Her Older Biker - Page 9

He nibbles my earlobe, practically purring as I stroke a thumb across his flat nipple. “Traditional Samoan tattoos,” he rumbles against my neck. “Done the old way.”

“They’re amazing.” I lean forward and kiss the heavy swirls of dark ink, pausing to sigh against his hot skin as his callused fingers stroke across my swelling clit.

In one smooth, easy motion, he rolls me underneath him, caging me in with his muscled arms and legs as he buries me in a hot, hungry kiss. His mouth devours mine—differently than last night. It’s aggressive, like he wants to devour me, and—oh God, when he thrusts his big fingers inside of me while his mouth trails down to suck on my nipple through the fabric of my shirt, I can’t wait to let him.

The mid-morning sun filters through the blinds of his bedroom, and it’s quiet except for our kisses and gasps—a hazy, surreal morning, full of secret things and whispered confessions.

Until the jangling chime of Warden’s phone shatters the moment. He groans and buries his head against my shoulder as his fingers, buried between my legs, still and withdraw.

“I gotta get that, baby,” he says, dropping a quick kiss on my lips. He rolls away and grabs the phone, tapping the screen to accept the call.

“This is Kapua,” he says. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything, just grunts his assent as someone speaks rapidly on the other side, too quietly for me to hear. In a minute, he sets the phone back down and turns to me.

“Is everything okay?” I ask

He shakes his head. “Club business. Nothing we can’t handle, but we have to go deal with some bullshit with another club.”

He rises from the bed and disappears into his walk-in closet, emerging a second later as he buttons a pair of jeans around his lean waist. I can’t resist admiring his muscles bunching and flexing as he threads a belt through the loops and pulls a plain black t-shirt over his head, followed by the worn, creaky leather of his cut. Then a pair of black socks, and his heavy black motorcycle boots.

“I want you to head down to the bar and hang out with my mom,” he says as he disappears into the bathroom and grabs his toothbrush. “Everything’s fine, but I would feel better.”

A few minutes later, we walk down the stairs from his apartment door, hand-in-hand on our way to the bar. Caroline lounges on a stool in front of a plate of eggs, book in hand as she idly stirs a cup of coffee. A few other women—sweet butts and a couple of old ladies—sit scattered at a few other tables, chatting over cups of coffee and plates of breakfast.

He lifts me up and sets me in on the stool next to his mother, then drops a soft kiss on my mouth.

“Stay here,” he grunts. “We’ll be back later, okay? Eat breakfast. Relax. Mom keeps a stash of romance novels in the office, so read, if you want.”

He leans closer to my ear and kisses the lobe. “Study up for later,” he whispers.

I laugh softly, and he smiles before pressing one more kiss to my mouth. Then he turns around and heads out the door. I hear the loud roar of motorcycle engines in the parking lot, and through the windows, I see the bikers all head out in a line. My eyes linger on Warden as he peels out of the lot. He handles the bike like it’s an extension of himself, smooth and easy. His thick muscles flex as he deftly maneuvers the bike out into the road, and my breath catches as he looks back at me. Our eyes meet, and he nods once.

And then he’s gone.

“It’ll be fine,” Caroline says. She pats my arm reassuringly. “Just a little bullshit with the Devils. I would be shocked if anybody even throws a punch.”

My eyebrows practically shoot up to my hairline. “Why would anybody get punched?”

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. You want breakfast?”

Caroline plunks a plate of eggs, hash browns, and sausage in front of me, and I eat ravenously. Not surprising, considering how late I was up with Warden and how…busy we were.

One of the old ladies draws Caroline into conversation, and I toy idly with my phone. Over two shifts, I’ve learned a few of the brothers’ names, but I still don’t really know any of the sweet butts.

On my other side, a hand lands on the bar—slim, with long, glitter flecked talons. I turn to see one of the sweet butt, slim and lithe and blond, eyeing me with undisguised curiosity. I’ve seen her around the bar, but I haven’t met her yet.

“Saw you come in with Warden,” she says. She slides into a stool and assumes a relaxed posture. “You his slut right now?”

Slut?“No,” I say flatly. “I’m not anybody’s slut.”

She laughs. “It’s not an insult, sweetie. Just a term. Means you’re seeing to his needs right now.”

I shake my head. “Warden is my friend. He’s helping me out right now.”

This conversation is getting uncomfortable fast, and even more discomfort curdles inside my belly as another one of the sweet butts wanders over to join us. Her long, dark curls brush the small of her back, and she wears a skimpy Raging Angels tank top. These women are both gorgeous—all slender curves and graceful lines, waxed and groomed and made up to perfection, and even though I know better than to compare myself to people I don’t know—who don’t know me—something about this whole situation feels bad.

“Lucky you,” the dark-haired one says. “Warden wants it morning, noon, and night, and he knows what he’s doing with that body.”