The Sweet Under His Skin (2 page)

He kept staring. He'd been terrified of the one at the corner store. This one, while not looking quite as scary at first glance, was apparently fascinating to an eight-year-old. On the opposite side of a fence.

"You should listen to your mom," the stranger suggested.

"She's not my mom," Calvin declared, clear as a bell.

Arielle's mouth fell open as the biker laughed. "She's not, hey?"

Feeling like she had to do something now, Arielle stalked down the stoop towards her nephew, trying to keep her back straight and her head high.

She felt the stranger's eyes on her. She ignored him. "Calvin, I asked you to come inside."

"Relax, sweetheart. I'm staying on my side of the fence, swear."

She looked at him then, and up close he was infinitely more scary.

"I don't like it when he ignores what I'm asking," she explained.

"I'm sorry Aunt Arielle," Calvin said immediately, making her feel like a supreme bitch.

"You don't have to be sorry, honey," she said, more gentle. "You just have to mind what I'm asking you. Okay?" He nodded, and she pulled on his arm. "Now come back into the house, don't bother the neighbors."

"No bother, honey. Promise."

She caught the man on the bike winking at her. She looked away too quickly, sped up too obviously, but didn't care. She was looking for a new place to live immediately.

"The fuck…?" At the sound of another man’s voice she turned, willing herself to wake up from the nightmare. There was no way. There was absolutely No. Way.

The biker from the corner store was on the house stoop, stopped while sliding on sunglasses. Looking a lot like he lived there.

As in, next door to her and Calvin.

"Aunt Arielle!" Calvin exclaimed. "It's the man from the store!"

She didn't respond. She met his gaze, feeling that same terrifying chill run down her back as his eyes met hers momentarily before he slid his shades on completely. She hustled Calvin up the steps, and for once Calvin recognized the concept of body language and he hurried along with her.

What scared her more about the deadly biker living next-door was how physically drop-dead gorgeous he was and how his deep voice was like silk to her ears. He had those pretty-boy features set-off by dimples but yet the square jaw-line and stubble and his general demeanor was incredibly manly. He looked like he just stepped out of a poster for the‘world’s most sexiest man alive’.

Yes, definitely living somewhere else. Anywhere else but here.

Chapter Two

"What you thinkin', Quentin?" Flynn asked on a laugh. "Don't tell me you're tapping the neighbor. I call bullshit on that…unless you show up tased and pepper-sprayed."

"Nah man," he said absently, swinging his leg over his bike. "I just didn't know the old neighbors moved."

That wasn't true. He'd seen them throwing their flea-market furniture in a pick-up in the dead of night and figured they were ducking out on the rent. The guy that owned that place was a known slumlord. Not that it made a lick of difference to him, he just wondered why a broad
that
put-together was renting such a shit-hole.

"Quentin? The fuck, man?"

Quentin kicked the bike to life. "What?" he snapped at Flynn.

Bastard just shook his head. "That's the kind you gotta stay away from, Quentin."

"You don't think I know that?"

"Then quit with the lovey-eyes and let's go, man. Pussy won't fuck itself."

"Yeah yeah," he replied, backing the bike out of the drive. He hit the neighbor's house with a last glance over the shoulder and saw that weird little kid peering out the front window at him. Not thinking about it at all, he raised two fingers to the brim of his lid in a half-assed salute. The kid waved back.

Dead Men's clubhouse was already loud and crawling, and the sun hadn't even gone down yet. Whenever the Nomads were in town they made themselves at home like they were their own hospitality committee or something. Bikes clogged the parking lot, people were all over, and as he killed the bike and climbed off he could already smell the grass and booze. Yep, it was definitely Friday night.

Quentin and Flynn wordlessly sauntered to the clubhouse doors, thirst driving them through throngs of familiar faces and willing bodies. The prospect at the bar saw them coming and wisely set up whiskey shots without having to be asked. First one went back smooth, second one even better. Third one down and that annoying twitch in Quentin's neck lessened. Then he and Flynn surveyed the evening's distractions.

"How's that blonde, man?" Flynn asked.

