Page 9 of Nomad: Violent Devotion

Her gaze narrows, and the blade tip-taps against my cut. “You still think I’m delicate, don’t you? That I can’t handle myself?” A challenge lances through her whole body that tells me new stories, of how she’s had to push to prove herself wherever the hell she came from. Whoever was supposed to look after her before this didn’t do their job right.

My lips part to bare teeth but it’s not a smile. “You think you can handle yourself?” I lean into her blade, letting the tip pierce skin. Hot blood trickles into my leather pants.

The thought of smearing her cunt with the dark fluid leaves me hard. I grit my teeth as I press her back to a lamppost. The hard metal must dig into her back something fierce, but my girl doesn’t show a damn ounce of pain. Not an inch of discomfort as I grind my body against hers. Let her feel my need and how I’ll take it out on her right in the middle of the street.

I never promised her nice, and I never promised her a bed. Now she’s right where she shouldn’t be, and I have questions.

“Fuck, he shortchanged us.”

“Didn’t you count the money before you agreed to let him walk?”

Mutt and Lincoln bitch between themselves around the corner of the building like a pair of bored housewives, their voices growing louder with each step. So, they didn’t leave like I expected. Something I’d handle on my own, but now I have an extra body to protect.

“Well, cosita. We can’t stay here. Not unless you want to make some new friends and have a group fuck.” I press my thumb beneath her chin and tip her head back, exposing her throat. While she’s gasping out her next breath, I lift the blade from her fingers where it lies forgotten, dug into my side. My blood smears her skin, marking her as I run the flat side against her flesh. “We have somewhere to be.”

Apparently I’m not getting shit done today. I pocket her knife and drag her behind me back around the building, into the shadows before the rival MC patches can spot us. No point letting them know they’re being watched.

Her biker boots—fucking cute and not as useless as I thought—don’t clack on the overheated tarmac. When I yank her around to my bike, she climbs on without a single word.

Breath leaves my chest. It’s been a long damn time since I’ve ridden anything but solo, and the way she drapes her pussy across my saddle sends blood rushing through me.

All logical thought drops away. I don’t give a fuck what Mutt and his brother screwed up or why they’re still here. Poppy scoots backward as I prowl toward her, one thing on my mind, but she’s nowhere near fast enough.

My hand presses to the soft curve of her stomach, leaning her arched back over my bitch pad. Her latex-covered cunt is in my face as I seal over it with my mouth, sucking and licking until her hands are in my hair, pulling hard. She rides me as I knew she would, heat building against my lips. It’s not long before she comes undone beneath my tongue. The thin latex pants are a pretty barrier that keep her heat trapped away from my tongue. A damn good thing too or I’d fuck her right here and leave her dripping.

One last lap over her pulsing heat and I stand over her, unlacing my pants as I watch her, and hold my hand out, palm up. “Spit.”

Wide eyes barely register as she obeys me without question, glossing her lips with her own fluids. My breaths come hard just watching her submit to me, a perfect fucking biker pinup model. I wasn’t kidding about the group fuck earlier. If the other boys had seen her, we could have shared her before we all got down to the fine art of killing each other.

“Tits out, sugar. You’re gonna get messy for me.”

Her lips are parted, cinnamon and honey eyes dozy as fuck as she drapes herself over my sled. It doesn’t take more than a few pumps of my cock to decorate her perfect skin, coating the rings through her nipples. One day I’ll add some little weights to those rings while I fuck her, watch them swing. Maybe put a chain between her teeth and make her cry. I promised her dirty, and I don’t give out love.

The hint of ink teases the underswell of her breast, where a pearl of my cum drizzles like cake icing. I rub her cherry nipple gently and she coos for me.

“Wanna come again?” I ask softly, lacing up my pants while she’s exposed on the street and covered in my cum. “I’ll reward you for being so fucking good for me.”

Right before I take you somewhere quiet and we find out why you were here in the first fucking place. Because that’s when the real tease will begin.

She writhes prettily for me, and my cock aches for her hot little mouth. But I’m not ready to give her more rewards just yet. Poppy pulls her white top down over my present without a word, showing me her nipples and their rings straining against the material, and leaves the black knitted thing open. Her breasts press to my cut as I rev the engine to my sled and pull away from the still bickering brothers who have no idea of their limited mortality or their idiocy.

Right now, I have games to play with my little deviant, otherwise it would be their fluids sprayed across this bleak landscape.

I just hope in the next hour it’s not hers.

Chapter Three

Wanting the Impossible

Poppy

Walker kills the engine outside a roadside motel that looks exactly like every other roadside motel in America. One story. Sun-faded paint. A flickering VACANCY sign with two dead letters.

This is the kind of place that swallows you whole and spits out your bones. The air reeks of gasoline and stale cigarettes, thick enough to burn your lungs. Half a block away a dog barks, sharp and frantic, and a siren screams in the distance, cutting through the air like a warning no one ever heeds.

Perfect. No one asks questions here.

I swing off the back of his bike before he can even think about offering a hand. My thighs burn, not from the ride, but from clinging to him. Every mile pressed me tighter against his body, my arms locked around his waist for reasons that have nothing to do with balance. My legs are steady, but my pulse is chaos. My body remembers every second of him—the hard line of his back, the scent of leather and sweat and cedar. That impossible sense of safety, tangled with the raw ache of want. It makes me angry. No, it makes me fucking furious.