Hard Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 1)(4)

By: Lydia Pax


Shots of whiskey lined up on the bar and then disappeared down the gullets of Ram and the girls. He could see Ace explaining something in detail to the prospect, Mikhail not listening and getting antsy. Whether Mikhail was antsy from the lack of girls near him or the fight starting to brew was anyone’s guess.

Ram slid Long on top of his lap, resting her crotch on his heavy thigh. He could feel the heat of her, the wetness. Her skirt was short and pleated, her panties barely there. Dark brown fingers slid up his thigh, resting against the heavy bulge he'd been forming since they had started talking to him. No doubt she had done this sort of thing before, but she had never done it with a man like Ram, and that made all the difference.

Blonde pushed her heavy breasts against his back, whispering in his ear in soft Spanish that Ram couldn’t quite catch. He had a tin ear for language, and needed to hear them at full volume to really take them in.

Still, he assumed it was something sweet from the way her hand slipped around to his crotch and squeezed on the fast-hardening shaft filling up his pants. Her fingers slipped against Long's, and they both giggled and stroked more as his bulge grew even more, practically bursting through his pants.

Long had one hand wrapped around his neck. She had pretty eyes—servile eyes, the sort Ram liked in a girl.

In the outlaw’s world, the place of a chick like this was to serve and be seen, never heard. A girl who spoke up too much was trouble for the brotherhood—and the brotherhood came before anything else. He slipped his hand up under her skirt to no protest.

Almost right away his fingers found that same wetness and heat he'd felt plying against his thigh. Soon after that, the tips of fingers brushed against the pulsing, gentle mound of her clit. She gasped, her thighs tightening around his leg. She leaned in and began whispering something heated and Spanish in his ear—he supposed more admiration. Her kisses were wet and messy against his neck.

Blonde tugged at his crotch harder, whispering faster in that lilting rapid tongue. He wondered what it would feel like to have her slide all that language against his cock, every word choked on his meat. He turned and called Manuel over—Ram had taken his drinks, now he would take his women.

“A room,” he called. “With a big bed.”

The girls giggled, clearly fine with the request. Manuel’s eyes were big—he did not approach.

Steps, heavy and full of violence. Ram had half-expected this.

“You touching the wrong girls, man.”

This was a Black Flag. Ram recognized him—Beretta.

Ram was a little pissed that he hadn't seen Beretta in the bar already. If he had, there would have been a much, much different atmosphere to the night. In all likelihood, he wouldn't have come in, so as to avoid a fight.

Beretta was a lot of things. Sergeant-At-Arms for the Black Flags. An enforcer, a gunman, a man so bad ass in his own gang that it was his elected job to police the other members of the Black Flags, just like it was Ace's job for the Wrecking Crew. Big, dark-haired, and scary. He was nearly as big as Ram and had a face toughened from years of fighting. A long clawed scar was etched down one side of his face from behind his eye to his jaw, and he had a long jagged patch of healed burned flesh on one shoulder.

He was also Ram's former brother; a former member of the Wrecking Crew, and the number one reason that Ram had been pissed off for about two years straight.

To say the two had unfinished business was like saying that the ocean was a little bit wet. No other man was more responsible than Beretta for the death of Ram's sister.

The only reason Beretta was still alive—as far as Ram was concerned—was to keep the peace with the Black Flags, and that was something that Ram cared less and less about as time went on.

Ram did not turn, keeping his hand outstretched for a key to the flophouse.

“They came to talk to me,” said Ram. “I got nothing to do with you. Looks like they don’t want to either.”

The girls realized, very suddenly, that they had misjudged who Ram was. One biker may have looked like another to them. A rookie mistake. Long, her entrance still wet on top of Ram’s hand, shifted to move away. Instead, his fingers simply rubbed harder on her clit. She shuddered, throbbing in pleasure, sliding up against his thick body with a little moan. She could not stop herself from giggling and kissing against his neck, hormones taking over her judgment.

Blonde backed away though, leaving Ram’s hard cock untended—and thirsty for release. His eyes narrowed on Beretta, wondering where the traitor scum would take this little dance.

Ram was the sort of man who could find a thrill in anything. If he wasn’t going to fuck, then he was going to fight, and that was that.

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