Devil's Angels Boxed Set: Bikers and Alpha Bad Boy Erotic Romance (36 page)

Solomon smiled down at her like he knew exactly what she wanted, as he kicked away his jeans. “If it isn’t about me being inside of you, then you shouldn’t be thinking it.”

Kat laughed out loud, but the sound was cut short by Solomon’s hands on her thighs, as he pushed her legs wide. Kat moaned, as the cool air hit her heated flesh and his eyes devoured her body. “You’re soaking wet, Kit-Kat. Did you miss me?” Solomon purred, as he trailed a finger down her thigh and to her outer lips.

Kat bit her tongue, as he traced his fingers over the damp flesh. The man knew how to tease her.

“Please. I need you inside me now. It’s been too long,” Kat moaned, as she let him flick the gentle nub of her clit.

Suddenly, his fingers were gone, but they were immediately replaced by the thick heat of him. It wasn't the greatest sensation at first, but it was one Kat would never forget. It was as if Solomon was going home, carving himself into her body. It felt good and right.

Slowly, he worked himself into her body. Kat arched involuntarily, her fingers twisting in the sheets. He filled her, satisfied her, and completed her with everything he was. It wasn’t just sex anymore. Kat wondered if it had ever been just sex. Solomon had always been different and, somewhere deep inside, Kat had always known that.

Again, Kat arched her back and thrust her breasts invitingly into the air. She was rewarded when Solomon bent down and latched onto a nipple. Then, he gripped her hips and thrust completely into her, lodging himself into her body.

On a sharp gasp, her hands went to his back gouging scores into his skin. "Careful, Solomon, my breasts are a little tender."

He just nodded and drew back. Then, he buried his head in the valley of her breasts, as he continued to thrust into her. There was no finesse to his movements, no measurements. It was pure instinct that drove Solomon on. Kat could feel it in the muscle she clamped down on. She could hear it in the unrestrained groans that came from his lips and taste it on his sweat soaked skin.

The barriers between them were broken, like ashes in the wind. Kat couldn’t think anymore. She couldn’t understand what was happening to her body and to his. Everything melded together. They were fused so tightly that somehow the world disappeared.

"Solomon!" Kat screamed out, as her hands ripped his t-shirt and her teeth bit hard into his bicep. She forced him to pull her more firmly against him. As he did, he thrust back into her harder, more viscously.

"Fuck, Kit-Kat!" Solomon groaned loudly, slamming into her. The pain mixed with the pleasure and blended together until neither of them could remember what it felt like to be without the other person.

This is what I want!
It wasn't perfect or clean or pretty. It was a craving, an obsession to be with another human being. The need to get as far deep inside of them as a person could go. Kat couldn't remember when she'd started feeling this way about Solomon. She wasn’t sure when she had begun to crave him like she needed him to keep her sane.

Solomon slammed his palms flat against the headboard. As he came, his knees shook and his hips bucked uncontrollably. Kat was a second behind him, clutching onto him, and crushing her breasts to his chest, as she sobbed out her release. Holding onto him with shaking arms, she spasmed against him. Her nails wracked his back, as she tightened her thighs and clenched her inner muscles.

Very slowly, she released Solomon and settled back on the bed. The sheets seemed freezing cold on her overheated body. They panted for long minutes. Neither of them spoke, as their bodies warmed, then cooled on Solomon’s black cotton sheets. Solomon levered himself off of Kat and propped his elbow up on the bed, placing his head in his hand.

He lifted his hand and reached towards her, running his fingers through her short locks. "Your hair looks good. Did you do something different?" Solomon asked tiredly, rolling a thick brown curls between his fingertips.

Kat tipped her head back. She looked at him with her lips bruised, eyes bright, and cheeks glowing. A satisfied smile played on her lips, as she answered him, "Got it cut two weeks ago."

"Hmm...I like it," Solomon mumbled tiredly, as he pulled Kat closer to him. He buried his nose in her locks before he pulled out of her. Then, he slid down the bed to wrap his arms around her middle and place his ear against her stomach.

Long seconds faded as they sat in companionable silence. They were still wrapped in each other’s arms with Solomon listening for any sounds from his unborn child.

This is where I belong
, Kat thought, as she closed her eyes and drew Solomon’s unique fragrance into her nose.

