Break Me In (5 page)

I
wake up
in Noah’s room at the club for the second day in a row, and my first thought is the same one I’ve had each time—it’s nicer than my apartment.

Not because it’s clean—it really isn’t. Or because of the fancy amenities—it has none. But because every inch of the space is so unapologetically his.

My memories from a few nights before cut through the haze of sleep. The beating. The bodies. Noah hauling me in here for the first time, tossed over his shoulder—broken, sore, terrified—with the hoots and wolf whistles from his brothers still ringing in my ears. He must have looked like a conquering Viking to them. That would make me the spoils of a war they didn’t even know happened, except for the few who’d been blindly loyal to Dev.
God, were they all dead now too? Had Noah and Stone torn through them all yet?
Then I’d wept tears of relief as soon as we crossed the threshold because I’d felt so deeply that this room was an inner sanctum, safer somehow than anywhere else in the club, a place where only Noah could touch me.

He’d touched me so gently. He’d fucked me hard in that awful place, but here everything had been soft. He’d undressed me. Smoothed something cool and slick over my welts. Whispered apologies into my skin. Ordered me to sleep.

And that’s what I’d done. For days.

Now, I’m awake. Rested and alert. Hyperaware. Taking it all in again.

His walls are covered with a kind of collage. Bikes and centerfolds and whiskey-ad sunsets. I can almost picture him thumbing through the pages of a parts catalog or a dirty magazine, coming across some shiny thing he wants for himself, and tearing it out to feather his nest. Building the life he wants layer by layer. I want to touch each one and ask him for the story that goes along with it. Because they
are
all stories. I know that much. It’s not wallpaper; it’s a vision board. And I’m the latest addition.

I’m on my side, pinned by the force of Noah’s will and the weight of his body. He’s spooned behind me. Clinging to me, really. He’s got one arm under me, hooked up so his massive palm crushes my breast. The other arm is draped over my waist—that palm cups my pussy. Every breath I take shifts my body just enough to rub my most tender places against his callused fingers. My nipples are already hardening, the bundle of nerves near the top of my mound plumping and tightening.

I don’t want to be turned on like this, so easily. It’s embarrassing. He’s going to wake up with my wetness coating his hand. My cheeks burn, remembering what he did the last time. The way he’d shoved his fingers into my mouth so I could clean them. Lick them like a cock, his cock, the one that is hard and hot against my back.

I rock my hips.

He makes a sleepy noise, half grunt, half moan, and then he’s rocking with me. He traps my nipple between two fingers and rolls it, sending sharp shocks of pleasure spearing from my breast down to my clit. “Greedy girl.”

“I am.” I whine. I don’t want to do that either, but I can’t help it. Every stroke and flick makes me so needy and desperate. I’ll do almost anything, suffer almost any indignity just to have this. To have his mouth on me, his cock inside me.

I’ve already suffered so much it should be my reward.

“Take what you want, Star. If you’re going to survive in this place, you’re gonna have to learn.”

I turn to do just that, but he flexes his muscles and clamps me in place. “Hey, I can’t move.”

“I didn’t say it’d be easy.”

“Don’t you want—”

“Feeling you struggle in my arms has my dick so fucking hard right now, baby.”

Oh shit. I don’t know if it’s a game or a lesson or both, but everything that had been a sleepy simmer is suddenly at a raging boil. I’m small and naked, and his hand is wrapped around my throat. I can’t do what he’s asking me to do. It goes against my every instinct.

I whimper, and he growls in response, squeezing me tighter. “Fight me.”

Do I have any fight left in me? With his palm caressing my windpipe and his leg wrapped over mine?

I can breathe—just. His grip is solid, restrictive and restrained, an undeniable reminder that he is powerful, that his body is a weapon with the safety on. And then I
can’t
breathe when he clamps down harder. Just for a second. Just long enough for my vision to go hazy at the edges. Adrenaline jolts through me, tightening every muscle, raising every hair. My heart is a hummingbird in a steel cage beating out
yes yes yes
with its wings.

