Perfectly Bad: a bad boy romance (38 page)

“You need to just mind your goddamned business, greaseball.” By the time he’d finished the sentence he was looking down the massive barrel of a handgun, the same dull black as the bike. His cock was still jutting out and pointing now at the biker. I couldn’t keep from giggling. Man’s got a gun in his face, Dwayne’s got his cock aimed at the guy.

The biker’s voice didn’t change as he stepped off the cycle, keeping the gun right in Dwayne’s face,

“You need to reassess your situation, citizen.”

Even whacked on crack, Dwayne wasn’t quite stupid enough to argue with a gun in front of his teeth. The biker waved towards the car. “Drive carefully, citizen.” Dwayne hesitated. The biker cocked the pistol’s hammer.

Dwayne slid around and got into the car, still trying to cram his cock back into his pants. It was still too big. With the car door in one hand and his cock in the other, he almost fell back out, and he had some trouble getting himself behind the wheel with his hand and his cock in the way. Dwayne was always wonderfully coordinated, right up until any time he had to think.
 

Finally, with his face red he fired the engine, he looked over at me, maybe still thinking there was a chance I’d scuttle in beside him. Poor Dwayne didn’t know much, and he sure as hell didn’t know me at all. His wheels kicked up some dust as he spun the car around and away.

The biker smiled as he watched Dwayne’s big exit. Then his blue eyes found their way back and along over to me. He stood looking at me for a while. I was one hell of a mess spread out there on the ground. The pink tip of his tongue touched his lips, and he pulled his lips in between his teeth to get it back in, and to stop himself from grinning. Then he started towards me.

His walk was quiet, a slow, feline roll. His feet slung wide and his shoulders rocked, his hips swung in counterpoint. All the time his head was steady, low but watchful. Hot, supple flesh hung with leather and denim, with the swinging beat of a piston-driven machine.

Our eyes locked and something like a piston banged in the pit of my stomach. This boy was more than just trouble. He was mayhem and pillage. This was a man who could hurt you in all the right ways. I should have run. I should have thanked him and stepped neatly away into the night. Called a cab on my cellphone. I should have called my Daddy. But I was pinned down on my elbows.

One knee up, stockings ripped and my legs apart, I was rooted to the spot. There was blood in the corner of my mouth. I licked it away with the tip of my tongue. My skirt was around the tops of my thighs and my thin, sheer panties were soaked and clinging to the swollen lips of my aching, gasping pussy. My big round breasts heaved almost uncovered in the night air inside my thin, open shirt.

I thought that this rough biker, padding towards me with that gleam in his eye, I thought that he might haul up my ass in his big paws, rip my panties aside and take me right there. Shove me onto my back, pry my thighs farther apart, rise up, his hips pressing between my legs, denim against the cool skin of my buttocks.
 

Feel his way into my panties. Penetrate me, impale me on his long, hard rod. Force himself through my hot, unprotected petals. Nail me right there on the ground. He could have me right there and then, there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. I was so open, so exposed.

But, no. He held out his gloved hand, with a faint, shy smile like a gallant and chivalrous knight. His eyelids fluttered as he said, “Ma’am.” I might have kicked him if I wasn’t lying down. He was almost ready to take his hand away before I reached out for it. As I stretched my fingers reluctantly towards him, he did whip his hand away. He quickly took off the glove then offered his upturned hand again.

As my fingers touched his palm, a jolt like an earth tremor shook through me. I was sure that I saw his eyes widen at the same moment. He pulled me up. My cheeks came up level with his hard chest. I felt the heat from his body reach my breasts and my breath stuck in my throat.

“I’m Cox,” he said. My chest seemed to swell and fill up as I said,

“Is that short for something?” He looked slowly down my body as I hastily rearranged my clothes, fasting the bra and buttoning the shirt, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement as he said, “Not right now it isn’t,”

He took his sweet time getting his eyes back up to mine. They strayed around my skirt and my breasts and then slowly up my neck on the way. Was he going to ask my name? Didn’t look like it. I told him,

“I’m Nikka,”

As he looked back at me, I thought about him asking if it was short for anything, or making some kind of a joke about it. I kind of wanted to hear him say it. To hear him say my name. I wanted my name in his mouth. On his tongue. God, this wasn’t like me. Had my inner squirmy schoolgirl somehow got loose?
 

He just said, “Where you headed now?”

“No damned clue, biker,”

“That’s right on my way,” his eyes sparkled as he said it, “Like a ride?”

He pulled the helmet off his head and handed it to me. He leaned forwards to help me do up the chin strap, but I swatted his hands away, “I know how to do this.” I didn’t, of course, and I watched him chew on his lip as he watched me make a mess tying the straps together. He climbed onto the low, wide Harley and said,
 

“Ready?” I got on behind him. My breasts pressed against his cut-off leather jacket and I put my hips as close to his ass as I could. Well, it was one hell of an ass. The motor crackled into life and the bike rose up as it shook beneath the saddle. Dull, heavy vibration ran up under my thighs and my hips were yanked forward as the machine tugged us onto the road and into the night.