“The baby is mine, right, Kat?” Solomon asked quietly into the darkened room.

Kat laughed softly and breathed out a small sigh. “Yes. I haven’t been with anyone since you.”

“Good.”

Kat smiled at the possessive note in his tone before she reached down to hold Solomon’s head and watch him listen to the child moving inside. “Solomon, what are we going to do?”

He propped his arms up and climbed up the bed to kiss her on the lips. “About?”

Kat smiled as she wound her arms around his neck and frowned up at him. “About the Free Guns. About our jobs. About the baby.” Kat paused and leaned up to lick his lower lip and give it a bite mark. “Basically, what are we going to do about our lives?”

Solomon swooped down and claimed her lips and tongue until she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t really want to breathe, if she was being honest. But then he drew back, leaving her hot, heavy, and very horny.

“We’ll take it one day at a time, Kit-Kat,” Solomon whispered, moving back down the bed and placing light kisses on her collarbone, her breasts, and lower still.

Kat’s breaths came out as little pants. Her eyes following his every movement. “But--”

“We’ll start,” he said, keeping her gaze, as he kissed her left then right nipple, “with a wedding.”

Kat jumped and clapped her hands on either side of his head. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

Solomon gently removed her hands from his head. He climbed over the side of the bed to bend down naked on one knee. He reached into the drawer of the side table and pulled out a red velvet box. “Kathy Janine
Sullivan, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?
”

For a brief second, time stopped for Kat. Memories of everything they’d gone through during their rollercoaster relationship came back to her. Then, it disappeared. The past had no place in their future. The sins she’d committed would not taint the life she would lead. They were new people, strengthened by the secrets they’d shared. Together, they would solve whatever problems arose. Whatever difficulties they faced with their jobs, their club, and their family, they would face together.

“After everything I did?” Kat whispered, knowing what the answer would be, but needing to get the words out anyway.

“I love you, Kit-Kat. I love the bat-shit crazy things you do and I love the relatively sane things you do. I accept your past, I just want your future.”

Tears sprung to her eyes, as she held out her hand and felt the cool gold slip onto her finger. “Then, yes. Solomon Parker, I will marry you.”

RETURN TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

EVELYN GLASS

CHAPTER ONE

The alarm goes off and a crackly voice blasts out of the radio: “Welcoooooome, everybody, good morning, good morning, good morning! Wake up, New York City! Let’s get this day going!”

I open my eyes for the first time and am promptly blinded by the sun pouring through the holes in my raggedy curtains. Rolling over to get out of bed, I get tangled in the sheets and fall to the floor with a thick
thud
that rattles everything on my bedside table. There’s a lot of me.

“A woman and a half in every direction” is what my friends used to say.

My mother would’ve preferred the phrase “fat slut.”

She’s rail-thin, always has been, and the sight of my jiggling curves never failed to bring a condescending sneer to her face. She made sure I knew I was big, every single day of my life. “Whale of a daughter” and “giant pig” were another two of her favorites.

From my sprawled position on the floor, I take a bleary-eyed glance around my apartment. It’s a cramped cube, sparse and decrepit. Sometimes I feel like the filing cabinets at work are bigger than the shithole in which I live. The white paint on the walls looks as if it was splashed on haphazardly by an apathetic subletter, failing to cover the dark splotches of what I pray wasn't the blood of a former tenant. Knowing this part of town, though, that scenario isn’t too unlikely. It sucks. But hey, it’s the only place I can afford.

Heaving a sigh, I drag myself to the “bathroom,” a sink and toilet stashed behind a changing screen. I wash my face, rake a toothbrush across my teeth, and try to arrange my long black hair into some semblance of a professional style.

I don’t have time to shower – I have to be at work in twenty minutes.
Where is my uniform?
I wonder, peering through the piles of clothes strewn around the room. I find it and lay it on the bed, trying to smooth wrinkles out of the crinkly polyester polo with the grocery store’s grinning pig logo printed on the chest.

Squeezing myself into the shirt and a pair of khakis, I grab my keys and hustle out the door.

***

Down on the street, the sidewalks are churning with people. Housewives walking their dogs, children with backpacks, men in crisp suits.

