Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
She takes a long pull, watching my reaction. My mouth falls open before I snap it shut. She points, laughing. “Your face! I wish I had my phone.”
“We've been friends too long.”
Hours later, the trees around the property start doing the fucking rumba as I push away from the table. My legs have their own agenda as I stagger toward the garage where broken bikes go to be resurrected. I round the corner only to slam face-first into what feels like a concrete wall wrapped in human skin.
“Shit, sorry,” I slur, catching myself. He turns, thick fingers still working his zipper.
He laughs, and it slams into me—deep, dangerous. Cut tailored just loose enough to hide what’s underneath. Darkness doesn’t just cling to him; it waits.
From across the room? Hot. Now? A weapon with a pulse.
He tilts a bottle of whiskey back for a long pull, and his chin lifts slightly, those ice-blue eyes sizing me up like I'm prey. “What's your name?”
I arch a brow, trying to look unimpressed despite the heat crawling up my neck. “Melissa. Should I ask what yours is?” Tattoos map his body like a road to hell, his eyes the kind of blue that's burned cities to the ground. That crooked grin could make a nun question her life choices.
He moves, closing the distance between us without taking a step. The bonfire's light dances across his jaw, all sharp angles, and brutal beauty. I retreat until cold concrete stops my escape. His arms cage me, massive hands splayed on either side of my head. The scent of leather, whiskey, and raw masculinity wraps around me like a vise.
“Well, considering you're gonna be screaming it in about five fucking minutes? Yeah, I'd say you should ask.” His voice is gravel and thunder, the kind that vibrates straight through to your core.
His lips hover close enough that I can taste the whiskey on his breath.
“Cocky much?” I challenge, squaring my shoulders even as liquid heat pools between my thighs. “Please don't tell me that shitty line works on all your poor victims.”
He chuckles, slipping his thigh between mine. Alcohol courses through my veins. My birthday. My fucking birthday. Should be a pass right? Fuck a biker, save a villain?
“Dunno,” he growls over my lips with a smirk. Knuckles graze my belly as he flicks off my button. “I'll reach inside and find out.”
I open my mouth to say something back, but kiss him. Hard. There's nothing gentle about it, all invasion and ownership, his tongue demanding surrender. My hands fly up in surprise before digging into his shoulders, my brain giving up any rational thought. He pulls back, those blue eyes search mine, amused and teasing.
His hands grip my thighs, lifting me off the ground. My legs wrap around his waist like they've found their home. With one quick tug, my strapless dress gives way, my tits spilling free. The night air barely has time to touch my skin before his mouth closes over one nipple, that fucking pierced tongue circling the sensitive bud. His teeth clamp down, just shy of painful, and I gasp as pleasure shoots through me.
One massive hand keeps me pinned to the wall while the other hooks beneath my panties, calloused fingers finding me embarrassingly wet. He drops to his knees on the unforgiving concrete, hiking my leg over his shoulder and shoving my underwear aside with an impatience that makes me throb.
His tongue plunges into me like a man denied his last meal, wringing a guttural sound from my throat. The crack of his palm against my ass cuts the noise short, leaving nothing but the throb of skin and the wet heat of his mouth.
“Shut that pretty mouth,” he growls over my thigh, the words rumbling through me. “Unless you're looking to put on a show.”
No hesitation. No mercy. His tongue spears deep while his fingers hook inside me, working some dark rhythm that has my knees shaking. Then cold glass glides down my spine—the neck of his whiskey bottle tracing fire and ice along my skin before settling against my clit. The contrast alone almost sends me over the edge again, my nerves screaming at the sudden shift.
Whiskey spills across my flesh, burning and cooling at once. His tongue follows the trail, lapping at me like I'm the fucking bottle.
With every flick of his tongue, my hips ride into him and the distant thump of party music drowns under the rush. His tongue presses flat against my clit while a thick finger hooks deep, hitting that perfect place that turns my sight to haze. Release crashes through me, vivid bursts flaring behind closed eyes as my spine bows sharp.
My fingers twist into his hair as his own tighten around my thighs, holding me upright through the aftershocks.
I'm gasping, trembling, but he doesn't let go until I'm a boneless, breathless mess.