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BAD
BOYS’ SUBMISSIVE: HOT HARD MENAGE #2

by

Erika
Masten

Copyright © 2011 Erika
Masten
.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Erika
Masten

[email protected]

http://erikamasten.com

Published
by Sticky Sweet Books.
 
This book contains material protected under International and Federal
Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material
is prohibited. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no
part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on, or introduced into a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written
permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This
is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely
coincidental.

Warning:
Explicit content.
Intended for mature readers only.
All characters depicted herein are 18 years or
older,
and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.

This
is a work of erotic fantasy. In real life, please protect yourself and your
lover by always practicing safe sex.

TABLE
OF CONTENTS

Bad
Boys’ Submissive: Hot Hard
Menage
#2

Excerpt
From

Taken:
Dominated #1

Excerpt
From

Dominated
By Brothers: Hot Hard
Menage
#1

BAD
BOYS’ SUBMISSIVE: HOT HARD MENAGE #2

Hot
day.
I’d be better off inside, but I can only take being
stuffed into this diner for so many hours at a time. When the customers clear
out after lunch, and I’ve finished clearing piles of dishes and scrubbing
smeared ketchup and dried gravy off the tables, I call back to Nora in the
storeroom that I’m taking my break.

“Sure thing, sweetie,”
she shouts back in her whiskey-rough voice. She calls everyone sweetie. I’ve
wondered if it’s a convenient way of avoiding having to remember a town’s worth
of names. Thinking back, I can’t ever remember her calling me Trina.

I toss my apron down by
the coffee pot and dig around under the counter behind the glass pitchers and
extra napkin holders, where I hide my camera. It’s not cheap, one of the few
nice things I have from my time living up north and going to art school while I
worked for an ad agency, before my sister manipulated me into moving back to
this nowhere town to take care of Dad after he got sick.

Outside, the air smells
of dust and hot asphalt, but there’s a light wind picking up, promising a
cooler evening. I’m wearing just my sneakers and denim shorts and a blue
button-front work shirt tied under my ribcage, so the breeze feels nice against
my skin. Crossing the quiet downtown street, I roll my stiff shoulders and pull
out the band that’s holding my hair in a high ponytail,
then
shake out the long, coffee-brown strands.

I pause at the curb and
hold up my camera to check my view of the new display in the thrift shop Mrs.
Conley runs. She has an artistic flare that can turn something as uninspiring
as knick knacks and threadbare jackets into an eye-catching arrangement pretty
enough to make a person forget how depressing is to have to shop in a
secondhand store. Today it’s rows and rows of used shoes, bright women’s pumps
and sandals, vixen heels and pink bedroom slippers with faux fur, mixed with an
occasional pair of men’s black or brown dress shoes that were probably
someone’s pride and joy at their first dance or their brother’s wedding.

After snapping a few
shots, I lower my camera and take a couple steps forward to look closely at a
pair of dark red 60’s patent leather pumps, the kind with the sharply pointed
toe. They remind me of a pair my mother had. She gave them to me, despite my
sister’s protest, when I was in high school. I can’t help smiling at the
thought of all the hours of dancing those shoes have seen, and the hours they
have yet to see.

Which
leads my wandering mind to…Austin Sully.
Another thought
that brings a smile to my face.
Close-clipped brown hair,
even darker than mine, and blue-green eyes.
Perpetual five o’clock
shadow around a set of smooth lips that are always wearing a crooked,
mischievous smirk.
Firm, lean body and a set of arms to die
for.

I’ve been back in town
for eighteen months—working in the diner where he eats lunch
everyday
for six of those, since Dad passed away—and Austin
just got around to asking me out.
Jim’s Place, on the edge of
town, tomorrow night, for ribs and cheap beer.
He doesn’t make a lot as
a mechanic in this one-horse town, but the dancing is worth more to me than a
gourmet meal at one of the fancy restaurants up the coast. I’ll wear Mom’s red
pumps.

The thought of Austin’s
boyish smile and the glimmer in his eyes, of him drawing me near on the dance
floor, brings a gentle shiver to the back of my neck and a flush to my cheeks
and my chest. I fantasized about him all last night and all this morning.
About that handsome, rough face scratching against my skin as he
kisses my neck.
About him holding my hands pressed to
my bed above my head and sinking his cock deep into my aching pussy.
About him whispering hot, dirty things to me and making me talk dirty for him.
His reputation precedes him. A little bit rough, commanding, possessive without
being abusive or belittling.

With some
embarrassment, I realize my nipples have peaked, pressing through the black
lace bra and blue shirt. I shake my head. They don’t make men like the Sully
boys anymore. Nothing ever quite compares.

I try to push aside the
next thought, though it follows naturally. Shane Sully. Austin’s brother. I’ve
had a few years of practice not thinking about Shane. I hear he’s back in town,
but I haven’t seen him around, and I’m glad of it. It’s enough of a risk getting
tangled up with Austin. The town doesn’t look kindly on the
Sullys
or the women who associate with them. The difference in the way people see
Austin and Shane is just a matter of degree.

The corner of my eye
catches a reflection in the window, someone coming up behind me. Maybe I
recognize the gait, or maybe I’m just paranoid, because I immediately tense.
With good reason.