Every now and then I glance back and see one of those men staring at me with a peculiar hunger in his eyes. I swear one of them licked his lips once.

I cut through the crowds, lumbering towards the corner store where I work, the fabric of my khakis heating up as my thighs rub together. The weather has cooled down since summer ended, but I’m still sweating by the time I make it inside the door. The bell clangs, announcing my entrance, and I quickly scurry back behind the counter to clock in.

***

I’ve only been here for three hours, but it feels like centuries have gone by. Working at a grocery store is monotonous – the same fake smile, the same banal conversation, over and over and over again. My feet are aching from standing up for so long. The only way to cope with the boredom is to slip off into dull unthinkingness.

The bell rings at the door for the thousandth time today and I prep my welcoming smile, though my thoughts are cloudy and distant. A blonde girl wearing tight jeans and a flowing silk shirt, wanders inside. We make eye contact and suddenly I realize that I know her.

“Sarah?” I ask.

She looks up and her eyes widen. “Jodie Sutton! Oh my god, girl, where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages! You’ve been seriously M.I.A.”

I smile sheepishly. Working two jobs in a futile attempt to stave off student loans, all while trying to finish my class work and graduate, has made me somewhat of a ghost, especially in the last year.  I don’t even remember the last time I went out to socialize. Sarah, though, used to be a good friend way back in freshman year when I was still buzzing with the high of escaping my mother’s abusive clutches.

“I’ve been working a lot,” I say. “Trying to pay for things.”

“That’s understandable,” she replies, smiling and nodding as if to express her sympathy. “But you should come out with us one of these days! You gotta have some fun, at least before college is over.”

I smile and nod as the conversation goes on, but I’m not really paying attention anymore. Lately, I have found myself retreating into my head whenever I interact with people, hiding behind a façade of smiles and “mmhmm” and “of course,” anything to make the conversations end. I am vaguely aware of promising to call her later, something about a concert  and a hot lead singer. She leaves.

I feel like I’m asleep all the time, like I’m stumbling through my motions in a daze. I wonder if I’m ever going to wake up. I wonder if I am even capable of awakening myself.

Sleeping Beauty had a prince to kiss her. But I have no one.

***

I catch a glance of myself in an oil slick next to the bus stop as I wait to catch the shuttle downtown. In the puddle, I study my features carefully, scrutinizing the familiar flaws. My black hair cascades down, finger-tooled waves winding over my shoulders.
Too thick.
My smooth and buttery skin glimmers in the wetly reflective surface.
Too black.
I flash a quick smile, admiring, for just one self-conscious second,
how white and straight they look against my plumb lips. I close my mouth quickly.
Just not pretty enough.
I close my eyes and rest my head against the plastic pole supporting the bench. I can feel the fog drifting over my thoughts again, separating me from the shriek of car horns and the dizzying lights of neon signs all around me…

***

“Jodie, you disgusting pig, come clean this up immediately!” my mother barked, her tiny wrist quivering like a javelin as she points to the stack of dishes in the sink. I try protesting to her – “They’re not mine!” – but her quick backhand makes my jaws clack together.

I immediately resume silence, head spinning, the stinging red shadow of her left hand branded across my face. By the time I turned ten, she had stopped taking her rings off before she slapped me. She would always claim that I couldn’t feel any pain “through all my blubber, anyways.”

Silence was the easiest way to cope. The less I said – the more I just accepted her taunts and her strikes – the less frequently she paid attention to me at all. I decided long ago that it was better to be ignored than abused.

To a certain extent, though, it didn’t matter. The very sight of me sent her into apoplectic rages. She was the vainest of women, my mother, the kind who spent hours in front of a hand mirror going over every newfound gray hair and freshly formed wrinkle. I couldn’t help that I was bigger than her. I wasn’t even fat, really, just curvaceous – voluptuous, you could say. Still, it infuriated her. She hated me.

By the time I was fifteen, I was wearing DD cups. The snickers and side glances from boys in my class invariably made my cheeks burn not with pride but with embarrassment. My mother’s abuse had trained me to stay out of everyone’s sight. As a result, I never had boyfriends when I was growing up.

Instead, I spent many, many nights under the covers, exploring my own curves, my own sensations, dipping my fingers into secretive places.

