CHAPTER ONE

"I carried a watermelon…” - Zara Freeze.

Three years ago.

 

 

 

       Oh, for fucks sake, what level of hell was this? Bodies writhed in one mass debauching undulation, men and women in varying stages of undress, everyone drunkenly enjoying themselves. All but one.  Zara was clearly in the wrong place, like she’d taken an incorrect turn on Pleasant Avenue straight down to Death row no passing go or collecting $200.

      I thought this was meant to be a party not an orgy.

      Looking at the people dry humping and puffing on long cigarettes, she was ninety-nine-point six percent sure this was where good girls came to die. Not that she categorized herself in that way, but on the scale of them and her, yep, she tipped the scale to good just because having sex in public would never occur to her as the thing to do. Ever.

      Sex was private, something to do behind closed doors, not with a damn audience watching on and if she was to ever actually have sex one of these days, she sure wouldn’t be doing it while sweaty men jeered nearby.

      It wasn't as though Zara was unsophisticated, but knowing what dinner fork to use at a fifteen-course banquet was not going to come in useful right now, nor was the very limited experience in anything physical going to help process what she was seeing without extensive embarrassment coating her face. It was just all there in eyeline wherever she looked.

      Zara gulped past the lump in her throat, doing a little hand wringing in that Jesus on a cracker can't believe what she was seeing way, her pulse thumping loudly in her ears over the music and the loud base of voices.

       Out of her comfort zone.

      Hardly wearing a brush of nude lip-gloss, and even that was ballsy for her, her sun gold hair swung loosely in perfect waves around bare shoulders, her style was not something that fit in with this party scene, everyone else was in denim and leather, bras and panties. She knew absolutely she was in the wrong place with these overtly tawdry and overtly sexual bikers enjoying their carnal party.

       For god sake, she was wearing a strapless yellow summer dress that hugged her breasts and fell to her ankles whereas everyone else was in mini’s, tube tops and dirty leather. Glaring bullseye right there for the interloper.

       She was all country club in Hell.

       The noise from within the Renegade Souls MC clubhouse was deafening. Loud thumping rock music came from several speakers hung high on the walls, making every surface surrounding seem as if it vibrated with its evocative pulse. She felt the base of it in her chest. Thump-thump-thump. Fingers clutching the red plastic cup was anything but relaxed.

       Out of her element. Uncomfortable.

       What was she meant to do now? It wasn’t as though she could even approach anyone for a conversation, she could small chat for fun, but this place had her inner cowardly lion cowering behind silence. 

      The Soul's motorcycle clubhouse presented more of a feel of a storage warehouse than that of a home someone would live in, though taking a longer look around, trying desperately to avoid her eyes hitting any nakedness again, it did have the makings of just that at first glance, though she couldn't imagine a decent human being ever wanting to step inside.

      What was she doing here?

       It boasted modern interior fixing and fittings, extremely high ceilings, wide windows but the furniture was less than desirable. Through the crowd, she saw several corridors leading to god knows where, she didn't dare venture from the spot her feet were glued to, scared to bring attention she was actually present, god forbid someone might notice her, she'd found a place over in the corner between a pair of speakers taller than she was.

       So, what if she was deaf by the time she got out of it, it would be worth it not to have anyone's attention.

      Hidden out of sight.

     Observing with wide pale Blue eyes, she could see no possible outcome to this party other than rape and or murder and call her stupid but she wasn’t keen on either. She was going to punch Morgana for leaving her. Back soon, my ass. She’d been gone over an hour already.

      Zara was a painfully young twenty-three, she accepted grudgingly, probably naiver than she cares to admit, her shyness forever an obstacle in her way, if she saw the good in life and people, whose fault was that?  She'd barely had any experiences worthy of a diary entry. She was more Eeyore than Tigger.  And that right there was as exciting as Zara got, describing her life in terms of cartoon characters.

       Jeez. She was pathetic.

      To be in one of the roughest parts of town within the sprawling compound among the legendary Renegade Souls MC ... well, she was a little sick with nerves and began to search out the nearest exit. She'd wanted to spread her wings, to have some fun, but this was too much flight for a first outing. Morgana had laughed, told her to relax, to grab a drink or four and to mingle. How did you mingle with these kinds of people? They’d laugh their asses off at her. There was no mingling here, just--- Zara's cheeks flushed, letting her gaze take the sights in.

