Wanting It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 3) (4 page)

My choice. To have the man I’ve wanted for so long. To be safe.

Except I won’t be safe. Not really. My body won’t be in as much danger, true.

But my heart will be.

After a sleepless night, I’m up early. The tasting room is open today, so I forego my usual jeans and tee in favor of a short black skirt, a black T-shirt with ripped-off sleeves sporting a worn Led Zeppelin logo, and black shitkickers that lace up to my knees. A costume, basically, but one that fits the brewery’s theme—the Black Boots Brewery, serving up beer that kicks ass.

It’s all a gimmick, but one that I put a ridiculous amount of research into. It sells particularly well with my target demographics: young urbanites who appreciate the humorous marketing angle—which could include almost everyone I went to college with—and the working class Joe who prefers a craft beer. Black Boots. Solid, dependable, and completely tongue-in-cheek.

Just the thought of giving it up makes my chest feel tight.

I’ve put so much work into this place, from renovating the barn to securing the loan for the stainless steel brewhouses to hanging up the T-shirts that I sell in the storefront. This brewery started as my baby, but I took it from crawling along to standing on its own feet, and now it’s running smoothly. Someone else
could
take over at this point. But it’s mine, and I’m so fucking proud of it all. I don’t want to see it in someone else’s hands.

But if I stay, I’m risking more than my business. I’m risking my life. My heart, too.

That heart feels as heavy as lead as I unlock the doors. I’ve still got a few hours before I open to visitors, but there’s more than enough work to fill the time. No two batches are ever quite the same, so monitoring the progress through brewing and fermentation is a critical part of the job.

When I give tours, people always ask me what the most important part of the process is. Many of them simply like beer and are curious, but sometimes the question comes from home brewers. Some of them don’t like the real answer—that there’s no one factor that’s more important than any other. Even the smallest variable can create significant changes in taste and quality. So after I say that, I tell them that as long as they’re starting with good ingredients, then it’s down to two things: temperature and time. Too hot or too cold, let it sit too long or not long enough, and the batch goes off.

I’m like a brew going bad today. By midmorning, I’m hot as hell, in a temper and wishing that Saxon would show up so that I could tell him exactly what I think of his package deal. Then I imagine all the things I’d do to him in my bed and that deal starts looking really good. After a while, I’m cold again, thinking of being traded like some piece of property—even pissed at my dad, because he said that was how the Eighty-Eight looked at women and I didn’t see any difference between that and what he and Saxon were proposing—but then feeling shitty and ungrateful, because he only wants to see me safe.

But by the time six o’clock rolls around I’m hot and bitter again, and irritated by a group of frat boys who are taking their sweet time picking out their mini-kegs. One of them is hanging by the bar, sampling his way through an ale flight and flirting with me. He’s not good at it, and when he comments on the flavors he comes off really fucking patronizing, as if it never occurs to him that the petite girl behind the counter isn’t just some monkey trained to sell beer but might actually be the one running this whole show.

He’s asking me what time I close up shop when I hear the distinctive rumble of a Harley-Davidson coming up the drive. I’m feeling just mean enough to enjoy the frat boys’ unease as Saxon comes in, a big biker with his “President” patch beneath his club tag and road name. The Wolf.

The big bad fucking wolf, boys. I don’t know if they can read the other patches. There aren’t a lot of them. Unlike some bikers who cover the front of their kuttes with anything that takes their fancy in addition to the patches they’ve earned, Saxon’s is pretty clear, which tells me that the ones he does wear mean a lot more to him. The skull and crossbones is for Timothy Reichmann. Maybe Saxon hadn’t intended to kill him with that boot to the head, but he had, and he obviously doesn’t regret it. He wears that patch just below his one-percent diamond. A big
FTW
decorates the bottom left side of his vest.

Fuck the world.
That’s my favorite one. And it’s the way I feel right now.

His dark blue eyes catch mine and it’s like the whole day just comes back over me all at once. Cold. Hot. Need.

I don’t want him to see the hurt that joins it and turn my attention back to the guy sampling the ales. He’s quiet now, and I’m grateful that Saxon’s presence seems to be hurrying them all along, even though he hasn’t done anything but look around the store a bit. His first time here. While the frat boys are filling out the keg deposit form, I draw him a cold one. He offers a gravelly thanks when I give him the pint, and his gaze runs to my toes before lifting to my face.
God.
A man doesn’t need to flirt when he looks at a woman the way Saxon is looking at me.