Quentin knew which one he meant—she was newer, meaning she was the only one Flynn hadn't hit yet. He shrugged. "Nice tits. Bit of a stiff ass. Mouth is better than anything else."

"Good enough," Flynn grunted, heaving away from the bar and making his way to the blonde in question.

Quentin kept his recon going, looking for a particular girl to start the night off. There was lingering sweet tingling along his jaw, and he had to get rid of it before he lost his damn mind.

The black-haired bitch he wanted was occupied with a Nomad at the moment. The rules of hospitality dictated they had first crack as out of town guests.

He raised his eyebrows with disappointment, head tilted in defeat there and continued his search. When the door opened he felt himself stand up straighter, instantly hard behind his fly.

New meat, right off the fucking bus by the looks of her. Her skirt was short and denim, ripped at the bottom. Her tank top was tight, ripped a bit at the neck to show off her decent cleavage. It was her hair he noticed as she swept sunglasses off her face. Shit, her hair was chestnut-brown, glossy as hell and almost to her ass. Just like the sweet piece he had living next to him.

He downed one more shot and headed right to her. The club’s Queen tried to deflect him, seeing the look on his face.

"Quentin, take a breath. We don't know who that is," Mandy said.

"Does it matter?"

Mandy raised an eyebrow. "Use your brain, honey. Only head-cases walk in here on a Friday night. Alone."

Quentin was still staring. No one else had caught a whiff of her yet. "Fuck Mandy, give me a break. I won't kill her, and who better than me to show her the error of her ways? She'll learn. Tomorrow."

Mandy huffed. "Your funeral, Quentin. Just make sure she's out by morning."

"You got it, doll."

His obstacle gone he strode to her fast, eyes starting at her feet and riding up when she caught sight of him. She tossed her hair back, smiling at him with only half of that mouth. "Hey," she said breathily, not even intimidated by him. "Buy a girl a drink?"

He ran a hand over his mouth and down his chin, eyes on her chest. "I think I can do that. What you drinking, beautiful?"

She moved a half-step closer. "Whatever you're having is fine."

She may be fresh meat to Portus Felix but she certainly wasn't a stranger to this. He gave her another scan and jerked his head to the room. "Then come on in."

She trailed behind him through the crowd to the bar. He held up two fingers to the prospect who quickly grabbed another shot glass. Quentin leaned on the bar facing the girl, and she mirrored his posture, close enough that their knees were touching.

"What’re you doing here on a Friday night, babe?" Quentin asked, downing the whiskey and propping his head on his hand like he was dying to hear the answer. As he hoped she laughed and her chest shook with it.

"I was feeling…kinda sorry for myself," she said, setting her empty glass on the bar. "I've been trying to be a good girl lately."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah."

"That sucks."

"It does," she agreed, copying his overly familiar tone.

His dick kicked again as he realized she had ocean-blue eyes like his neighbor, just not quite as big and roundand… innocent. "You're terrible at the whole good-girl thing," he noted playfully.

"No, I'm not."

"Brutal."

She leaned closer, stepping into him. Half his brain wondered what the hell she was on, because she didn't look drunk yet. The other half of his brain was fixated on the additional skin he could see between her breasts. "It's not my fault. I keep running into people who are bad for me."

"You do, sweetheart," he said, done with the cutesy shit. He grabbed her wrist before she could set her hand on his chest. "You have any idea where you are right now?"

She smiled, not missing a beat despite his no bullshit face and cold tone. "I'm in your clubhouse," she said slowly. "We're having a drink. And then you're going to fuck me."

He worked his jaw, staring down the stranger and remembering Mandy's words for no reason. "We've got girls here that don't give us any trouble. Are you gonna be trouble, babe?"

She leaned closer to his ear, her breasts pressing against his arm, and he felt his eyes close. Fuck, they were real. "I'm only as much trouble as you want me to be."

Quentin guessed she was about two levels away from rock bottom. Sure she looked halfway put together, but clearly she was spiralling down. Like he gave a shit; these were the girls you could basically do whatever you'd like with.

"Let's go," he said, and her smile widened.

"Right behind you."

