Damon:A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel(8)

By: Meg Jackson


She was naked on his bed, honey-colored hair draped across the pillow, eyes like melted gold looking up at him. Her lips, full and pink, pouted slightly. Moving down her body, her breasts generous, round as peaches and just as soft; her sides tapering down and then out again over the curve of her stomach; her hips wide and luxurious; thighs strong; calves quivering.

His hands at her neck were all fingers tracing her collarbone, the place where her ribs met. His mouth on her breast, then on her lips again, then playful, dipping into her bellybutton. Her thighs parted to meet him, and when he entered her it was with the sort of wild satisfaction that drew all existence to a single point. She was endless, and he had everything to give.

It seemed he would never stop finding places to bury himself inside her, that this first thrust would last forever. He bit down on the flesh of her shoulder, wincing as the smooth and warm walls of her accepted every inch of him and begged for more…

Damon woke up with his mouth dry, his heart pounding, and his cock hard as stone. He groaned, closed his eyes, wanting to keep dreaming that dream. But daylight was pouring over him, across his eyes, filtering in between his eyelids. And the dream was gone; all that remained of it was the throbbing between his legs, the insistent and annoying need.

Damon hadn’t masturbated since he was a teenager. It was a matter of principle, willpower. He felt that it would cheapen the real thing. Just because he could come whenever he wanted to didn’t mean he should. But mornings like this made that self-deprivation especially hard to keep up.

There was nothing for it but to wait for it to go down on its own. Luckily, he was alone in the trailer. That was the case more often than not these days, with Kennick and Kim living in the trailer that used to be the greenhouse and Cristov spending most nights at Ricky’s. He rose, trying to think of anything that would quicken the slow fade of his erection. Coffee. His morning run. A prayer. The fight that was rapidly approaching. Anything but the fact that Tricia was coming back to Kingdom.

His cock didn’t soften when he made coffee. It didn’t soften when he ate a bowl of granola. It didn’t soften when he stepped into the shower, even in the cold water. Normally, he would have waited until after his morning run to shower, but the idea of trying to keep pace with an advertisement for Viagra in his shorts was painful to even think about.

Somewhat amused by the resilience of his lust, but mostly frustrated by it, he hung his washcloth across his stiff member while cleaning himself off. When it still refused to recede as he stepped from the shower and into his bedroom, he hung a clothes hanger from it and swiveled his hips back and forth to make it swing. Finally, he felt his blood begin to rush back, and he watched patiently as the clothes hanger slid off, clattering to the floor.

Dressing for his morning run, Damon opted against a shirt. It was proving to be an unusually hot early summer, and at his size, Damon would easily sweat through even the lightest fabric. Before leaving, he checked himself in the mirror. He’d need to trim his black, bushy beard. His hair needed a trim, too; the same midnight black as his beard, he kept it short. A shadow of sideburns completed the dark frame around his face.

He cocked his head as he flexed slightly. Until he’d gotten the call about the fight, he’d been more lax than usual in his workout, and it showed. He was still considerably massive; far bigger than his brothers, and big enough to make kids on the street look at him wide-eyed. But he had some catching up to do, it was true.

He turned and eyed his newest ink, reminding himself that Cristov still needed to finish it up. The bold-lined, bright-colored lighthouse reached down his ribcage, the tattoo a recent addition to a body full to bursting with traditional American designs. Eagles and dice and pin-up girls lounging in martini glasses, Felix the Cat drawn as a skeleton, a devil eating a melty slice of pizza, a bow-legged cowboy. He liked the strong lines, the bravado and the humor.

Outside, just as he’d known, it was already muggy and warm despite not yet being 7am. He started his run at an even pace, taking a few laps around the trailer park before hitting the road. He waved to Dago Tenniss, who was standing guard at the trailer park entrance. It was 3 miles to the start of town, 3 miles back. He usually spent his morning run going through the salient details of his upcoming day. What was happening at his cheese shop, what was happening in the kumpania, when he would go to the gym and what he would eat for dinner.

He had plenty to think about that day. He was expecting a shipment of very unique, very expensive brunost, Norwegian brown cheese, at his store, Let it Brie. He’d promised to help Ana set up for a tasting event at her store, meant to capitalize on the early-season tourism. A trip to the barber shop was in order, and there was a workout to fit in somewhere, too. And, the arts theater a few towns over was doing a one-night screening of “Wild Strawberries” with an accompanying lecture from a film studies professor down from Delaware State.

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