“Are you going to come for me or not, wife?” he growls, his grin brushing against my face. “You don’t wanna make me—”

  I throw my head back and let out a giggling moan. I keep my voice low just in case I wake Max, but the pleasure is no less intense. It shatters within my pussy, capturing my whole body. It is the pleasure of our new life bundled up inside of me, both of us crushing together like a new beginning.

  Everything is new with Mason, new and familiar at the same time. Maybe that’s what being husband and wife is all about.

  I tilt my hips as the waves wash through me. My pussy goes tight, and then releases in a sudden burst of euphoria. He holds his cock deep inside of me, those wolf’s eyes drinking me in like medicine.

  He needs me just as I need him, I see as the orgasm twists through me. He would die without me, and I’d be lost without him.

  “I love you so much,” he whispers as I claw my hands down his bare, muscular back.

  “I. Love. You.” I can barely get the words out as the wetness drips down his cock.

  He thrusts up one final time just as my orgasm finishes. This doesn’t always happen, but when it does it’s like a song. We reach our crescendos at the same time.

  He rolls aside and lifts his arm. It’s an instinct at this point. I crawl in without thinking, laying my head against his chest as his come cools on my thighs.

  “What do you think?” he asks. “A boy or a girl this time?”

  I shrug, thinking. “What would you prefer?”

  “Prefer? Am I ordering a damn drink? And don’t you go hitting me again, all right? I’m allowed to swear when the little man’s not here, remember? We agreed.”

  “What if I just want to hit you for the sake of it?” I counter.

  “Well then …” He pauses, everything going still. “I’ll have to get you back!”

  He leaps on me, tickling me in all the right and wrong places.

  Soon, we’re both laughing as we find each other’s lips.

  THE END

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  Sneak Preview of Devil’s Revenge: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Satan’s Wings MC)

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  I’ve got two choices: ride with the devil… or run for my life.

  A blood-soaked biker just stomped into my café and pinned me against the wall.

  I know what I should do:

  Scream.

  Fight.

  Run.

  But when he kisses me, all I can do is beg for more.

  Turns out: that’s the worst mistake of my life.

  Dax might be a six foot tall heartbreaker with a wicked smile and a rugged six-pack.

  But he’s also as dangerous as they come.

  Now, I’m caught up in a web of drugs and a war between motorcycle clubs.

  There’s only two ways out of this town:

  On the back of Dax’s bike…

  Or in a body bag.

  Rachael

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Sandy tells me, rolling her eyes. She has this way of rolling her eyes that’s both judgmental and sympathetic. I’d be amazed if it wasn’t so annoying. I’ve never seen it before, except with her. And maybe a serial killer I watched in a documentary once. But that’s just a coincidence … I’m sure.

  I keep doing what I’m doing, wiping down the counter. I’ve wiped it down a few times already. But one thing I’ve learned working in cafés is that wiping down the same counter twice isn’t a problem. It’s the opposite, in fact. The bosses expect it. And it beats talking to the customers – not that there’s many of those, lately.

  “Hello?” she snaps, interrupting my counter wiping.

  “I mean that I don’t know where I’m going in life. I mean I feel like I don’t have a clue right now.” I cock my eyebrow at her. “Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah, it makes sense.” She smiles. “But what do you want?”

  I throw my hands up and immediately regret it. Big mistake. Cleaning fluid sprays a powerful jet right across the room, almost hitting the wall. Luckily, the place is empty apart from us.

  Sandy giggles. She’s much shorter than me at five-four, wearing a tank top with the bottom tied up to make it a crop top. Sandy can make anything into a crop top. It suits her, though, right along with her tight denim shorts and chunky black boots. Her hair is dyed pink and her face is dotted with about a billion piercings. “That was impressive.”

  “I’m just venting,” I say. “What’s life if you can’t vent to a friend?”

