Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (26 page)

“You fucking bitch,” he said, his voice slightly slurred. “I know who you are. That mask doesn't do shit for me. You're Beretta's bitch.”

“The mask is to keep your blood off my face.” She slapped him. “No swearing.”

“I'll fucking swear however much I want, you fucking—”

Again, she slapped him, and this time, held a scalpel right above his eye.

“That's better,” she said when he quieted down. “Now, Mr. Ivan. Let's talk about money.”

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“Y
ou know,” said Helen, laying out all the cash on the bed. “I've always sort of wanted to have sex on a bed full of money.”

It was the early afternoon. She and Beretta were in her old apartment, moving her stuff out. The Wrecking Crew had bought a new space for a bar—a new clubhouse—and after a renovation, she would be moving in with Beretta in a small home right next to it.

There was not a lot to move in her apartment, and one of the very last items was her bed. She had left the heavy bag of cash on the bed as they moved boxes up and down the steps. The money stayed close to Beretta for now until they got a chance to launder it.

But she was feeling playful. Her hands dug deep in the thousands and thousands of bills, spilling them out and spreading them further across the mattress. Moistness developed between her legs, imagining what Beretta could do to her on it all.

They had been safe for almost a week now. The Cartel was paid off in full—more than double, actually, for the loss of their two men. Beretta insisted the Wrecking Crew had nothing to do with it—that Rattler's insanity had interrupted an otherwise tranquil business transaction. And the Cartel, without any better information and six figures richer than they had been before, accepted this explanation.

They were a ferocious, fearsome lot, but a great deal of that fearfulness was due to their razor logic. They lost men but gained money, and the men who could be blamed were already dead. That was that.

The money had been hidden well in a secret cache well away from the
Hell's Belle
.  It took longer than it had with Damage, but Helen eventually made Ivan talk.

She made him talk, and she didn't hurt him a single time. A great deal of pride was left with her for that. It was all psychological—all the power of suggestion. When they dropped Ivan off at the police station, bound and gagged, they also dropped off a heavy helping of cash to let the cops know who the new bosses were in town. Everyone fell in line.

For the moment, Beretta was the boss. That suited Helen fine—she got a special thrill from bedding the boss outlaw in the town. It wouldn't last, probably, as Ace was due out from the hospital any day now. He didn't have any permanent damage, thank god, and neither did Locke. They were both pretty banged up and would be recovering for several weeks, but they were alive.

The hospital itself would be upgraded soon. It received a substantial cash donation from an anonymous benefactor. Helen felt it was only fair after lying to Georgetta the way she had and then taking a couple of weeks off from work to be with Beretta after the destruction at the
Hell's Belle
. When she returned, the renovations would have already started.

They were alive...and they had Stockland.

The Furnace and the Copperheads were in total disarray. With the heavy blows to them—and the money from the heist now officially theirs—the Wrecking Crew in Marlowe was sending in reinforcements to keep the city under their thumb. Tank was quickly volunteered to go about keeping order in the various bars and underground gambling establishments that the Wrecking Crew had inherited in the city.

Beretta approached from behind her, taking a firm grip on her hips with one hand. He kissed her on the neck and she leaned into it, loving his heady scent.

“That's funny,” he said. “I've always wanted to fuck you in this.”

He held out a box for her. It was long and rectangular, and rather heavy inside. She opened it curiously, smiling.

“What did you get me?”

“Something that's part of my plan. Open it and see.”

Inside was a vest. It had the Wrecking Crew patch on it, “Stockland” on the bottom rocker. On the front were two patches. One was almost expected, once she saw the vest—“Nurse” in red lettering on a black background.

The other, though, caught her by surprise. It said, “Beretta's Old Lady.”

Her heart started hammering. Her own vest. A vest marking her as his. She licked her lips softly, feeling herself becoming more aroused by the moment.

“Put it on,” he said.

As she had been unwrapping the box, Beretta had unwrapped himself, stripping down nude. She looked at him now, and saw that his cock was growing rapidly, quickly coming to full attention.

Slowly, she started to put on the vest, but he stopped her.

“Put it on,” he said again, “and take off everything else.”

Grinning wickedly, she obeyed his command. She slipped off her own dress—easy and fast—and then put on the vest. It hugged against her breasts, framing them spectacularly. 

“Your property,” she breathed at him. “Come and take me.”

He grinned, pushing her back on the bed on the pile full of cash and kissing her deep. His tongue tasted like man and chocolate. He'd been treating himself to little balls of the stuff all afternoon. Now she was glad he had, tasting the sweetness on his tongue and luxuriating in the heady feeling of his firm strength.

When he entered her, it felt like the first time. It wasn't, not by a long shot—and yet it
was
. The first time she had been fucked in this vest, the first time she had been fucked on all that money, and the first time—most importantly—that she knew how completely she was his.

Her legs pulled tight on his hips, urging him deeper inside of her. She moaned with pleasure as he thrust inside of her. His face was alive with passion, more alive than she had ever seen him before. Losing himself, letting all of himself open to her.

“My old lady,” he whispered in her ear. “Say it. Say you're my old lady.”

She moaned and nodded. “Your old lady. I'm yours.”

His thrusts picked up in intensity, viciously pounding down. She didn't care how hard it was—except for loving it. He could fuck her twice as hard. She wanted him to annihilate her. All of her being was lost in his strength, adoring him totally.

“You're my property. My claim.”

“Your property,” she repeated. “Your claim. Yes, Jordan! Yes!”

Her voice reached a higher pitch as his cockhead shifted slightly, pushing at an upward angle to ride hard against her special spot. Everything became pleasure. She dug her fingernails into the dense muscles of his back, gripping him harder than ever before.

