Shanice Wilson, born and raised in Harlem, moves to Atlanta for her new job. The company sets her up in a lovely cul-de-sac in an almost deserted part of the suburbs.
Nate Dylan is the president of the Dead-Eye Angels MC. He rides with his buddies...
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The setting sun slices through the bedroom window, scorching my back while my cock swells inside this chick's snatch. Sweat drips off my back as I concentrate on unleashing my load. But no matter how hard I try to escape, every time I dare to close my eyes, Shanice's tear-stained face invades my thoughts. Her bloodshot eyes and plush lips, now twisted in fear, haunt my thoughts. "Fuck," I smash my fist on the mattress.
"Baby, what's wrong," Daniel's bitch — whispers as she pulls me down, tugging my bottom lip between her teeth. Instead of answering, I deepen the kiss to forget about Kitten. But still, with every swipe of my tongue, with every hold on her ass, or sultry words that come out of her mouth, I know that I could be getting something better, a feisty little kitten who fights back.
I stop my movements and take my time with three lines of cocaine that are on my nightstand. The first hit relaxes me, and the second, the image of Shanice blurs. With eyes locked on the brunette beneath me, a woman who'll make me forget the shit I have to deal with, I say, "Here."
Her eyes twinkle with mischief and curiosity as my finger parts her lips, their softness reignites a fire in my cock, and without hesitation, I plunge my finger into the depths of her mouth. My eyes search hers for something, a pushback, for her to tell me, 'What the fuck Biker.' But instead, she unleashes a moan that makes my dick limp. It isn't the fire that I'm used to.
"Are you going to get that," the girl nods towards my phone. Kade's name flashes on the screen.
"I'm deep in some sweet ass, Kade. This better be fuckin' important," I growl, my irritation leaking through as I talk to my second-in-command. The magic the coke brought is instantly gone, and I'm brought back to reality. The broad beneath trailers her bony fingers on the tattoo branded across my chest. Each graze of her sweaty hand feels disgusting as if her cold touch tarnishes the art etched upon my flesh, and my cock grows limp with each pass.
I must have been silent for a long time because Kade's voice crackles with urgency. "Meet me at the club now," he barks and hangs up before I can respond. My mind kicks into high gear as I pull further away from the bony bitch.
"Where you going?" she asks, the sheets clinging to her sweaty body.
Why does this cunt think she's got the right to question me. Seriously it's as if I'm a walking billboard saying that anyone can walk up to me and say shit. Damn, disrespectful. "You ask too many fuckin' questions. Don't you have shit to do...?" I glare at her, struggling to remember her name.
Her brows furrow, forming a deep ridge etched across her forehead. "Layla," she offers.
"Whatever. Just get the fuck outta here." I toss the empty condom into the wastebasket. Layla looks equally annoyed and disappointed, but I've got bigger fuckin' problems to deal with. When Kade gets short with me, it means it's serious shit. Slipping on my cut and boots, I hop on my bike and tear through the chilly streets of Atlanta, the wind gnawing at my face.
