Spawn
God-fucking-damn, that woman looked fine as hell.
I’d been a gentleman at the coffee shop. I’d let a slight comment slip at the end when I was heading to my bike, but for the most part, I played the role of polite conversationalist, not someone who was trying to make moves to get into someone’s pants. If I played my cards right, maybe that would come, but I tried to play the long game.
But when I got on my bike, maybe because I felt a surge of power from being on my chopper, or maybe I just finally had the space to think about her like this, but all I could think about was getting Melissa Cook naked again and having my way with her body.
Oh, holy fuck. There was just something so funny about how mere years ago, we’d been naked with each other seemingly every twelve hours—at minimum—bringing each other to orgasm in the most mind-blowing way possible. Now, though, I couldn’t even see her bare stomach, let alone her tits and pussy, but the very thought of it all had me stiff and heavily aroused on my bike. If I was acting like this just thinking about the idea of it, let alone whether or not it was possible or likely to happen, what the fuck would happen when—if, if, if—it happened?
Well, let’s just say I had a lot of pent-up energy about Melissa. It didn’t matter that, as sergeant-at-arms in the club, I had access to other pussy. Those girls were great for coming, but they didn’t mean shit to me.
Melissa was so fucking different for so many reasons I couldn’t even keep track of them. If we ever got back to that point where my cock was inside of her, I wondered if I’d even last a couple of minutes.
Of course, that idea was absurd. I’d last. I’d give her the ride of her life. At an absolute minimum, I’d make her come first because the first rule of sex was if you could make a woman come before you, it was like an investment—it would pay you back over and over and over again.
But still, I’d definitely have to fucking restrain myself, maybe slow down or switch positions to buy the time and space. Because fuck me, the mere gaze of hers was sending me through the fucking roof.
Who knew what would happen “next time?” There was no guarantee of it. She’d been cold.
But no, I had no reason to play devil’s advocate with myself. I could see where this was going. If I played it cool and kept doing what I was doing, I’d be back with Melissa.
And what happened after I’d shot my load and her pussy tingled with the clenching of orgasm…who the fuck knew?
I certainly wasn’t going to come to any definitive answer on my motorcycle while rock hard at the mere thought of Melissa Cook.
When I finally parked, I headed back into the clubhouse to see a place buzzing with a little bit more activity than usual. There were a couple of members and prospects at the bar drinking. Sonny and Satan sat on a couch in the way back, each of them with a beer in their hand. Satan also had a bit of a shit-eating grin on his face.
“What?” I said, knowing they were likely talking about me in some fashion.
“How’d your divorce settlement go?” Satan said.
“Divor—what?”
“You know, you were divorced, now you’re settling things, and soon, you might have a divorce makeup,” Sonny said, laughing the whole way through.
Well, I guess gossip in this club rarely stayed mute for long. Unless you were Satan or Sonny, in which case owning the club or being the son of the owner helped shield you from it.
Or, perhaps better said, it shielded you from conversation about it. Everyone damn well knew people still talked about shit; they just were smart enough to do it behind their back.
“It went fine,” I said as I grabbed a beer from the bar. “We talked for a bit. She was cold, but I could tell she was just trying not to look desperate. In due time, it’ll work out.”
“You want that shit to work out?” Sonny said, arching an eyebrow. “I remember you sulking like a bitch in here after that breakup.”
Satan snorted a chuckle. He wasn’t wrong, but Sonny was overplaying it just a hair. “Sulking like a bitch” was better said as “pissed off like a bear.” But yes, I reacted out loud all the same.
“We’ve grown up. What the fuck you want me to say? That we’re still kids and that we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing?”
“I dunno. Seems like getting back with an ex who ran away from you and who couldn’t speak a damn word to you sure sounds like you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.”
I sighed. Sonny could make it sound convincing on paper. That didn’t mean that his perspective was accurate, though. It just sounded fucking smart.
“Ignore the kid; he’s brash and stupid,” Satan finally said, “but you can’t ignore me because I’m your president. You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
I shrugged.
“Sonny’s not wrong. It could get ugly fa—”
“But it’s going well so far, right?”