“Trina, what are you
doing out here?”

Inwardly, I cringe, and
I close my eyes for a second, as if I could wish Bud Orrin out of existence.
But that’s not going to happen. I turn to face Officer Orrin, with his blond
buzz-cut and his mirrored shades and his tight uniform. I’m pretty sure he
intentionally wears it a size too small to show off the beefy arms and broad
chest, to impress or intimidate as he sees need. He’s the police chief’s son
and will almost certainly be police chief when his dad retires, god help us
all.

“Just
taking a break, Bud.”

He frowns. “You should
stay out of the heat.”

I nod idly, wondering
how long I should wait before I hurry back across the street into the diner, so
it won’t look like I’m specifically trying to get away from him. After a couple
of seconds, I take a step past him.

Bud steps sideways to
cut me off. “What’s this I hear about you going out with Austin Sully?”

“Where’d you hear
that?” I ask defensively. I want to know who squealed, so I can hit them with a
brick, or at least drop a hot cup of coffee in their lap.

“Never mind who told
me. Is it true?” I pause a little too long, trying to decide whether to lie or
downplay the details. “Damn it, Trina, you just don’t learn. Those Sully boys
are trouble. If you’re not getting mixed up with one, it’s the other.”

I’m not going to bother
to argue. I’m not going to point out that Austin and Shane have had a bad
reputation for no good reason since they were just
seven and eight
when their dad died in a car accident, leaving an
overworked mom to wrangle two upset, confused kids while working twelve hours a
day to feed them. I’m not going to point out that neither of them had an arrest
record until Bud’s dad decided to make
himself
look
important by hauling Shane in for a break-in he knew a council member’s son had
committed. I’m not going to point out that
neither Shane or
Austin ever slapped me for resisting an unwanted, drunken groping in a bar
parking lot.
Unlike Bud.

“I need to get back to
the diner, Bud. You’re right about it being too hot out here.” I’m hoping that
throwing in the remark about him being right will head off his temper, but he
grabs my arm as I try to walk past him.

“You’re not going out
with Austin Sully. We’ve just started to get to know each other, and you’re not
giving us a chance.” Bud has that tone of voice that could go either way, sweet
and contrite for smacking me, or angry and threatening.

I try to pry his hand
gently from my arm. “It’s not a big deal, Bud, really.
Just a
bite to eat while we catch up.
We grew up together. It’s not like I’m
his girlfriend.”

Bud jerks me hard
against him, twisting my arm. “I said no, Trina.”

Right, angry and
threatening it is.

He starts pulling me
toward his police car, parked a couple of shops down. Maybe it’s the memory of
the wild rage in his eyes the night he slapped me or the fact that there’s
nothing an Orrin couldn’t get away with in this town. I start to panic and lean
away, to the point of trying to dig my heels into the cracked pavement of the
hot sidewalk.

“Bud, let go. What are
you doing?”

“We’re going to go
talk.”

“But I have to get back
to work. Let go. Bud, let go!”

He locks his arm around
my waist and hauls me off my feet, knocking the camera out of my hand in the
process. For a split second, that’s all I care about, not the fact that this
psycho cop is carrying me off to do whatever he wants with me, just my camera
tumbling from my grasp and bouncing along the sidewalk as it smashes to pieces.
Hot tears well up in my eyes, carrying all the frustration of seeing my hopes
of an art career die, of holding the frail hand of my father as he took his
last breaths, of being tossed out of the family home so my sister could sell it
out from under me. I flail and kick and scream.

Bud shuts me up by
slamming me against the side of his cruiser, right above the city seal that
says “To Protect & Serve” in bright blue letters. He pins me there with his
hip as he opens the rear door. If he gets me into that cage, I’m done for. The
doors don’t open from the inside.

He grabs me by the hair
and tries to shove me down on the seat. “About time I taught you some manners,
you fucking bitch.”

Despite having the wind
knocked out of me, I brace myself, planting my hands on either side of the door
and locking my arms. Bud is a hell of a lot stronger than I am, though. My arms
shake as I strain to resist. I put my foot on the edge of the seat and push
with my leg. It feels like he’s going to tear a clump of hair out of my head.

“Trina?”

I hear the voice off to
my left and turn my head just enough to see Austin Sully coming around the
corner. Oddly calm in that second, I realize it must be three o’clock. He’s
been walking over from the garage on most afternoons for an iced tea to go—and
to see me, I’d like to think. The sight of him makes my heart swell.

Austin launches himself
toward us at a run and barrels into Bud, tackling the burly officer and
dragging him to the pavement. They careen off the door, knocking me down on the
way. I roll to a stop with a collection of stinging scrapes and scuffs and
watch in frozen shock as Austin drives his fist across Bud’s jaw. Those
mirrored shades go flying off, skip across the sidewalk, and hit the brick wall
outside Conley Thrift.

It takes more than one
punch to put Bud Orrin off, and Austin seems determined to oblige. I stumble to
my feet and start pulling on Austin’s faded black t-shirt. By then, he has
smashed his fist into Bud’s nose a good four or five times, taking out a family
vendetta that goes back a lot farther than today. The fear that he isn’t going
to stop leaves me feeling like I’m going to throw up.