     Everywhere she looked her eyes hit another disturbing scene.  Not that she was a prude or anything. She was definitely a prude.

     Bikers of all ages openly pawing at women, fucking them, and the women were no better, grabbing crotches like it was the normal way to say hey.

      Every table top littered in empty condom wrappers and the acrid stench in the air could only be marijuana. Was it polite to stare? Cause she was staring.

       Yep, wrong place for her to be, she was a fish out of water and felt awkward as hell. She knew it a second later.

     "Aren't you a sweet piece of soft candy, and all alone. And so frightened. I can smell it. Mmmfuck.  Who brought you for me, girl?"

     Zara's head flipped around to see a tall male who owned the sinister sounding voice.  Incredibly tall he had to have part giant DNA at least, a beard too long and scraggly hung off his face, and what she and her friends called Jesus hair dangled around a severe jawline. There was nothing easy in the smile of his, but it revealed even white teeth. Predator's teeth, all the better to eat you, my dear. Zara took a step back.  He leaned forward and blew smoke in her face, she tried hard not to cough, she already stood out like a sore thumb, without adding weak to her resume because she couldn't handle a bit of tobacco smoke.

       God. She hoped it was just tobacco. Her lungs revolted and began to heave. The man laughed loud, dirty and darkly.

       His leather vest ... his cut, she amended. Bikers called them a cut because it had the name of their club on the back. She already knew this because every guy in here wore the same well-dinged black leather with the scary face of the grim reaper on the back holding a death scythe.  His patch read; Vice President.

     Though her nerves jangled as the guy leered, bloodshot eyes, plausibly drunk, she tried to smile and act casual, all the while scanning for her friend who had disappeared off the face of the earth. I'm going to die here. She thought dramatically, not quite meeting the viciously blue eyes so colorless in shade they seemed white under the fluorescent lights, assessing her like she was a slab of beef and he was deciding which knife and fork to use. I’m all gristle, she wanted to say.

     "I..I came with a friend. She's here somewhere." Presumably getting killed like I will be soon.

      Destiny doesn't come to you, Zar, you have to grab it by the fucking balls and make it yours. Morgana had schooled her earlier that night when she'd been blackmailing her friend into going to the well renowned open house party at the Soul’s compound. Somehow Zara didn't think her destiny lies with sexually promiscuous bikers or the trouble they rode in on. Her plans were for law school in the fall and after that, she'd get a job with Barker, Moss, and Johnson. Ten years after that she'd make partner. She had her portfolio all mapped out for the next twenty years. Nothing in it said she would knock on destiny's door in the Colorado mountains surrounded by the roughest most dangerous men she'd ever clapped eyes on. Heaven forbid. She was judging them, and judging hard.

        Her heart rapped harder. Nervous tension licking at her ankles. Where the hell was Morgana? She'd dumped Zara almost the moment they'd been let inside, she wanted to go and find someone called Tiny, she'd said. Zara had hoped it was to ask for a ride home, but an hour later Zara had begun to lose faith in that. Morgana was a party animal; she was fourth of July fireworks… everything Zara wasn’t. This was the one time she'd let herself be talked into something risky. And she was instantly regretting it. What a sucker. Who was peer pressured at twenty-three?

      Biker guy was still there, he leered and circled around her, leaning in to sniff her hair.

      "Little mice wanting to play with the bad guys, funny. You want me to show you my sand pit, girl?" He again blew smoke in her direction before his tongue snaked out and licked the full length of his lower lip.

     His eyes were malevolent.

     Call her slow, but Zara didn’t think he had play in mind.  Besides, he wasn’t that attractive. Would it kill him to shave?

     Her belly tightened, where was that exit again? She'd leave Morgana here if she had to. Every man for himself on the titanic. 

     "You came to party, scared mouse. All groupies come to the fucking party."

Groupies? He was no Adam Levine.

