He was my boss.
He pushed me down and grabbed my skirt, using it as a strap as he pounded me harder. With a gravelly moan, his hips slowed their assault on my ass as he came inside me. I felt him pulse deep within me as he filled me.
“Zoey,” he said. Pleasure laced my name. He lifted me by my hair. “I was forgiving this time, but don’t fuck me over again, sweet girl, or next time, I’ll take your ass too.”
I came. Hard. My thighs trembled as I pulled my fingers from my panties. Footfalls came from down the hall, and I tried to quiet my heavy breaths. I slammed the book closed and pulled the blanket over me, wiping my come onto my pants.
“Morning,” Michael said as he sat beside me with a cup of coffee. He grabbed my leg beneath the blanket and rubbed it.
I had guilt in my gut from my orgasm. I had imagined being fucked by someone else while my husband was in the next room. I loved Michael, but he would never fuck me with a burning desire like that.
No, aneed. I wanted him toneedme.
Michael cooked us breakfast as usual on weekend mornings, and we sat together and ate in silence. There was no need for forced conversation or charades. We were comfortable. I stared at him as he pushed eggs around his plate with his fork. With his glasses perched on his slender nose, he glanced up at me with the ice-blue eyes I fell in love with.
“Why are you staring at me? Creep,” he asked with a chuckle. He wiped his face with a paper towel and used his other hand to smooth down the hairs of his well-groomed beard.
There was so much to love about him. About us. Yet there I was, longing to push those plates off the kitchen table and have him take me right there, right then. He was oblivious to the fire in my eyes as the longing for his cock engulfed me. I stood, pushed what was left on my plate into the trash, and placed it in the sink. I kissed him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.
“I’m going to go shower, if you want to join.”
“To be boiled alive? No thanks,” he said with a laugh. Yet another thing we didn’t have in common. He liked tepid showers. I liked to leave the shower with reddened skin. The heat of the burning-hot water soothed me.
I hadn’t purchased the multi-feature showerhead for nothing. I’d come with the heat surrounding and embracing me. I’d envision Michael fucking me for being the incompetent wife I felt I was.
Chapter Three
Michael was working late again. Nights like that, when the sun set and the sky darkened and he still wasn’t home, I knew sex would be the last thing on his mind. A well-deserved beer and kicking his feet up would be his first priority, as it should be.
I grabbed a new book off the table as I headed to my bedroom. Excitement rose with each padded footstep. My body knew what was coming. The aching desire to disappear into a new world with no job, meals to cook, or a house to clean...it was like an addiction. And I needed my fix.
I slipped beneath the white down comforter on the bed I’d made that morning. It was cold at first and would remain that way until my body heat warmed it up, and I planned on turning that heat way up. I propped up the pillows and scooted back against them. The book lay on the bed beside me, and the cover drew me in immediately. A mouth-watering bearded man stood beside a motorcycle and looked menacingly back at me as if hewere looking through me. Tattoos covered his body, and a scar ran down his cheek. He looked angry, but once my eyes found his bulging muscles beneath his t-shirt, I didn’t care. It’d been a while since I’d read a dark motorcycle-gang story, and I was more than ready to slip into this world. I prepared myself for the grungy, rough-and-tumble attitude of a gang of bikers. It wouldn’t involve sweet lovemaking, and I was more than okay with that.
The story sucked me into an unfamiliar yet tantalizing environment where everything had different meanings and the people had a customary way of doing and saying things. I could envision the club’s president, his leather cut resting over a black t-shirt. Harsh. Intolerable. Rough. I could imagine his son, who the author described as selfish but kind. She detailed these men in an artistic way, and I wanted all of it. The more I read, the more wet I became. It was just dirty enough, with a touch of violence. Beautiful violence.
I looked at the clock on my phone, making sure Michael wouldn’t be home for a while longer. I slipped off my leggings and tossed them on the floor beside the bed. I rubbed myself through my panties, letting the soft material create friction against my touch as the harsh MC world engulfed me.
Loud music blared through the large modern clubhouse, and a wraparound bar greeted us the moment the club president and I walked in. Several men in cuts turned to look at me before greeting the president with nods ofrecognition and respect. High-top tables were scattered throughout, their worn wooden surfaces resting atop rusty posts attached to dirty bases. Girls in short skirts bent over the pool table and pretended to play while men stood around chugging beers and tugging on their leather jackets. One of the men slid his hand up a girl’s skirt and played with her as if they weren’t surrounded by a crowd of people. A motorcycle stood on a platform on the other side of the room, and framed photos of bikes and their owners lined the walls. In the pictures, the members were standing beside their bikes or straddling the seats, sometimes with a woman, but usually alone.
The bartender slid a beer over the bar top and into the grasp of the man beside me—the club president. Amber liquid sloshed over the sides of the glass, and he rubbed his graying blond beard before chugging his drink. I looked up at him. He had nearly two feet of height on me, and he was as muscled as he was tall. An aged scar decorated his cheek, adding to his allure and conjuring images of a vicious brawl where he alone emerged victorious.
“Who’s this?” the bartender asked with a throaty voice, as if she was born smoking a cigarette.
“A bike whore,” he said. He looked down at me with menacing brown eyes and a wicked grin.
The words should have hurt my feelings, but that was precisely what I wanted to be, even if I wasn’t entirely sure I could handle it. I flashed him an unsure smile. It was too late to get cold feet now. I rubbed my hand down my leather skirt to soothe my nerves.
The woman cleared her throat and nodded as shepassed a cold bottle of beer to me. I didn’t open it. I wanted to be sure I remembered every dirty detail of whatever happened next. As the icy glass chilled my fingers, the president guided me down a wide set of wooden stairs and brought me into a finished basement. I looked around with wide eyes as the small group of men froze at the sight of me. One stopped mid-stroke with his pool stick. Another paused with a drink just below his lips. The president sat on an overstuffed couch in front of a huge TV that nearly took up half the wall. He pulled me onto his lap, and I rushed to pull my skirt down as I fell into him.
“J, who you got there?” asked a man leaning against a red wall covered in patches.
“This? She’s a bike whore. Couldn’t wait to hop on,” J said in a gritty voice. “What’s your name again, angel?”
“Zoey,” I said without a fiber of confidence inside me.
“Can’t hear you,” called the man against the wall.
“Zoey,” I said louder.
