Hot as Hades (2 page)

But, she didn’t offer him anything.
Not. One. Damn. Thing.

They stood staring at one another for a moment and he got the distinct impression that she’d never done this before. She bit her lip, not meeting his gaze and her confidence seemed to fade. The silence stretched in the small room. Just the two of them without the hypnotic, hard pounding music and the benefit of nearby alcohol to smooth the rough edges.

To clear the tension, he reached for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

She shook her head. “We’ll worry about that in a bit.” She stepped up on the coffee table. “For now, I want you to watch me.”

A stripper or possible prostitute who wouldn’t take money up front? His bullshit o’ meter started ringin’. Yeah, she didn’t belong here. She didn’t seem drugged and had way more attitude than any stripper he’d ever seen.

 None of it added up.

She hit the button on a remote she plucked from the table and then tossed it on the carpet. Chris Isaak’s
Wicked Games
filled the room. Much more mellow than the bump and grind music on the main floor. Like a puppet on her G-string, he sank down in the nearest chair, duty promptly forgotten in a haze of lust.

 Everything seemed to melt away, the throbbing music from down the hall, the drunken catcalls. Nothing in all of Texas, but the two of them.

 She started to move leisurely, seductively on the table. He couldn’t talk now, even if he wanted to. She ran a hand down the long, graceful line of her neck and then rubbed between the mounds of her breasts, touching herself where he longed to. Then, she turned around slowly and bent over, showing him her shapely ass as she stroked her impossibly long legs.

Cowboy gulped.

He gripped the armrests to keep from reaching for her.
Fuck
. Bent over like that, he could yank her panties aside, push his stiff cock in her. He could spread her wide open for him and then take her again and again, making her come for him until she pleaded with him to stop. Then he’d fuck her some more. Until they were both too exhausted to see straight. But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

What the fuck am I doing?
Engaging in some masochistic blue ball torture, that’s what.

She hopped off the makeshift stage and walked to a table by the door. “I’m sorry. I forgot to offer you some bubbly, baby. This
is
the
champagne
room, after all.” She reached into a bucket of ice and pulled out a small bottle of champagne. The cheap shit. Not that he expected Dom Perignon or anything but it figures the Raptors would stock second rate alcohol. Perdition, the bar his club owned, only carried top shelf, but nothing as girly as sparkling wine.

She poured them two glasses of bubbly and then carried them both over. Her breasts nearly spilled over the top of her corset, bouncing as she walked. He wanted to see her rosy nipples puckering up, practically begging to be taken in his mouth. Damn. Then, he wanted to pour the alcohol over them, lick it off her while she squealed and not in protest either.

But he settled for taking a sip from the glass she offered him, eyes glued to her chest. The alcohol tasted strange, medicine-y. It reminded him of the foul flavor of uncoated aspirin on his tongue. He took another swig of it, just in case he’d been mistaken.
Nope, shit still tasted bad.
Maybe because it was the cheap stuff?

“Something wrong?”

“This tastes like ass.” He grimaced. “Maybe I’m more of a tequila man?”

He started to reach around her to place the flute on the table, but she clinked her glass to his. “A toast to discovery?”

Shit.
It’d be rude not to drink, so he forced himself to bolt the rest of it like a shot.

With a catlike grin, she set her glass aside, settled herself on his lap and he forgot he had the ability to form words. She put one strong thigh on either side of his, draped her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts into his chest. She smelled like vanilla, slightly musky from dancing, and he wanted to lick her from head to toe.

 “What brings you here, baby?” she asked. She had a slightly raspy voice, sensual. For the first time, he had the chance to see her up close. She had a hint of dark lines beneath her brown eyes, though she’d concealed most of it with makeup. He could still see the bruised appearance at the edges.
Hmm.
She hadn’t been sleeping well.

Well, he knew an old-fashioned horizontal remedy for that. He’d made more than one girl pass out.

 His hands hovered at her sides. He knew he couldn’t touch, but he wanted to. Actually, grope. Yeah, that’s what he wanted to do. Grope the hell out of her, but that really wasn’t his style. With a woman he really liked, he took his time. He kept his head and he teased, tempted. Seduced her. He loved caressing her until she came apart in his arms.