It took almost twenty-one years on this planet before I lost my virginity. It happened with a bland looking boy who lived down the hall of my dorm. We went on a few dates, and after one of them, I let him take me to a lookout point a few miles west of the city. We kissed in his backseat for a long time.  I remember his hands scrabbling to unhook my bra. The look in his eyes, though, when my massive breasts were freed from the restraining fabric, lit a fire somewhere deep in me, a tiny flicker of recognition that maybe I wasn’t as vile as my mother accused me of being. I let him bend me over the hood of his car that night, thinking the whole time as he slid into me from behind that maybe I could find a man who would make me feel wanted, who could make me feel as sexy and feline as I did during those long nights under the covers, alone…

***

I startle myself out of my reminiscing. The bus is at the curb and passengers are disembarking. I stand up, grab my purse, and board, dropping my change in the receptacle on my way to a window seat.

The city passes by the window as we pull away from the curb and headed down the avenue. People, storefronts, streetside vendors hawking their wares – everything is whirling vivaciously, the whole world contorting and glistening, just on the other side of the glass.

On my side, in the stale frigidity of the crosstown shuttle, the only sounds are senile murmurs and the grating buzz of overhead fluorescents.

I flip open my cheap cell phone to check my voicemail.
You have one new message,
it chirps in my ear.

“Ms. Sutton, this is Charles Barelle with University Financing, Inc.” His voice is curt, patriarchal, like he knows everything about me and disapproves. “You are in danger of becoming delinquent on your student loan payments. Please give me a call back immediately and we can discuss your options. My phone number is –” I hit delete and his voice cuts off.

I can’t think about everything swimming over my head right now. I’m hustling to make ends meet, but every day, I stumble across a new threat of eviction. I have to constantly scramble to pull together enough funds to stay in school. The only people who call me anymore are debt collectors. The temporary secretary job to which I am heading is the only thing keeping me from full-on homelessness.

The bus screeches to a halt in front of a skyscraper – my destination. I step off, cross the street, and push through the gold-lined doors. A famous insignia is splashed across the glass front, huge curly initials – CB.

Cyrus Bellamy.

The whole building operates with a hushed silence, as if Bellamy’s infamously grim persona weighs down on everyone who steps inside. Icy blond women in four-inch heels and pencil skirts that cling tightly to their razor-thin hips glide across the lobby with determined expressions on their faces. The tapping of their stilettos on the marble floor rings out a harsh staccato rhythm like a machine gun.

I’ve been working here for three months and I still get intimidated everyone time I walk through the lobby to the glistening bank of bronze elevators on the other side. Gulping, I stare at the ground as I move silently forward. The goddesses pirouetting around me with military precision make me feel meaty, thick. Their bodies swerve gracefully from expensively-implanted breasts down to the waist and hips of eight-year olds. Looking down at my own curves, I can’t help but seem inferior by compare.

An elevator opens up as I arrive. All of its occupants but one shuffle out, leaving behind a leggy blonde who surveys me brusquely as I enter. I don’t make eye contact, but I can feel her stares sweeping up and down my body, from my corpulent ankles, up the bulge of my khaki-encased calves, past hips that swell wide and breasts that threaten to explode from the silk button-up I wear for the secretary job. Her gaze is coldly clinical.

“What floor?” she asks, words dropping from between her pursed lips like ice melt.

“Tw-twenty, please,” I stutter awkwardly. She presses the button with a manicured nail.

We lurch upwards, gathering speed until I reach my floor. I step out, still feeling her eyes on my back.

The floor onto which I’ve walked is classily furnished – mahogany desks arranged in a labyrinth across the slick concrete floor, neat stacks of paper and shining new computers adorning every countertop. I walk to my seat in the back left, set my purse down on the table, and fire up the computer to check my email and get busy with my work. Mostly I file, though occasionally I run errands for the temp supervisor, a busty brunette named Carla. Ten minutes after I’ve sat down, she strolls over to my desk with an assignment.

“Good afternoon, Jodie. I need you to postpone whatever you’re currently doing so you can type up these meeting minutes. Bring them to me as soon as you’ve finished – Mr. Bellamy wants them right away,” she says.

A knot forms in my throat at the mere mention of his name. It cuts through my mental fog like a blade.