Like a good girl she followed him down the hall to the dorms, knowing her way around an MC clubhouse apparently. It should have made him nervous but it didn't.

In his room he flicked on the lights and locked them inside. When he turned to her he realized she was carrying a bottle of Jack. "Where the fuck did you get that?"

She took a swig, wide-eyed, and nodded to the door. "At the bar. It's almost empty, don't worry."

He tried to grab it from her but she playfully held it behind her back. She was being cute, but something in her face went hard when he was this close.

Quentin grabbed her by the back of the head. "Hand it the fuck over," he barked.

She flushed. He saw her cheeks actually get pink, and her lips parted so she could breathe. All right then; it was going to be this kind of evening. He yanked the bottle from her hand, took a mouthful, then sank to the edge of the bed. "Take off your clothes," he instructed roughly.

No hesitation; she swept the tank top off, unbuttoned the skirt and let it hit the floor at her ankles.

"All of it," he prompted, and she unhooked her bra, which fell straight to her feet as well. When she started pulling the panties off she turned around, giving him the ass view as she bent to work them all the way down, stepping out of them, giving him a flash of the view with parted legs.

He took another drink. Her legs were a little skinny for his taste, but the ass was plenty nice. Unfortunately from this angle he could see the track marks on the backs of her knees. When she turned around she became stock-still, awaiting his next instruction.

"Come here," he said before taking another drink, leaning back on his elbows. She approached him, completely confident in her nudity, reaching for his belt buckle. "On your knees," he snapped, and she complied, dropping to the floor between his feet before unbuckling the leather at his waist. From here he figured she didn't needing any more help from him. She bit her lip while working his pants open, reaching inside and finding him hard and ready.

"Wow," she whispered. "That's impressive."

"Not what I want your mouth doing," he instructed, and without another word her head dropped down as she wrapped those lips around his erection. He took another drink, eyebrows high as he realized she knew what she was doing. No problem with the deep-throating and the girl's tongue had skills, too.

Another drink and his eyes were closed, feeling the build-up. Her hand was working his balls, the suction just right. "Fuck," he muttered, "that's perfect." He came hard, back jerking, grunting, and opening his eyes with a laugh. "Damn," he was saying, then stopped when he noticed the room was swaying around him. "Wait. What the hell?"

"Something wrong, baby?" she was cooing, but he couldn't focus on her. He shook his head, blinked his eyes, and tried to see straight.

"What the fuck?" Even sluggish like this his brain had one moment of clarity. He looked at the bottle. "What the fuck did you do, bitch?"

She was still between his knees, wiping her bottom lip. She just grinned as his head got too heavy and hit the mattress, the world slowly fading to black.

Chapter Three

Arielle was woken rudely by loud pounding on her front door. She figured it was a drunk local and waited for them to realize they were at the wrong house. Then she considered Calvin being startled awake this late and she got to her feet groggily, and half-stumbled to the front door to see what the hell was going on.

She flicked the porch light into action, grabbing the cordless phone off the entertainment centre at the same time in case she had to call the cops. Then she peered out the peep hole.

And immediately considered going back to bed.

"Arielle? Fuck you, Arielle. I know you're in there, you turned the light on."

Shit. She groaned, fighting back the urge to drop to the floor and kick her feet in a tantrum. That's what she felt like doing, and being considerably older than six didn't make her feel any different about her sister showing up in the middle of the night with what was likely to be a tsunami of drama trailing after her.

How the hell did she know they even moved?

Arielle took a deep breath, set the phone back on its charger, and flipped the dead bolts over, figuring it wouldn't do to wake the local wildlife and draw any attention to herself. Jolene thrust herself against the door, apparently Arielle was taking too long, and swung around, locking the door behind herself.

"Thanks, Sis," Jolene whispered.

"Oh, now you remember the eight-year-old in the house?" Arielle whispered back. She flicked the foyer light on, wanting to make sure Jolene wasn't entirely fucked-up. She seemed steady, but she still dressed like a slut. Her skirt was short enough to show ass cheek—which it was—and her shirt was ripped down the front so far Arielle could see the mole she had right between her breasts. "Jolene, what do you want?"