Hunte (23 page)

“This is how I wanted to take you the first time as my wife.”

She cupped my ass, pulling me even deeper into her. “Even better the second time.”

Her tits rose and fell against my chest, and her legs wound around my hips. Punched up on my fists, I withdrew all the way on each long stroke then plunged inside with sharp, forceful thrusts.

I wanted it to last longer, but I couldn’t hold off. My body, my muscles strained with the kind of pleasure that was so good it was almost agony. When we came it was together, bodies intertwined and faces close and words shouted and whispered and hummed.

Then we fell into the softest most peaceful sort of love. And I knew she felt it, too.

Much later the candles were still lit. The silvery December moonlight gleamed over Jessica skin, making her appear even more of a goddess as she reclined beside me. The floor by the bed housed the remnants of champagne and wedding cake, and the bed itself was rumpled. There were cake crumbs floating around on the quilts and the echoes of laughter from when we’d fed each other the messy marital dessert.

“You realize I’ll have to decorate.” Jessica’s fingertips played up and down my back, occasionally wandering as far south as my ass and between my legs.

The massaging motions of her fingers became more arousing with each pass, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was glancing thoughtfully around the bedroom, and I could tell she was picturing the whole house.

“
Uh huh
.” I couldn’t care less what she did with the place. I moved my head just enough to slowly lash her budded nipples with my tongue.

She arched with a hiss, pushing the warm round globes and pert little nipples closer. Otherwise, she continued with her train of thought. “And move my stuff in . . .”

“I’ll get the boys on it tomorrow.” I could just imagine her abundant books, furniture, and clothes filling the house floor to rafters. I couldn’t fucking wait.

I rolled on top of her, pressing her down with my weight. “Not the lingerie though. I’ll take care of that myself.” With my cock wedged against her slick sex, I glided it up and down her slit.

“And my dad will probably want to shoot you in the ass for marrying his sweet angel.” She pushed me off of her and onto my back.

“Wouldn’t expect anything less, sweetheart.” I skimmed my hands up her thighs and onto her hips.

Jessica tapped my nose. “You are a tease, Hunter.” Perched over my lap, she dropped just enough to ease the head of my cock into her before releasing me from the hot kiss of her pussy.

“Who’s teasing now?” I groaned.

“Not me.” She lowered herself all the way onto me with a long moan.

Later we lay spooned together, fingers twined, rings shining like mirrors.

“Hunter, do you think Jack will mind?”

I snorted against her soft shoulder before taking a small bite of flesh. “He loves you almost as much as I do,
Miss Barnes
.”

“That’s Mrs. Angelo now.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Keep reading for the first chapter of

KINKAID

Bad Boys of Retribution MC #2

From the world of the Carolina Bad Boys! A four-book spinoff series speeding your way one after the other summer 2015!

Kinkaid
is coming June 2015,
Bo
and
Coletrane
in July:

https://www.goodreads.com/review/new/25069985-kinkaid

https://www.goodreads.com/review/new/25069997-bo

https://www.goodreads.com/review/new/25070007-coletrane

Chapter One

“BOM CHICKA
WANG WANG
.” Hiro the Super Hero rolled up a sweat towel and snapped it against my ass.

The so-called dressing room at The
so-called
Gentleman’s Quarters smelled like a jockstrap, no doubt due to the number of large athletic bodies jockeying for space amid lockers, mirrors, and randomly dropped barbells. It also reeked of Johnson’s baby oil, perspiration, eagerness, and raw nerves. Elbows, balls, and cocks bounced this way and that. You couldn’t turn around without getting your bare ass smacked or your junk thumped or your biceps squeezed.

For all the loudmouths and lame smack talk, this had been a second home to me for over two years.

I grabbed Hiro around his waist and bent him over a table. With his briefs ripped down to his thighs, I grinned at the ten other male strippers. “Whaddya think? Should I do him?”

“He’s too scrawny to take that meat you never show the clients!”

“POUND ONE OUT ON HIM!”

“Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with Asian flava flav.” Jamal jerked his chin at me.

I slapped Hiro’s rump and turned him free. “Nah. This dude’s been through the hazing enough times. Let’s talk about Glen the Newbie.”

Hiro
Hero
had his shtick down pat.
Dare Devil?
Hell yes he was. The Oriental import cleaned house every night wearing a black mask over his face, his gymnast’s moves on the stripper pole enough to carpet the stage in greenbacks.

Tonight was amateur night at The GQ, and Glen the nervous noob stood right in front of us, obviously spooked by the impromptu backstage show I’d just provided. His face turned an unhealthy shade of puce, and with his eyes peeled back, he had the look of a gaping goldfish.

I breached the distance between us and grasped his shoulder. “Breathe, man.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re a pro.” He shivered in his boat shoes, his khaki pants, and his button down shirt, his mouth hanging open in front of eleven buff and basically naked dudes.

Couldn’t blame him one bit. I’d been there once. I still was the new kid on the block at Retribution MC. Here? I had pull, power, and professional tenure if nothing else. Mammy, the downhome den mother to this group of
exotic male dancers
, had taken me under her wing after her husband Micah—the owner, ringmaster, and savvy businessman behind it all—had deemed me worthy.

I’d made it on amateur night. What could I say? I had the looks and the moves to match. Glen? I thought the crowd of cocktail-high honeys had clapped the loudest for him out of all the other stripper-wannabes just because he was A. gangly as fuck, B. nerdy to the fucking max, and C. seriously
fucking
lacking anything remotely resembling rhythm.

His upcoming solo would be a laugh if nothing else.

I took another look at Glen’s neon green face and showed the dude some pity. “We can’t let him go out there like this.”