Yes. I can fight.

Hemmed in, I can’t really use my fists or my feet. I can hardly move. But I can dig my nails into the hand at my throat. I can slam my elbow into his ribs.

So I do.

I yank and tug and writhe until I’m covered in a sheen of sweat from the exertion. His cock only seems to get hotter and harder at my back. A thick promise, taunting me. Maybe if I had a pry bar, I could get him off my neck. Get some leverage. My ragged nails don’t do more than scrape off a layer of his skin. He grunts at the blows to his gut though and works the fingers on his other hand between the lips of my pussy.

Finally.

It’s a cruel touch, blunt and rough. But my body is already melted for him. It gives way, easy and slick, so he skates over my clit. My hips buck, eager to take what he’ll give me. To take what I want.

He laughs. “Fight harder. A few little love taps aren’t going to get you anywhere.”

“Got you touching my clit,” I pant, still clawing the hand at my throat.

“But you want more than that. You’re so empty and aching, I can feel it.” He thrusts two fingers inside me, and I clench around him as he pumps in and out. He uses quick, shallow thrusts that only make me more desperate for something deeper, harder, faster. “I could play like this for days. Getting you close but never all the way. Getting my hand all messy so you can clean it for me. Is this what you wanted? My fingers inside your hot cunt again.”

He is infuriating. As relentless and unchangeable as the tide. As immovable as a mountain.

I grit my teeth. “You know what I want.”

“You want them in your tight little asshole then?”

I hadn’t even thought of that. My mind screams
no no no,
but my pussy gushes around his fingers because
please please
. And still he strokes, the wet noises drowned out by my whimpers.

I shake my head, unable to give voice to this conflicted desire. I want him filling me up…everywhere. Too much and not enough. Deep and hard. Soft and slow. The teasing, the torment, it’s nearly unbearable. I just want him to fuck me again. To claim me in the daylight. To take me as a woman, not as a debt to be collected or a prize to be won or a victim to be soothed.

“I don’t want your fingers. I want your cock.” All that wanting builds and builds without anywhere to go. I’m frantic with need, frustrated, almost angry with it. If I could bite him, I would. “Pin me to your fucking wall and make me come already.”

His grip loosens around my neck, and then we’re rolling until he’s on top of me. “You don’t go on my wall. My wall is for shit I’ll never have, places I’ll never go. I’ll fuck you in my bed where you belong.”

The mattress bounces as he springs up, and I’m so close I nearly come from the subtle vibration. Or from his declaration. I can’t even process that right now. It’s probably meaningless. One of those things people say in the throes of passion. Oh God.

He grabs a condom off his nightstand and rolls it on, looming over me like a dark angel with his lips curled into a victorious sneer. Because I fought him? Because he can have me? Both?

I slip a hand between my legs to tease him a little, to give him a show. But as soon as my fingers brush that needy throbbing, I’m lost. Skimming and pressing and skimming again. It’s all for me.

Take what you want.

His hands are hot on my ass, lifting me up and then finally, finally, finally plunging deep into my pussy. Filling me in a way his fingers never could. I grab the back of his head and pull him down for a kiss that turns feral. Tongues and teeth. More taking. We are a clash of bodies, fighting for the same peak.

When we come, it’s like the world is ending. Maybe it is.

The sound of the headboard banging against the wall is replaced by another banging. The thump of fist against wood.

And then Stone is standing at the foot of the bed. Noah doesn’t get up. He just yells over his shoulder while his cock softens inside me. “I’m getting tired of this shit, brother. You want in this bed, you’re gonna hafta buy me dinner first.”

“It’s Jules.”

Jules, that’s the sister he mentioned the other night. The handful. Noah stiffens at the sound of her name. “What’s she done now?”

“You should get dressed. We can talk then.” Stone’s voice is tight with worry.

“Is my bare ass making you uncomfortable? Just spit it out.”