He hasn’t seen me in clothes like this before, either, I realize. It’s possible that he hasn’t seen so much of my legs since the day Reichmann attacked me. Obviously he likes what he sees.

Maybe he’s already thinking they’re his. Two legs, included as part of the package deal.

Renewed anger adds to the building heat. I return to the counter and finish ringing up the sale, throwing in a few complimentary T-shirts because no matter how irritating college boys can be, if they’re walking around wearing my logo it’s free advertising. The bell over the door chimes as they leave. I stay at the counter, closing out the register, acutely aware of every step that brings Saxon closer.

Carefully, he sets his pint on the bar. He’s
 barely drunk any of it. “You talk to your dad?”

“I did.” It’s sharp. I don’t care. I’m burning with temper and fanning the flames, because if I don’t only the hurt will be left. “It sounds like you both have it all worked out.”

He’s quiet for a second. “Only if you want it.”

“What I want?” I yank out the cash drawer and slam the register closed before heading to the bar. Glass clatters as I dump his pint and shove the glass into the dishwasher. “You can have the clubhouse, the cabins on the property. We’ll work out a lease.”

His throat works. He looks away from me and there’s something I can’t read in his face. Not just his usual stoicism, though there’s that. The stone in his expression is harder than ever, but there’s a crack through it in the tightening of his jaw and the flattening of his gaze. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is. And you’ll pay me every month in my bed.”

All at once his eyes are back on me, narrowed and dangerous. “I’ll do what?”

“What?” I throw back at him, wide-eyed. “Are you telling me that selling yourself doesn’t feel so good? Because being told I’ll be protected in exchange for fucking you feels pretty shitty.”

“An exchange? That’s what you think I’m asking for?”

“Oh, my dad explained it. You want the package deal. The clubhouse and the land out there. And you’ll be claiming me so that Reichmann is less likely to try something.” My chest is heaving as I stalk out from behind the bar. “Like I’m just another cabin on the property and you’re tagging the walls.”

“Tagging the walls?” He’s pissed now too, and when he comes for me there’s nowhere to go, backing me up against the front counter and caging me in with powerful arms. Teeth clenched, he gets in my face. “If I was tagging you, princess, I’d be jerking off all over your sweet little ass. No, fuck jerking off. I’ve done that enough thinking of you. So I’d bury my cock inside you, then fuck your pussy deep and hard, and when I’m finally ready to blow I’ll pull out and tag you then.”

Not a chance in fucking hell.
I open my mouth to tell him but he doesn’t give me time to even draw a breath before he’s on me, a kiss like fire and tasting of beer. Damn him. I want him too much and I can’t fight like this. But I try, though I’m surrounded. He’s so big, his body like a wall. The counter is behind me. Desperate, I bite his tongue. His head jerks back and he growls as he spins me around, bending me over the counter, pushing me down with his forearm at my back. His stiff cock wedges against my ass.

His mouth is hot at the back of my neck. “You want it like this between us instead of how I offered? You want me to pay with a fucking? It doesn’t matter to me. I’ll take you any way I can get you. Slide your skirt up and I’ll put in my down payment now.”

My hands are braced beside me. He could reach my skirt easier than I can. But I realize what he’s doing. This will be my choice. If I want it like this, I just have to do as he says. Then maybe he’ll fuck me until all this anger and hurt goes away.

But it doesn’t matter if it does go away. Because I’ll take him any way that I can get him, too, and I’ve always known that having him would never be easy. Expecting hell, I yank the short hem of my skirt higher.

I get heaven, instead.

“Fuck,” Saxon breathes the curse. His fingers are gentle, sliding over the curve of my ass, tracing the lacy edge of my black panties, and all of a sudden he’s laughing. “You get me so wound up, Jenny. So pissed that you think this is what I’m here for. But now I’ve got you bent over, the truth is I’d love to see my cum painting this ass. Jesus, I could tag you all night.”

The pressure against my back eases. He turns me to face him before setting me on the counter, the surface cold beneath my thighs. I realize he’s not going to fuck me after all and it’s too much. In an instant, everything builds up. My dad’s cancer. This shitty day. Having Saxon so close but not
having
him, and I’m fighting so hard not to cry.