The other GQ—
heh
—strippers fell upon Glen like rawboned barbarians, or—
God forbid
—beauticians.

In no time at all, we’d turned the fugly frog into a . . . well, he was no handsome prince, but at least we’d kitted him out in tight-ass strip-away pants. In a ribbed tank top with his sparse chest hairs curling over the top, his skinny torso was not cream-worthy material by any stretch of the imagination. His skin lost the dead corpse look, though. Or that could’ve been the cover-up Hiro skillfully blended all over his sallow face and torso. Boy needed some Vitamin D or a trip to the tanning salon.

He’d been oiled, groomed by the bunch of baboons
,
and now Jamal got busy showing him how to
crunk
as only a big, bad, black man with long dreadlocks could.

Glen fell on his ass the first time he tried to twerk—and Jamal wasn’t even demonstrating how to twerk. Dude had watched too much Miley Cyrus, apparently.

I doubted Glen would even make it half a minute into his routine before he was heckled off the stage and escorted away by Mammy. She liked to carry a bullwhip on Amateur Night.

“Why the hell are you doing this, man?” I helped him off his ass-plant on the floor.

He shoved a hank of sweaty hair from his forehead. “Respect?”

“You think getting your dong out and swinging your shit in front of a bunch of buzzing babes at bachelorette parties is gonna win you respect?” I ran a hand through my short-cropped white-blond hair. “You’re more fucked than I thought.”

“Respect. From my frat brothers. They’re in the audience.”

“What college you at?”

“CofC.”

“Oh yeah? College of Charleston? I got a friend there. You keep that up, dude. Forget about this bullshit. We ain’t nothin’ special.” I clapped him on the shoulder, drawing him closer. “More balls than brains, see?”

He smiled wryly. “I could do with more of one, less of the other.”

“Ditto that.”

“CURTAIN! NEW KID!” Mammy shouted, shoving her face into the dressing room.

I had the dubious honor of walking Glen to the stage. The short journey felt like I was delivering him to certain death at the end of a gangplank. As I listened to him cue up to Mammy and Micah, my mouth dropped open.

FFS.

His song choice?

“Gangnam Style”
.

His stripper name?

The Gigolo.

OMFG.

He was destined to fail before he even started. I couldn’t stay to watch the slaughter. I crept back toward the dressing room, groaning. The other guys lined the hallway, taking turns peeking through the backstage curtain and giving a whispered commentary:

“He’s doing the motherfucking cabbage patch!”

“What the
hell
was that move?”

“He oughtta be packing more than a Vienna sausage if he’s gonna start waving it around, right?”

“Jesus Christ, Jamal. Did you have to teach him how to twerk? Looks like he’s having a full-blown seizure out there.”

Jamal threw his hands up in the air. “I did not show him how twerk. If I did he’d for damn sure know he’s supposed to be shaking his lily white ass not flapping his chicken wings.”

I remembered my Amateur Night debut. The men had been equally mean with none of the help, but once I’d stepped onstage after Micah’s introduction I’d been one hundred percent in it to win it. The thing was, I liked to dance. And that just wasn’t something a dude could do without getting his ass kicked by his bros. Most of the strippers here phoned it in—a little gyrating, a flex of muscles, a dirty grin and the girls fell off their high heels to slip money into barely there G-strings.

Not me though. Nope. I was in my own world but totally conscious at the same time. The music pumped through me. It moved me. I lived in those moments, free of responsibility.

It was Nirvana. Pure and wicked all at the same time.

After my first dance, Micah had shouted out to the crowd, “DO YOU WANT MORE?”

Catcalls had ricocheted around the room, my name on the women’s lips. Chants and red-lipsticked roars for more.

I did it because it was how I breathed. How I lived. Under the spotlight. In secret. And it was how I paid the bills.

In the dressing room, I pulled my outfit off a hanger. Tailored to perfection, the new duds were king. I even had a fedora to go with. I’d brought my lucky cock-pouch, no more than a black mesh jockstrap to wear beneath the suit. No doubt about it, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday were my nights.
I
was king of The Gentleman’s Quarters—until someone younger and more charismatic came along.

Sure as hell wasn’t gonna be Glen, judging by the
BOOs
echoing from the audience and drifting all the way to the dressing room.

I stripped down, oiled up to a fine sheen, and stroked my cock a few times. Enough to get plump but not fully hard. I dressed slowly, checking all the seams, making sure my tackle was tucked in. Peering in the mirror, I blinked.

I looked gangster for my new routine. Or thuggy. Depending on how you looked at it. High cheeks, bright green eyes, wide lips, huge shoulders, narrow hips, cleft chin. No powder. Because I no longer sweated this shit.

I had enough other shit to sweat about.

There were exactly two people I never wanted to find out my
nighttime profession
. Okay, make that one person plus an entire MC club. Sadie Grace, and the Retribution MC I was pledging to, to be exact.

Sadie was my best friend since the first time we had a bust-up on the playground when we were ten. She’d had knobby knees, long sandy hair, and big blue eyes the color of the ocean at Isle of Palms on a clear day.

She’d also had the same mouth on her she had now.

“That’s my ball!” she shrieked.

“Bull-hockey. I grabbed it fair and square. Stop bein’ a sissy about it.”

Our one-on-one b-ball game descended into a scrap between a tiny tomboy and a rough around the edges southern boy.

Sadie hurled herself at me, knocking me flat. “Don’t you ever call me a sissy girl again!”

She walloped me on the nose.

Then cried next to me while it bled, using her Roller World T-shirt to stanch the bleeding. “You should hit me back.”