.E.

About the Author

L.E. Joyce is the real deal. At age six, she became the youngest student to get kicked out of her prestigious private school in New England for writing dirty stories in her little blue spelling book. Not only did she use each of the words assigned that week and spell them correctly, she also managed to give three of her teachers starring roles in several of her tales. As a result, she kept her stories a dirty secret until after graduate school where she earned an MFA in Creative Writing, and the right to write about whatever the hell she wants. Today, she divides her time (although somewhat unequally depending on the day) between her family, her writing, and her secret life as a dominatrix.

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Other Works by L.E. Joyce

Coming Soon! HOT INK Book 1

When troubled tattoo artist, Walsh Jackson, finds himself the prime suspect in his ex-wife’s and shop rival Bob Grim’s gruesome double murder, he sets out to clear his own name. He follows a trail of dead tattoo artists into the underbelly of the Hungarian mafia. They want one thing: The exact location he found the vial of ink he wears around his neck. They tell Walsh that tattoo artists will continue to die if he doesn't take them to the source. But Walsh can't take them, he can't tell them anything about the vial. Whatever its source, he knows one thing for certain: the vial of ink comes from the part of his life he can't remember. Alone and out of options, he turns to FBI Special Agent Bridget Ash, lead investigator of the tattoo parlor deaths, and a hot one-night stand he was hoping to run into again. Blonde, long-legged, and aloof, Walsh can't keep his mind off her, but something gnaws at him, telling him she may not be what she seems.

Bonus Excerpt

If Walsh Jackson hadn’t walked into Zeek’s Bar and started a fight with Bob Grim, he would have missed the girl in the pencil skirt and stiletto heels standing outside his tattoo shop.

He hadn’t wanted to hit Grim. It wasn’t his fault that Walsh’s wife was now Grim’s; Walsh had fucked that up all on his own. But salt gets thrown on old wounds when there’s whisky involved, or so it goes when Walsh and Grim throw down in the same bar. Grim threw the first punch. Walsh threw the last, and his hand now needed the fifth of Jack he kept in his shop office just for emergencies like these. Even though he had already sobered up, getting drunk all over again was just what he needed. There would be no going home to an empty house and a cold bed tonight. Walsh didn’t want to remember that Grim had everything that used to be his–a kickass house and a gorgeous wife who loved him.

As Walsh rounded the corner to his shop, INK, he saw her–slim, long legged and blonde–the trifecta of his tastes. She wore a blue skirt suit and a thin white blouse untucked and lightly fluttering in the heavy Miami summer air. She looked end-of-the-day disheveled, but in an intensely classic way. Looking at her Walsh knew one thing for certain: it was too late for a girl like that to be outside in a neighborhood like this. Nobody was safe after dark in Richmond Heights.

Walsh approached slowly. He didn’t want to startle her, yet something told him that this girl wouldn’t scare easily. As he drew near, he saw on her face a frayed sadness as if she was fighting hard to keep something at bay. Her eyes burned onto a sketch in the front window, one of his own–The Blue Woman–as Walsh affectionately named it. The girl in the suit stared at the sketch in the same inquisitive manner as he often did himself.

What was it about it this sketch? Was it the woman’s dark hair flowing in the invisible breeze? Was it how the pale moon shined down and made her black hair seem blue? Was it the way her sheer white gown billowed in waves? Was it the two swords she crossed at her chest? Or was it the blindfold, and the way in which a slight smile creased her lips telling the viewer how much she liked it. Walsh believed that when he could answer these questions, he would finally find a way to stop drawing The Blue Woman, that he would stop seeing her every night in his dreams and everyday in his waking world, and everything he believed she kept from him, like the life before he was found naked in this sweltering city, with no memory of who he was or how he got there, would be revealed.

The blonde standing at the window of Walsh’s tattoo shop looked at the sketch so intently that she didn’t hear him behind her.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” he said.

The blonde jumped and turned around to face him, and that’s when he saw how truly beautiful she was. Bright green eyes, milky skin, and lips he wanted to sink into. But there was something else. There was the same frayed sadness he saw from afar, but up close, he could see a desperation of sorts, an eagerness to live outside one’s own skin.

“What?” she asked.

Walsh collected himself. “The sketch,” he said.

The girl glanced back to the sketch. “Yes. It’s really amazing. Can you tattoo it on my back?”

This shocked Walsh; the girl didn’t look like the tattoo type.

“I could pay you double if you do it,” she said as if sensing his hesitation.

“This tats not for sale,” he said flatly. He did not elaborate. He did not tell her that he had already tried on several occasions to ink it and failed. It was if The Blue Woman somehow wouldn’t allow it.

“What about something like this then?” she said, and handed Walsh a sketch that she clutched in her hand.

Walsh unfolded the paper and found cascading thorns and thickets and vines.

“Can you do it?” she asked with a hint of strain in her voice.

He inspected the design. “No color, soft lines. Sure, I can do it. No problem.” Walsh fished his key from his pocket and unlocked the front door of his shop. “Come on in and we’ll set you an appointment.”

The girl stood fixed on her spot. “Triple if you do it right now,” she said.

“It’s 1:00AM. My shop’s closed, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” she warned.

“Sorry, you didn’t tell me your name. Usually when a woman offers me money, I at least know her name.”

“My name is Bridget,” she said, “and I’ll pay three times your normal rate if you do this tattoo for me right now.”

Walsh never sweated over a customer walking out of his shop before. This one–he didn’t want to let her go. He could tell that this girl wasn’t messing around. She could quickly walk away and find another artist to do it for her at this time of night, no problem. He thought of Bob Grim and how he probably went straight to his tattoo shop across town instead of heading home to Gina. Walsh didn’t want to give Grim the chance to snake yet another woman away. He quickly surveyed his right hand, deciding the fifth of Jack would have to wait a little while longer.

“All right, Bridget,” he said. “Let’s talk more inside.”

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