Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(26)
She'd wear it. She'd be happy. And I'd put a choke chain around my cock the whole time, whatever it took to kill the urge to f*ck her senseless.
No lie, it was gonna take a miracle. Every second I wasn't balls deep in her was torture. My skin bristled thinking about her pressed up against me on the long ride home, how soft and sweet she felt, how hot she'd be to haul into my bed and f*ck, f*ck, f*ck 'til we lit the bed on fire.
The last stop was at a local burger stand for some grub. I'd seen the old pictures of her, back when she had some wicked curves. A selfish part of me wanted to help pad her again, get her healthy.
No surprise, the girl had lost some serious weight in the pimp's clutches. She was beautiful now, but there was a total knockout underneath the surface, a girl who'd make every man who passed her ache to get her under him.
'Course, I didn't wanna wait. I wanted her now.
Having to forget about all the nasty things I wanted to do to her while we slept in the same room tonight promised to be a special hell. I'd have to tie my hands behind my back if we shared a bed, otherwise they'd end up stripping off her clothes, spreading her legs, holding her open for my fingers, my tongue, every swollen inch of me.
I'd heard her whimper several times before. Whenever I imagined her doing it louder in bed, pressed up against me, my thunder stirred my blood. My cock raged in my pants, a nuclear f*cking warhead threatening to blow my whole world apart if I didn't slam her into the nearest horizontal surface and fill her up.
Fuck. I should've been thinking that kinda shit when I'd already screwed her over. Damn if I could help it. Meg's tongue, her tits, her sweet little ass clouded my head the entire ride home.
I focused on the guilt by the time my bike pulled into the garage, the only thing that would kill the dynamite hard-on throbbing in my pants.
I headed into the clubhouse, straight to my room. Found her curled up on my bed, dead asleep, stripped out of the sopping wet clothes I half-worried had given her pneumonia.
My hand brushed her cheek, checking for warmth, fever. It was a small relief when she was cool to the touch, and pure hell as my eyes wandered her body, taking in everything that wasn't hidden by the lacy black bra and panties hanging on her.
Her eyelids fluttered open. She rolled sharply, almost fell off the bed and pounded the floor when she saw me.
“Didn't mean to scare you. I'm back with some food and clothes.”
She looked at me like a scorned cat. I reluctantly lowered my eyes, reaching for the bag from the clothing shop, pushing it into her arms.
“Go ahead and change in the bathroom. I'll give you some privacy.”
Fuck, if I didn't want to eat those words. Privacy? Who the hell was telling her this?
It sure wasn't Skin. No matter how bad I felt about keeping her here for cash, I couldn't stop thinking about how hard I wanted to f*ck her.
The bathroom door gently closed as she retreated inside, reappearing a couple minutes later, dressed like she was ready to ride out with me to the bar. I couldn't unsee what the jeans and shirt were hiding, and she scrunched up her face when she caught me looking at her too long, too intently.
“Jesus, you're a pig. I can't believe I thought you were different.”
“Sure, go ahead and ignore the fact that I sent three miserable f*cking Deads to their graves to get you here alive. I meant everything I said – I wouldn't have given you my ring as collateral if I didn't.” I bolted up and stared at her, every kinda frustration known to man churning in my veins. “You're going home, Meg. No bullshit. The faster you work with me, the sooner it'll happen.”
Ignoring me, she walked past, and looked into the bag I sat on my beat-up table.
“Eat, woman. You've gotta be hungry.”
She wrinkled her nose and gave me a disinterested look. “I'm not.”
“Don't make me force something down your throat, babe. I've carried you this far, and I'm sure as shit not standing here while you starve to death.”
“So do it,” she said coldly, heading for the lone chair in the corner. “You're not my hero. I don't care how many excuses you make, Skin. You're just another man who's decided to use me. You're going to take whatever you want, make me do it your way, and I don't have any say. Don't pretend I'm wrong.”
My skin sizzled, anger and disappointment building at my brain stem. I didn't like the defeat in her eyes, or the way she slouched her shoulders, shrugging off living another day when she was so f*cking close to home.
“You can't give up now. Look, I'm not doing this because it's my choice. I couldn't have bailed you out in the first place if I didn't promise the other guys something.” I stepped toward her, closing the space between us, waiting for her to look at me. “I'm still the same man you met in that whorehouse, the man who gave you the most important thing he's got for collateral. I'm gonna help you out of this for good, but I've got to help my club too, and they need the reward your folks promised.”
“You're a criminal, Skin. No different than the rest of them – just a little less stoned and maybe less cruel.”
What the shit? Was she trying to make me explode?
“Maybe,” she repeated, still looking at the floor. “You want your money? Fine. I'll do what I can to convince my dad to give it up, whenever you're ready to let me talk to him. You know, if you aren't going to chain me up in here like Ricky and use me a few times before you decide to let me go. Looks like I wound up with a buyer after all, right?”