ROUGHNECK: A DARK MOTORCYCLE CLUB ROMANCE (17 page)

“That’s it baby,” he whispered. “Finish on this cock.”

I quivered and fell to my chest as he stayed firm inside. I saw stars when he confidently turned me on to my back.

Between gasps for air, I told him I couldn’t handle him.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

“It’s… I can’t…”

“Yes you can,” he urged.

His cock made all of my nerve endings tingle when he pushed it back inside. My sensitive folds trembled under the pressure. He was right. I wanted more. I craved it.

Harder. Faster. Stronger.

My legs balanced lightly on his shoulders while he supported himself with his hands. I opened myself to all that he could give.

His body was art in motion. He knew when to move and how to do it. He playfully brought me to the edge and then teased away like he knew my body better than I did.

When I tried to bring myself to him, he’d back off just enough to make me crazy. He was confident he could take me wherever he wanted, and then bring me back to wherever I needed.

“Fill me,” I screamed. “Fuck me!”

Hale grabbed me by the hips to leverage more power. I shrieked in ecstasy as he simultaneously pulled me to him and worked his hips. He hit deep inside, forcing a breathless plea from my mouth. I thought I’d pass out from the sheer intensity.

This was it.

“I love you!”

It came spilling out as he pushed me past the brink.

Shockwaves went through my entire being. Every part of me tightened and released.

Hale pushed my knees toward the grass as he drilled me with one last powerful stroke. His fire shot deep into me. He twisted and writhed as he emptied his seed.

“I love you,” he bellowed.

We’d given each other everything. Total exhaustion. We had nothing left.

He collapsed on to me in a spent heap. Our panting breaths were the only sounds disturbing the peaceful backdrop.

“Is this what you imagined? Is it worth it?” he asked, once we finally found our voices.

I thought about the last year. I thought about my family… the baby and my brother. About the trouble and the MC… the hard work and the triumph. I thought about my bad boy.

I stared back into his deep blue eyes as he studied mine. So much to remember, yet so little needed to be said.

I leaned close and let him have a soft kiss before the one simple word escaped my lips.

“Yes.”

T
HE END
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KNOCKOUT (A Bad Boy MMA Romance)

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Saving Landon (A Bad Boy Biker Romance)

Saved by the Bad Boy (A Devil’s Dragons Biker Romance)

Rough Rider (Outlaw Kings Motorcycle Club)

B
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:

Royal Prick (A Bad Boy British Romance)

Arrogant Brit (A Bad Boy British Sports Romance)

Rock Hard (A Bad Boy British Rockstar Romance)

Played (A Bad Boy British Romance)

B
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:

Illicit Behavior (A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance)

Rock Hard (A Bad Boy British Rockstar Romance)

B
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:

Lust (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance)

Richard (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance)

B
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:

Protect And Serve (A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance)

O
f course
I’d be running late for the most important banquet of the fucking month.

I scrambled to check myself in the mirror. The makeup was a thinly veiled hack-job, and my hair was barely kept in line.
Image
was the name of the game,
image
and
proper representation
… but I knew that I didn’t have the time to prepare myself any better.

At least my makeup covers the bases.

It wasn’t going to win me any awards.

But I’d leave a good enough impression.

With a slice of toast between my teeth, I quickly darted down the stairs and hopped in my ancient piece of junk Honda. No time to be cute and civil now, and I was starving. I could touch up my makeup at a red light…of which I anticipated there would be several because, you know, I was running late, and
why the fuck wouldn’t there be red lights all the way there.

Twisting the keys in the ignition, I listened as the engine sputtered to life and ignored the obnoxious chime of the check engine light – the constant death knoll was ritual by now.

Moments later, I was on the road, a cavalcade of excuses and apologies whirling through my head. I didn’t know what I was going to say to the others when I arrived.

Forty-five minutes and a minimum of eight red lights later, I finally pulled to a halt in the parking garage, six floors above where I needed to be. I raced to the elevator, frantically punched the button, and rode it down the chasm towards the lobby. It was only halfway down that I realized I probably could have slipped down the stairs faster.

The Marines’ banquet was already starting by now, probably. All eyes were going to be on me as soon as I walked in.

Fantastic.

As I stepped out into the lobby, evading eye contact with absolutely anybody, I marched straight through the doors and to my people. There they were, standing in procession around our portly, impatient leader as his furious gaze fell down upon me.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me…I need to speak with one
tardy
Clara Campbell.”

Everyone’s gaze fell on me, and I felt small.

“You’re late,” Arnold told me after pulling me aside. Even with his whispered tone, I could see the others judging me as they paraded around the room. “I thought I could count on you to never be late. Where’s my Clara? I don’t see her here, just this tired,
tardy
young lady.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied truthfully. “It won’t happen again. Traffic was–”

“
Don’t
let it happen again,” he cut me off.

I nodded quietly, knowing that there would be no further discussion. All those half-hearted explanations in my head fell to the wayside, and I knew that he didn’t care to hear a single syllable.

Arnold cast me one final, judgmental glance before turning to the others, who collectively pretended to be occupied with their own devices.

“Very well then. Places, everybody!”

I grabbed a drink tray.

Oh. Wait. You thought I was going to be
in
the banquet, didn’t you?

Nope.

I‘m not the plucky romantic lead in a book, fawning over my billowing attired and preparing to take the arm of a sexy, rugged Marine. I wasn’t wearing a nice dress, although I
did
have a fetching black bow tie beneath my collar.

I bitterly adjusted my bow tie and waistcoat.

That’s right.

I’m on the fucking serving staff.

This
was my place in life. My role was to work in the trenches while other people got the nice, glamorous lives. Being a banquet server meant working behind the scenes and making sure nobody saw what was really going on beneath our careful, manufactured smiles and in hidden corridors around the event rooms.

Spreading crisp, flawless tablecloths over ancient, folding wooden tables…

Stepping through concealed staff entrances into dank, filthy hallways, refilling ice pitchers and returning mountains of discarded plates…

Lining up in an assembly line of servers around a massive kitchen – marked with years of use and old appliances – to whisk out huge black trays of carefully plated entrees…

I saw the muck behind the charm.

It was my job to make sure
they
never did.

I’d never be the beautiful princess, or the intrepid reporter, or the esteemed socialite. I was just Clara – a working-class server, part of a freelance banquet and bartending crew that rounded out local hotels, sports games, and catered events. Being anything more than that just wasn’t the world that was in front of me.

Or so I thought.