“Your dad found an ace of diamonds in her bed. She’s gone, Noah. The Bloody Jokers have her.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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Break Me In
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Want to start reading
Drive Me Wild
(Part 3 of The Devil’s Host MC Serial) right now? Turn the page…

T
he longer I
wait for someone to come get me, the harder it is to stay still. For the first fifteen minutes after Noah left to meet with the other club officers, I sat quietly and focused on the weave pattern in the thermal blanket spread over his bed. For the second fifteen minutes, I traced my finger over the curves of every pin up model gracing his walls. His commitment to diversity is impressive. His appreciation for a phenomenal rack, unquestionable. Now I am aggressively folding laundry—anything to keep my hands busy. I assume the clothes are clean. Dark t-shirts, jeans, bandanas and soft flannels. The earthy scent of him lingers in the laundry just beneath the mountain spring blast of detergent freshness. I only press my face into it twice. Okay, three times.

I only wonder who washes it for him once.

I pull the t-shirt away from my face and fold it again.

There’s a gentle rap on the door and then it creaks open. A young guy with barely more than a milk mustache on his upper lip pokes his head inside Noah’s room. If we were back at the diner I might joke with him about his baby face, ask him if he wanted crayons while he waited for his eggs and bacon. Instead he’s here to take me on a gallows walk. “They’re ready for you now.”

I want to ask him what’s happened so far or if he’s heard any news about Noah’s sister. I want so many things but instead I drop the t-shirt I’ve been folding and smooth my skirt.

Deep breath, Star. Deep breath
.

Noah promised me before he left for this meeting that even if they decided the worst, I’d still be okay because he and Stone had cleared out the club’s cancer. That’s what he’d called Dev and his men. A cancer.

I just hope the club stays in remission. I didn’t ask what the worst might be.

The kid escorting me is a prospect. I know this because it’s emblazoned on his back and because Noah explained a little bit about how the club works. His version of pillow talk. Now I know there are prospects, guys who want to be members and are on a kind of indefinite trial run until they prove themselves. Then they become full members. And I know there are rules and by-laws.

Noah broke them when he killed Dev without a vote.

I swallow hard as we pass the room where it all happened. It feels like a lifetime ago, but it was only a few days.

The rumble of voices drifts into the hallway from behind another door, and the prospect stops in front of it. He knocks more forcefully than he did for me, but he looks grimmer. Oh. He’s hiding his nerves behind a rough expression. A little boy, determined not to be afraid of the dark.

I want to give him a snack and a juice box and tell him that it’s almost never the dark you need to be afraid of; the things that come for you in the daylight are so much worse.

He opens the door, wraps his fingers around my upper arm and pulls me inside. Sunlight filters through the blinds in sharp slants, highlighting dust motes and smoke curls, casting shadows on the grizzled faces gathered around the long conference table. There are a dozen of them at least.

Hard, angry faces. With heavy brows and unruly beards. My heart hammers into my breastbone like it might escape this inquisition, and I search for Noah in the lineup of intimidation.

Noah sits in the corner, back to the wall, with a full view of the whole room. His eyes rake over my face and body, dark and possessive, communicating more than I can follow in a few seconds. Reassurance, sorrow, desire. Anger at the sight of the prospect handling me. Hope.

Stone sits beside him, equally tense.

I don’t recognize anyone else at the table except for the big man who’d gotten his face slapped the night I arrived. When he opens his mouth to speak first, relief washes over me. At least I’ve witnessed his kindness.

“Honey, I’m Zig. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to tell us the truth. You do that and nothing bad happens. Got it?”

I nod.

“Did Noah promise you protection when he brought you here?”

Protection. What does that even mean
? My knees start to buckle, and I’m grateful for the prospect’s grip. He was going to make me fuck off Harry’s debt, that didn’t seem very protective. Except every other thing about him was hyper-protective. I was his, he’d reminded me of that over and over. I guess protection meant different things to different people. I’d let them decide. “He said I’d be working off my cousin’s debt in trade, but if I did what he told me I wouldn’t be hurt.”