Fighting and losing.

“Shh.” Voice low, he’s kissing me softly. “I know this has all been rough on you. I shouldn’t be, too. But I’m a rough man. You’d be better off with someone like those kids that just left. One’s going to be a lawyer or some shit.”

The thought of it almost makes me laugh. I know a lot of guys like that. Not all of them as irritating as the frat boys. Most are decent, some are even smart and funny and sexy. “They’re not what I want.”

“What do you want, then?”

So much.
“I don’t want to lose my dad. I don’t want to worry about the Eighty-Eight. I don’t want to move away.”

Gently his hands cradle my jaw and he tilts my head back until my eyes meet his. They’re dark and intense and dead serious. “I can’t give you all of that. But what I can, Jenny, I will. Whether you take me or not.”

A package deal. I don’t know how to answer. But maybe I don’t need to. His thumb sweeps across my trembling lips and he lowers his head, his mouth catching mine, and suddenly I feel like crying all over again. Not out of hurt this time, but because he’s right here, muscles like steel and his kiss stirring a fire inside me, burning away pain and doubt and leaving behind nothing but need. He crowds closer, pulling me against him until my ass is at the edge of the counter and my legs are wrapped around his waist. Moaning, I lean back, bracing my weight on my elbows and he comes with me, his body flush against mine. He grinds his cock between my thighs and I can’t stop myself, I’m grinding back, riding the hard ridge of his erection and wishing it wasn’t covered in denim, wishing he was already inside me.

Suddenly he lifts his head, his breathing harsh. “Oh, fuck, Jenny. I meant to be sweet. But I’m not.”

Maybe not. But this is the sweetest pleasure I’ve ever known. Fiercely, I pull him close again. “This is exactly what I need.”

Someone rough. Someone to sand away all of the painful edges.

But not
someone
. Just Saxon.

His mouth takes mine again and this time he’s not holding back his hunger. He tastes my lips, my throat, then hauls up my shirt and sucks hard on my nipple while his left hand pushes between us. His fingers find lace soaked in my arousal and he groans against my breast before lifting his head.

“You’re so fucking wet.” His voice deepens. “Tell me it’s all mine.”

His fingertips are tracing the shape of my pussy through the lace and I can barely form a coherent thought, let alone words. I strain closer, riding his hand, and my response emerges as a moan.
“Yours.”

His. For so long.

“Then I’m going to eat it all up.” His eyes gleam up at me and he lowers his head again, softly pinching my nipple between his teeth at the same time his fingers slide beneath the edge of my panties. I cry out, my back arching. Saxon groans and sucks hard at my sensitive flesh, his fingers stroking through my drenched pussy and circling my clit. “God, Jenny. You’re already wetter. Even if I lick it up, you’ll still make more for me, won’t you? And even more when I’m inside you. I can’t wait to feel this pussy juice sliding all over my cock.”

Sliding. Drowning. I’m sprawled beside the register in my tasting room, skirt hiked around my waist, and Saxon is teasing the entrance to my cunt with blunt fingers, his teeth tugging my nipple to a burning point. The door is still unlocked and I don’t even care, let everyone in the world come in, just don’t ever let Saxon stop what he’s doing.

My body clenches uncontrollably when he pushes his longest finger as deep as he can. Oh, God. My hips jerk, the motion pushing him harder into me, his thumb rubbing mercilessly over my clit and I’m biting the back of my hand to stop myself from screaming.

I’m so wet. I can hear the slick luscious sounds of his finger pumping into me over the noises I’m making, wild little grunts and moans that I can’t stop. He’s looking up at my face, intense blue eyes seeing everything I can’t hide. I’m not like this. I’m never like this. Anyone else touches me and I freeze up, but I’m a volcano with him, heat and pressure rising so quickly, with quakes of need trembling through my burning flesh. I’m working up to an explosion, and I’ve had that before. I’ve used toys and vibrators and my own fingers. But it wasn’t like this. He’s got just one finger inside me and I feel so full, fuller than I’ve ever been, though some of my toys are bigger. The sensation of something filling my cunt has never felt so vivid before.

I’ve
never felt this vivid before. Every gasp of air is sweeter, my skin tighter, as if my body can barely contain the devastating pleasure that’s building inside me with every thrust of his hand.