But this one seemed to short circuit his sexual chivalry.

He suddenly remembered the question she’d asked him. “Just a good time, Wildcat.” He smiled. “Call me Cowboy.” Not sure why he cared, but he didn’t want her to think of him as some nameless, faceless man.

Her full lips curled into a puzzled grin. “That can’t be your real name.”

“It’s my road name.” Bikers often called one another by nicknames.

She ran a hand through his hair. “No hat?” She glanced down at his shit kickers.

 “Not tonight. I ride a Harley and I can’t be chasin’ the damn thing up and down the highway when it blows off.”

 Born and bred in Texas, Cowboy lived up to his road name. In his early twenties, he’d been a bull rider in the rodeo circuit and he still loved the gear—leather pants, cowhide gloves, and ten gallon hats. He had a serious hard on for cowboy boots too, owned a hundred pairs at least. Tonight, he’d worn a black leather pair, decked out with longhorn skulls.

 “What’s your name, Wildcat ?” he asked.

 “Why are you calling me that?”

“Your tattoo. Come on, tell me your name.”

She hesitated a moment and then pasted on a seductive party girl expression. “What do you want it to be?”

He shook his head. “No. I want to know your real name and don’t tell me it’s Candy or Cinnamon or any of those other bullshit stripper names. What is it really?”

Like before, the guise of professional stripper deserted her and he could see the real flesh and blood woman, not the dolled up fantasy girl persona she put on to entertain drunken, horny guys. “
You
didn’t tell me
your
real name.”

“Well, let me rectify that. It’s Jake Grant.”

 She nodded to him as though they’d met at a fancy citizen party or something and were making polite conversation. “Good to meet you, mine is Daisy Weston.”

“Daisy.” He liked that name, very old-fashioned and authentic. “What brings you here?”

She hesitated a moment and he thought she might confide in him, tell him something real but the actual woman fluttered away, and fantasy girl took her place. She licked her cherry lips. “Exploration.”

With that, she started to move on his lap and he lost the ability to speak once more. Let alone think. He didn’t come here for a thrill, but dammit, he was only human. He leaned back in his seat and let her grind on him. She carefully avoided his cock at first, perched a few inches above it, but he doubted she didn’t miss the way his jeans puckered and bulged at the crotch.

Nine Inch Nails’
Closer
came on next and all that talk about feeling a woman from the inside sounded damn good. Might not be country, but he could relate to that shit. Especially now.

She raised her hands above her head and he thought for a crazy second about tying them. Fuck yes. He could tie her open, arms and legs stretched out. So, she couldn’t close herself off from him, spread her wide so he could fuck her. Endlessly.

She bucked against him then. Mimicking riding his cock. How much temptation can one man stand? Then she perched above him, bracing her arms on either side of the velvet chair, putting his face even with her cleavage.

He grabbed the chair arms again.

 Then, she slowly slipped off of him, gliding her body down over his. Every single inch of her brushing against him until finally she knelt between his splayed legs. She caressed the outside of his thighs and he couldn’t help but buck his hips up. Meeting her. He spread his legs even wider and she rubbed his inner thighs.

He nearly lost his fucking mind. His cock twitched in his pants, as though it wanted to reach for her of its own accord.

 She lowered her head between his legs and he groaned.
Damn.
The thought of her red, swollen mouth around his cock. Fuck. Sucking him deep, licking every single, hard throbbing inch of him.
Christ, please!
He needed it. Wanted it.

But instead of undoing his pants, freeing his cock and giving him the blow job he so desperately craved, she bent down and then placed the long column of her neck up against the seat with her face to the floor. Then, she gripped his thighs for balance and thrust her body upwards like a fucking gymnast. She pressed her tight ass up right against his chest and splayed her legs for him. Giving him a glimpse of heaven.

Oh, fuck me.

Between her thighs, her panties had twisted a bit, revealing swollen pink pussy lips, so slick and wet. She wanted him too.