In response, his hand came down on her throat, squeezing just enough to cut off her air. He pushed her deeper into the pile of cash they had stolen—the very proof of their dangerous life together.

That was how she wanted it. Living right there, right in the middle of the most dangerous spot alive—the complete property of the baddest man around.

Her eyes widened, her orgasm arriving soon. Her breath was gone. All she could do was mouth at him to please join her, to hurry, to not stop, to never stop...

Naturally, he obliged her.

His cock emptied out onto her body, seed spraying across her belly and up onto her chest. Some got onto the vest, which was fine by her. Every part of her needed to be marked and claimed. She pulled him tight, still riding the aftershocks of her pleasure, loving how strong he was on top of her. His weight, so heavy with muscle, so full of strength, made everything feel right.

He was nothing but danger, but he would always keep her safe. Protected. And feeling so beautifully, gloriously alive.

Stockland belonged to Beretta, belonged to the Wrecking Crew . . . and so did she.

# # #

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• There's even more to read! I've included the ENTIRE first novel of my
  Affairs of the Arena
  series,
  Heart of the Gladiator
  , in this document. Keep hopping forward for even MORE alpha badass goodness.
  
• I'm so happy you've decided to read
  Wild Rider
  . Thank you for spending your time with my story.
  
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  and Amazon.
  
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- L
ydia Pax

––––––––

I
ncluded below, as advertised, is the first novel in my
Affairs of the Arena
series,
Heart of the Gladiator
. This is the tale of Caius—an alpha male badass warrior in Ancient Rome who must return to a life of slavery to provide for his daughter—and Aeliana, an ancient medicae who can mend any wound save for her own broken heart. If you love hot, thrilling action with hardcore warriors willing to fight anyone and do anything to protect their love, I think you'll get a kick out of
Heart of the Gladiator
.

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T
he day was hot—as often it was hot in Puteoli—but there was coolness in the shade of the market.

“Fifty sestertii? For this?” Aeliana held up the basket holding the fresh cloth she would use as bandages. “You must be joking. It’s rag cloth.”

“It’s no joke, medicae. Take it or leave it.”

Around the two, other groups of merchants and customers haggled over prices. Finding a deal was a sort of religion to some, while swindling was a way of life to others. Small animals, piglets and cats, rushed across the stone when a traveler's crate turned over.

“Did the Gods swing by in the last few days and bless it full of special healing properties?” she laughed. “Did you wash them in a sacred pool? I’ll take it for twenty-five, as I did last week.”

The merchant’s face was wrinkled from years in the sun. His frown was twice as ugly for it. “Times are tough. We’ve had five emperors in less than three years. Soldiers don’t know what tail to run under. That makes
everything
hard to come by. You don’t get special treatment for nothing.”

“And I suppose you’re absent from the games, are you?” Aeliana straightened. “You don’t want to see fighters in good condition?”

Aeliana was a slave. But even slaves had jobs. Her work was as a medicae for the ludus of the House of Varinius. It was her responsibility to treat the gladiators trained there—and their many, many injuries—to keep them in tip-top condition for the regular games in the city.

It was rotten, bloody work, and as soon as her contract was up with the ludus, she planned to borrow money against the buying of a small shop where she could open up her own medical office.

But that was perhaps a year away—a fact that stung all the more as she had to haggle for sub-par supplies with someone else’s money with this ass of a merchant.

He knew where she worked—many men made it their business to know the details of a ludus. If the slightest variation in living circumstances arrived, it could wildly change the betting odds. At the last games, there had been some moss on the southern corner of the ludus's wall that sent the odds against fighters from House Varinius skyrocketing upwards.

“Even supposing I did,” he said, “I’d have to afford a ticket first. And I can’t afford a ticket, or anything else besides, for selling you good cloth at twenty-five sestertii.” He paused for a moment. “Make it forty-five, seeing as how I’m a fan of Orion.”

“Orion” was a fighter at the Varinius ludus—a man who Aeliana knew better by his real name, Lucius.

She took care not to smile. It would reveal too much. The merchant had just weakened his position. “I’ll make it fifteen,” she said, “and I’ll make sure you get a ticket for the games. A good seat. Mid-section. Reserved.”

“Reserved?”

“You’ll have a great view of Orion as he faces the secutores at this next fight. I’ve heard he’s to face three of them at once.”

She had heard no such thing. But such a feat wasn’t beyond the ludicrous spectacle of the games in the arena. Everything in the arenas, in her opinion, was ludicrous and excessive. What she made up off the top of her head couldn't possibly outdo the uniquely deformed moral depravity of the arena.

The merchant frowned, but his eyes narrowed greedily. “Call it twenty and you’ve got a deal.”

She placed the coins on the table and snatched up the basket. “I call it a good deal.”

Not even an hour in the market, and she was more than ready to return to her home, such that it was. People tired her out quickly. Her father would have blamed it on her weak constitution, but then, her father blamed everything—be it something the matter with the world, the Empire, or his life—on something “weak” about Aeliana.

As she turned, though, the merchant snatched her hand.

“Not so fast, there.” He smiled. “You’re not so much to look at in those robes, but I bet you're rather nice underneath. What say you we find out,” he tilted his head back to the shadowy mess of his tent, “and I drop the price some more?”

Such attention, always unwanted, was not beyond the purview of Aeliana’s experience. She was a woman in Rome, and this sort of idiocy happened often.

“No. I’ll just have what I came for.”

She tugged away, but the merchant held fast. “Come now. Be a good girl.”

Now the rage came. Already she had begun to respond when a thick, heavy hand landed on the arm of the merchant.