  An idea strikes her. “I know what you need!” she suddenly exclaims. She leaps over to the counter. Her wrists make a jangle-jangle noise from all the bracelets. She clasps my hands tightly in her overly-dramatic way. “What you need is…” she pauses for effect. I roll my eyes but let her finish. “…A man.”

  If I rolled my eyes any harder, they’d get stuck looking backwards. I don’t even dignify her suggestion with a reply. Instead, I disentangle myself and go into the back to start unloading the dishwasher. Sandy chases me around the counter and into the back, taking pieces of the wash from me and placing them on the counter.

  “Did you hear what I said?” she asks after a few minutes of quiet.

  “It’s hard not to,” I mutter.

  “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t see how that would fix this … I can’t even say ‘problem’!” I sigh heavily. “I don’t know how it would fix everything. Or anything, really.”

  “Why can’t you say ‘problem’?” She knits her eyebrows.

  “Because it’s a non-problem. It’s more like, I wish there was something going on, but there’s not. How’s that a problem? I have a job; I have an apartment. I’m not dying of any illnesses. At least any I know of.” I laugh harshly.

  Sandy joins in, but then she waves a hand. “I don’t think you have to be dying of some horrible illness to want more out of life.”

  “I don’t want to feel sorry for myself.”

  “No one is saying anything about feeling sorry for yourself! But men are fun – most of the time. When they’re not being a pain in my ass. Anyway, a man would help you a lot, I think. It’s not healthy to be a spinster at your age.”

  “I’m not a spinster!” I snap.

  She tilts her head at me. “You’re celibate.” She says the word like it tastes bad.

  “I’m not celibate,” I counter. “I just haven’t … for a while.”

  “How long?”

  We’re in dangerous territory now. The inside of the dishwasher is looking mighty appealing. It’d be nice in there. Warm. Quiet. No one telling me I need a man in my life or sex to feel satisfied. But I know that there’s no getting away from Sandy’s questions. She’s like a persistent little chihuahua when she feels like I’m ducking her. Even if there was a way to climb inside and seal myself shut, she’d get through. “If it’s longer than six months, you’re in grave danger. I think you could die. Have you been to the doctor to make sure everything still works? I’ve heard stories about it sealing up … you know, it.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “I’m worried about you.” She can barely contain her warped laughter.

  Again with the eye rolling. “Worried? I’m fine. Forget I said anything.”

  “That’s it,” she declares. “I’m setting you up!”

  “With one of your friends?” Sandy and I are best friends, but she has another group which is completely separate from us, one I do my best to stay away from. Not that they’re bad people, not at all. But when the guys are rocking three-foot pink mohawks and eyebrow piercings and clothes that looked like they took a hole puncher to a fisherman’s sweater… well, it’s not exactly to my taste.

  “I’m good, thanks,” I mutter.

  Sandy doesn’t like my answer. She juts her hip out at a sassy angle, arms folded, and stares me down. “Just because somebody has a pink Mohawk it doesn’t mean they don’t know how to fuck.”

  I ignore her and reach down to grab some more dishes.

  “Does it?” she challenges. She is in one hell of a mood today.

  “I guess not.” I glance at the clock. “Still half an hour until closing.” The place is dead. I’ve sorted all of the end-of-day tasks, which means I now have to pray that nobody wants some fancy coffee. That would mean firing up the machine again.

  “Alright, alright, I get it. You don’t want to talk about this. We can move on.” She raises her hands in mock defeat. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Reading a book.”

  Her face drops like I just told her I was going to slap a baby across the face.

  “Reading a book?” she gasps, dumbfounded. “What? I mean… what?”

  “I’m really into that thriller. I don’t see any problem with reading a book. Maybe you should read more.”

  “All right, Miss Prissy. I’m gonna move on from that particular conversation before my head explodes. Would you like you know what I’m doing on this fine Friday evening?”

  We move back into the front, near the wiped-down counter. “I don’t know. Do I?”