He clamped down on the chair, viciously, fingers digging in. He called on every single ounce of willpower he possessed, anything to keep from lifting that tempting pussy to his hungry mouth. Licking it. Burying his face there.

He hovered in hell, unable to touch or taste, for minutes but it felt like hours.

Then, agile as a goddamn cat, she rolled back off him. With a grin, she snagged the glasses and sauntered to the table near the door once more, tantalizingly out of his reach. She peeked at him over her shoulder. He knew the look. She silently dared him, like a grown up game of keep away.

She undid a few hooks on the front of her corset and turned around again. Winked. The corset peeled away from her skin, fully revealing that smokin’ hot tattoo. He had the urge to trace the line of it with his tongue.

The corset dropped to the floor, but she wouldn’t turn around
.
She could teach a course in teasing When, she finally came his way, she held the champagne flutes and he was treated to the sight of her breasts bouncing. He rubbed his hands up and down the length of his thighs, hoping to ease his need to touch her by stroking himself, trying desperately to quiet his greedy body. His good intentions nearly shredded by need.

 “Champagne is delicious, although it is an acquired taste.” She set her glass down, but held on to his and then straddled him once more, knees on either side of his thighs.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Try it again, for me?” She brought it to his lips and he obligingly took another sip, some leaked from the corner of his mouth.
Yep, still tasted like shit, not that he fucking cared at the moment.

“Oh, you missed a spot.” She captured it with her fingertip and he sucked it in his mouth, licking the sweet little digit clean. He drew on her finger in a pantomime of what he’d rather be doing, sucking fiercely on one of her nipples. Both of them were hard, pinkish tan and so tantalizingly close he could fucking scream. Wildcat was slowly killing him.

Her voice lowered to a throaty whisper. “Here,” she said, pressing the glass to his lips once more, “have another drink.” He gulped down the rest of the foul-tasting stuff. He would have done anything to make her happy in that moment. He didn’t want her to get off his lap.

She brought her mouth to his, soft lips grazing his. For a second, he thought she would kiss him, but no, she teased him with the promise of one.

Damn. I’m going to cum in my pants.

And that’s when shit started to go south in a big way.

He suddenly felt a little lightheaded. Tipsy. But besides the girly champagne, he’d only had a couple of beers tonight. Okay, four beers. But that couldn’t be it. Now and then he’d stay out with the brothers all night, doing shots with beer chasers for hours sometimes. He had a high tolerance. Sure, he felt queasy as fuck afterwards and sometimes he even made an ass out of himself by singing
Ring of Fire
at the top of his lungs but he never,
ever
passed out. He could handle his liquor like a man.

But not this time.

A few drops of champagne had him feeling like a debutante on prom night. He had the strangest notion he’d just been fucked over.

He searched her face, but she seemed perfectly fine. In fact, she’d dropped the stripper facade altogether and watched him with a raised eyebrow and an air of impatience.

What the hell? Did she drug me?

 He slumped further down in his seat, nearly unable to keep his eyes open. He heard her chuckle as she crouched over him. He struggled to lift his head, move his arms, but it felt like lead weights had been cuffed to him.

“Lights out, Cowboy,” she purred.

And the world faded to fucking black.

Chapter Two

 “The bigger they are,” Daisy muttered as she hoisted herself off the unconscious biker. She pressed her head against his chest to check his breathing. He had a steady heartbeat and exhaled evenly, peacefully snoozing away.

 
Excellent.

She’d crushed up a couple of the weapons-grade sleeping pills the VA doctor prescribed for her into his champagne flute. Mixing it with alcohol had given it an extra punch, and sure enough he’d conked out.

Too bad nothing about this situation made sense. Cowboy didn’t seem like a Raptor. From what she’d discovered about the MC, they were assholes. They trafficked in women, drugs, and God knows what else.

Cowboy had been almost a gentleman, considering the circumstances. Sure, he’d been turned on as hell, but oddly respectful. She’d fully anticipated having to drug his ass sooner to keep him from trying to get in her panties but he hadn’t groped her, propositioned her for sex, or even said anything crude she’d have to slap his face over.