The bike rose with the road and I felt the dull thumping vibration of the motor beneath the saddle as it pulled us forward. Clinging tight to the biker, I pressed up against the back of his leather jacket. The colors on the back said,
Savage MC
.

His body flexed and swayed, effortlessly leaning and guiding the huge machine around curves and sweeping us through the evening traffic on the old town highway. The cold air clipped my legs and arms, and I wrapped my body more tightly around his, pressing my breasts, still hardly covered, against his jacket.

We moved through the loose lines of trucks and cars, like the rules were for them and we were a bird, a wild, free thing that made it’s own law. I wondered which district of ‘No Damned Clue’ he was aiming for. Turns out it was the MC clubhouse.

The clubhouse was at the front of an old garage with pumps out front on the forecourt. When it was a gas and service stop, the front part must have been a bright restaurant with booths and benches, the kind of a place where travelers and locals would have perched at a shiny counter on high stools for their waffles or eggs over easy and gossip over endless refilled mugs of coffee. A sign over the entrance read,
Hell’s Kitchen, Bar & Grill
.
 

Inside, some of the benches and booths were still there, but the brightness and shine had been replaced. The few lights seemed mostly to be red, maybe some were blue. The bar may have been where the counter was, and there was still a kitchen out back, judging by the scattering of plates with greasy burgers and fries, but the low stage with poles would not have suited the breakfast diner.

Big bikers clustered and hunkered at the bar, in the booths and especially around the stage. On the stage a well-built girl with long, flowing dark hair was making lithe circuits of a pole. Her silver high heels and tiny sparkling thong set off her glistening olive skin, and thin sliver chains hung over her big, firm naked breasts.

Her eyes flashed as she swung around the pole, her breasts fluid and bouncing and her dark nipples hard. She grinned at the bikers nearest the stage, just inches away from her hot flesh and she flicked her tongue across her big white teeth as she slid up and down against the silver pole.

The men growled their appreciation as she squatted, her thighs wide, and she slowly rocked and rolled her hips. With one hand squeezing her breast, tugging on the pert nipple, her other hand wiped up her face, her fingers dragged through her hair, then reached back for the pole as her hips thrust out and bucked.
 

I followed the biker through the crowd. Every man we passed made an acknowledgement to him, a small nod, a touch of knuckles or a hand on the shoulder. Any time I was with Daddy at the police station or the courthouse, I saw heavy male deference in action. These bikers all were showing respect to my gallant knight, Cox.

He led me on to the bar, and there he demanded bourbon. “Two glasses. Keep ’em coming.” He handed me a shot glass. Raised the other and tossed the whiskey back in one. I did the same. Rough, dark whiskey with a sour kick.

Another big biker appeared at my side. He growled in my ear, “Hey, sweetbutt,”

“Chiz, give her space. I brought her here under my protection.”

“Sorry, Cox, I’ll go turn on the whalesong in the crystal healing room. Those baby deer aren’t still in there, are they, Lump?”

A shorter, barrel-chested biker with a red bandana said, “No, Chiz, but I put on the Hopi chant for the homeless beaver cubs we found on our woodland walk.” Cox gave both of them a look that said,
so far and no further
.
 

I knew right then that I should have got out of there. Given that I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.
 

After her show, the dancer came slinking over to us, well, to Cox. She looked in my eye and I was sure she knew me. I recognized her from somewhere, but I couldn’t remember if it was from high school or if I’d maybe seen her in the tank when Daddy took me to the station house on Saturday mornings.

He’d do that to educate me in the consequences for people who fell foul of the law. Those didn’t know how to behave themselves on a Friday night. I just loved the ways they dressed, and I thought what fun they all looked. He meant it as a warning, I saw my dream playgroup. Still I couldn’t place the dancer, anyway, her attention had shifted from me to Cox.

She leaned her hand onto his chest as she purred into his ear, “Did you like my pole dancing, baby?”

I said, “Awww, do you call that ‘pole dancing,’ sweetheart?’”

Her eyes flashed at me as she said, “Why, Miss Congeniality, isn’t it? What would you call it?”

“Honey, I’d call that dancing next to a pole.”

I climbed onto the stage. I had to unroll the ripped hold-ups. You can’t grip a pole with nylons on. But I put the shoes back on. I tied the shirt up tight under my breasts. It was open so the tops of my breasts swelled out and the bra got a good exposure, too.

Someone turned up the music. The beat was hard and hot.

In my cheerleader troupe we practiced pole-dancing. Spins, climbs, inversions and aerials. Grab the pole with two hands, swing up with your legs wide and straight, pulling yourself up.
 

Hang from the pole by gripping it with your thighs and then wriggle like a fish to slide down, real slow. Good, pumping, grinding music helps ignite the effect. Spin up around one leg, hold on with just the one thigh and calf, so you can press your crotch against the pole.