  “Oh, don’t be an old lady about it. I’m not doing anything crazy. A bunch of us are heading down to see the Bloody Talons. Want to come with us?”

  “What on earth are the Bloody Talons?”

  She shrugs. “It’s a band,” she says, as if I’m the crazy one for not knowing that.

  Just as Sandy’s about to offer me another pearl of wisdom, her cell phone goes off. She holds up a finger to keep me in place as she answers. Smart move. I was getting ready to run to the other side of the diner before she starts hounding me to come with her to the Bloody Tampons, or Talons, or whatever.

  “Oh, hey.” I know she’s talking to a man immediately. It’s the way she paces around the room, taking these odd deer-like steps, twirling her hair in one absent-minded finger. She chatters and giggles for a few minutes. “Sorry,” she says once the call is over.

  “It’s okay. You can leave; I’ll close down. Look, only twenty-four minutes and ten seconds left.” I smile at her like a beauty pageant contest. I love the girl, but she is exhausting me today. I’m practically drooling at the thought of curling up on the couch with a book and a hot cup of tea. If there is anything more different than head-banging and getting felt up by punk strangers at a heavy metal concert, my imagination simply does not have the bandwidth to conceive of it.

  “Are you sure?” she says, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “I’m sure.”

  She doesn’t ask twice, just grabs her purse and heads for the door. The bell tinkles as she pulls it open. “Text me when you change your mind,” she calls over her shoulder. Then she’s gone.

  Whew.

  When Sandy leaves, I take the thriller from under the counter and try to read. But I’ve been working for ten hours now and my eyes are tired. I persist, thinking maybe I can just push through it. Then my forehead aches and throbs. I drop the book, annoyed. The only other thing to do in here, once everything is taken care of, is to stare at the clock, counting down the minutes.

  Counting down the minutes until death, Sandy calls it. Maybe she’s—

  My thoughts come to an abrupt stop when the man barrels into the café. It’s Californian dusk outside, so it’s still bright. An orange glow follows him into the main room. It makes it hard to see him at first. But then he takes another step.

  He’s massively tall, at least six and a half feet. His face is scarred down one side, a pink line running from the corner of his eye down to the corner of his lip, tugging his mouth into a cocky smile. The rest of his face is hard; his nose broken but not bent. It looks like it’s been shoved back into place. The amazing thing is he’s still handsome despite all this. His hair is jet-black and cut close, his face is clean-shaven, and he is wearing a leather jacket with two charred, blackened wings on them. So he’s in the Satan’s Wings MC. Nobody in Angels’ Lot is unfamiliar with them.

  Then he takes another step, and I realize in shock that his hands and forearms are covered in blood.

  He finally looks at me. His face changes for a split second into something unreadable but vaguely threatening. Like a predator’s gaze. But then it passes and I wonder if I imagined it.

  “Um, hello?” I squeak.

  “Phone,” he grunts.

  I’m at a loss for words.

  “I know what you’re gonna say. The fuck do I need a phone for in 2018? Don’t you worry about it. I need yours.” He walks right up to the counter. Whisky, metal, blood, leather, all mixed together in a scent that washes over me. And somehow it’s not unpleasant. “Rachael?” He reads my nametag. “I don’t wanna scare you, but I need that phone.”

  I should be scared, I sense. Yet I’m not. He looks at me plainly, almost kindly. Up close, he’s even more intimidating. Handsome, with exotic features, the kind that sear themselves into your memory forever.

  “You can use that one.” I nod to the desk phone which sits next to the cash register. “Are you … are you okay?” I glance at his hands.

  He looks down at them as though he didn’t even know he was bleeding. “Oh.” He laughs grimly. “Yeah, fine. Give me a napkin or something so I don’t get your phone dirty.”

  I get him a wad of napkins. He stares at me when I just stand there. “I’m gonna need some privacy.”

