Page 8 of Nomad: Violent Devotion

“Yes! Harder ... harder, please, don’t stop...”

He slaps my thigh, grinning like the Devil. “Greedy fucking thing. You’re taking every inch, aren’t you? Look at you, swallowing my cock like you were made for it. My perfect little whore.”

My head falls back, hair scraping brick, lost in the rhythm, the stretch, the sweet, relentless ache. His cock reaches places inside me that not many others have before. My hips rock up meeting his punishing thrusts, my pussy fluttering with my impending orgasm.

“Lift your top,” he demands through clenched teeth. “I want to see all of you.” I comply without thought, and he groans. “No bra,” he growls, grinding his pelvis against my clit. “And so pretty with the little silver rings in your tits.” He sucks harshly on one nipple before moving on to the next. I moan like the whore I am imitating, and pull his hair harshly.

He smiles, somewhere between cruel and deranged, while he fucks me mercilessly, driving me higher until my orgasm rips through me, blinding and violent. I scream his name, uncaring who hears. He groans, hips snapping, voice guttural as he spills into the condom, holding me tight, surely leaving bruises where his fingers dig in, until we both go boneless.

He lowers me, letting me slide down the wall, shaky and sated. His breath is ragged against my ear. “Next time, I want to hear you beg even louder.”

I grin, lips swollen, body wrecked. I slide a slip of paper with my cell number into the breast pocket of his coat and pat his chest. “Just let me know when and where.”

Chapter Two

This Fresh Pain

––––––––

Walker

I shouldn’t have said next time.

The memory of the heat of the dirty little slut I fucked in the alley outside the Rusted Spur has kept me awake for the last three nights. More than once I’ve painted my fist to the sounds of her screams still wrapped in my head. A place I’ll keep her safe there, secret, until I choose to ruin her again.

And fucking again.

Because no matter how many times my fist blurs on my cock, I can’t get the taste of her out of my mouth. The way she looked at me like I was the answer to both her prayers and her debut to hell. I’ll take us both there on a one-way trip, balls-deep in her sweet cunt.

She’s deceptive, my little Poppy. Innocent-looking eyes that promise she’s everything a man should take home, when I suspect she’s seen more than any woman like her should have. She let me look her over without flinching. Most women preen then run when I tell them I’m only in it for the fun times, or beg for softness when I drag them outside.

She did neither which was ... interesting. Addictive. And then I fucking offered her a second round. I never go back for more. Hell, I never stay in one place for more than a few months. Weeks, even. Yet here I am offering pony rides to a stray girl just because she’s pretty.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I have work to do, and it has nothing to do with the pretty side piece that’s been too much of a distraction for the past days. I rake my hand through my hair and focus on the job I’m supposed to be doing.

Lincoln and Mutt are my current marks. Two of Tyrant’s Forsaken Saints. Minor players, and today they’re out on a small job from what I can see. Their meeting with a local arms dealer is notable. Just nothing worth raising alarm for the Sons of Sin over.

Each of the clubs have their own codes, and the right to defend their own. It’s when a local prez decides to either lift his trade above the average, drawing notice, or impinging on the trade of another club that can create a turf war. Then others take notice and lines are drawn. Hard ones that usually end in blood and salt spread across territories.

Sometimes a club will delve into a little extra trade beyond the average gun-running or drugs. Maybe something that involves women or children. And when that code clashes with mine? Maybe that’s when I get involved on a more personal level. Lincoln and Mutt haven’t crossed that line today. Yet.

The transaction ends with the weapons—a small cache of semiautomatics—changing possession. Mutt handles the cash, while the man who looks like his brother handles the guns. I take note and stay in the shadows, long enough to watch the dealer depart and a new incursion to arrive. One who holds more than a significant interest for me. One who has kept me awake for three long goddamn nights.

Shiny black pants that look as though they’re painted on, a white bra thing beneath a pretty knitted top that parts in the middle and leaves a strip of skin an inch wide bare all the way around her waist between the top and the pants I already want to rip from her body.

Poppy.

And she’s headed straight for the place where the Saints boys just completed their transaction.

The stalker inside me flares the moment she’s on the scene. What the fuck are you doing here, little toy? Because this isn’t the playground she should be in.

No matter how hard she thinks she is, even taking me sweetly in the bar’s back alley that night like the filthy little plaything she was for me, this is a different damn arena. Fuck it, she’s going to get herself killed. Or worse.

Curses pour in a torrent from my lips as I break cover from the shadows, leaving my sled where I parked it in the shade of the building. Long strides take me across the street. My hand is on her arm, and her hazel eyes are wide when they meet mine. A flash of panic, but not fear, fills her stunning face a second before there’s a knife at my waist.

“You are pretty,” I murmur, catching her wrist and squeezing gently. Just enough to remind her that this isn’t a dark alley where self-defense classes and switchblades will save her life. “But this isn’t where you should be, cosita.”