  He talks like a man who is used to people listening to him. It’s not arrogant, but it’s not polite either. It’s just the calm expectation that whatever he demands will be carried out – immediately and with no questions asked.

  Against my better judgment, that’s exactly what I do. I go to the rear of the café where I can still see him. He talks in vicious whispers on the phone. Then he slams it down in the receiver.

  “How do I thank a lady?” he calls to me.

  I have no idea how to respond to this. To be honest, I’m not even sure what he means. So I just say the first thing that comes into my mind.

  “I can help with your hands if you like. We have a first-aid kit in the back.”

  He laughs, this time even grimmer. I bite my lip in confusion. Is he mocking me? He doesn’t seem to be. “Sure,” he says. “Come and clean me up, Rachael.”

  It’s strange to hear my name from a man like him. But I can’t deny the confusing shiver which moves through me, either. “Okay, follow me.” I take him into the back and grab the first-aid kit from the cupboard. He goes to the sink, grinning at me.

  “We’ll need to wash your hands,” I tell him.

  He offers them to me. “Then let’s wash them.”

  It feels surreal to be softly scrubbing this man’s hands. They’re big and callused. A couple of his knuckles are cut, but otherwise, his hands are completely fine. Once the water is running clear, I take a step back and look at him quizzically.

  “It’s bleeding way too …” I trail off.

  He nods his head, reading my face.

  “It’s not your blood.”

  He nods again.

  Then he moves very close to me, so close his breath tickles my forehead. It feels so good for a man to tower over me like this that, for a moment, I forget. Forget where I am, forget how strange this all is, forget to be anxious or nervous. I just stand there. He grabs my shoulders. I let out a squeal. He pulls me close to him, pressing his body against mine. His leather crushes achingly into my breasts.

  The kiss is swift and hard, our lips and teeth smacking together. It’s quick. But even though it passes quickly I still grab onto his shoulders, still let out a moan. I can’t help it. It feels so good. It feels so right, somehow.

  And also, so very, very wrong.

  Then he releases me and turns for the fire escape.

  “Wait!” I wipe my mouth. And then regret it straightaway when his taste vanishes.

  He pauses at the door, half turning to me. “What?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Oh shit. Where are my manners? I reckon I was taught better than that.” He bows deeply.

  “Hello, miss. My name is Dax.”

  “Rachael McAllister.”

  “So we’ve met.”

  He leaves before either of us can say anything else.

  Dax

  I jump into Mac’s car thinking about that sexy piece I can still taste on my lips. Like goddamn bubblegum. She was something else. A button nose, plump lips, those bright blue eyes. But most of all, the way those long legs fit into those black tights; the way the black skirt hugged her ass. Her pert breasts tucked into her white shirt. Gives me a shiver just thinking about it.

  Then Mac nods to me and I push her from my mind. It’s time to go to work.

  “These pricks jumped you?” he growls. He’s an older fella. Older than me, at any rate. He’s thirty-something with a bullseye tattooed on his neck and a spider on the other side. I can tell he’s pissed by the way the spider shifts around, almost like it’s moving. “These fuckin’ … Bloody Savages, my ass. These pricks are cowards. That’s all there is to it.”

  A few boys trail after us on their bikes, four in all.

  “Head to Jacobson’s place,” I tell Mac. “That’s where they hit me.”

  “You were making the rounds?” he asks as we turn the corner.

  “Yeah. I was just walking out to my bike. Then I see that the tires are slashed. So I take out my knife and turn around and sure enough, there’s some Bloody Savage fuck standing there with a piece of garroting wire. Fuckin’ moron. But he had a few friends with him. Managed to fight ’em off, but they got my cell phone and they already fucked my bike. They tried to take my patch too, but I told those bastards they’d have to kill me. I had to run, though.” I clench my fists thinking about it. “I had to run like a dog.”

  “No shame in that,” Mac says. “Waiting for your brothers ain’t a bad idea, Dax.”