      She could smell alcohol on his breath when he leaned in to sniff her again. What was the fricking sniffing about? She’d showered today. Sidestepping, he only laughed, moved his huge body with her in a fast momentum, blocking off her exit and caught her wrist. "I like 'em timid and scared. I'll show you how to bend over for me and scream."

      Oh god. I'm going to die here. She repeated. Her panic rising to Def Con; Cinderella when she lost her shoe at midnight.

       And then.

     "Hawk." One word traveled from across the room through all the background noise and ruckus, over the heads of wandering men ... she still heard it. Felt it. Zara's spine stiffened then softened as if melted.

      The deep timber was whiskey smooth. Smoke rough. All sex.

      Without thinking, Zara sought out who had spoken.  Compelled to see who the voice belonged to.

     "Yo, Prez?"

     "You're scarin' the guest. Let her go."

       Her wrist was freed and the guy snarled about being fucking cockblocked his eyes flared showing his annoyance.  Nerves grabbed a hold of her. He would likely be handsome underneath his facial hair and glower, deep beneath, probably, not that Zara wanted to look beneath his surface because he was undoubtedly intimidating.                

      The stuff nightmares were made of.

      Jesus hair would be the monster not only under your bed, he’d kick his way into your dreams and terrorize the life out of you. But that was just a guess.

      It was another pair of darker eyes that ripped the attention to a standstill. Noise ceased while blood roared in her ears.

      The most dramatic pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen, and really, blue was an inadequate description, her long educated brain had shut down from forming words of two syllables or more, and that voice, wow, sounded a lot-amused, leaning against a winding chrome bar, beer bottle caught between finger and thumb, his black boots adorned with buckles and silver studs crossed at the ankle, he was the epitome of relaxed, not even glancing at the various sex acts happening on couches, tables, against walls and that one couple on the floor. How did you have people screwing around you and you don’t even look?

      He was staring at Zara. That’s why.  And she stared back.

      If she thought Jesus hair could be handsome if he cleaned up with a nice bath, a bottle of cologne and fresh clothes, then blue eyes had to be the most beautiful guy she'd ever clapped eyes on. No work needed, he was incredible.

       Seriously. Wow.

      There was no question about it, she stared unable to pull her gaze away. Heat tumbled inside her belly.  A stain of color rushed to her cheeks when he beckoned her forward with two fingers.

     "Fuck this." Hawk growled and stalked off muttering he needed a fucking drink and some wild pussy.

      Thank god. Wild was not in her repertoire. Zara could barely muster lively. Too much focus on her studies had made her dull dull dull, she was about as exciting as stale popcorn, and really that was all she could be bothered with on any given weekend, forget about dating, and sex was a non-issue currently.

      Legs led her forward, drawn to close the gap between those five feet separating her from him... she felt as if every step dragged her out of her life long tedium and head first into the blue-wild heathen territory.

      This was what excitement felt like. She thought, drawn implacably to him, he was a magnet and she was happily heading towards the force.

      His eyes raked up and over her body and the daring heat of it burned her insides until she knew her panties were damp, and her belly muscles quivered.

       One look and her hormones had awoken wanting to touch everything like a kid in a candy store leaving her sticky fingerprints everywhere. She’d smelled the wicked coming off the man's stare. It was danger and magnetism, she was lucky her underwear was still around her waist and not flopping on the floor.

      She was feeling things. Dirty unused things in her abdomen and lower.

      For a fricking outlaw rule-breaking biker.  Go figure.

      The most beautiful man.

      He was take-a-fourth-look kind of stunning.

      Zara did some of her own looking because it was the only option but to stare and take him all in, one greedy gulp at a time, a nervous glance over her shoulder, to check for her friend and then back towards him.

       He was taller than most of the men here, tall and absurdly masculine, not surprising, this place it was wall-to-wall testosterone, only he had extra oozing from his frame.

      My god. It was as though she was seeing men for the first time. Absolutely no one looked like him at college. No one. Now she was a little dizzy from the attention he was paying her.

     Breath-taking.

     His mess of rich mahogany hair was caught up at the back in a bun as though he’d just rolled out of bed and scraped it back with those long-tapered fingers of his and tied it haphazardly. It gave him a rugged all male appearance. A look that had her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth.

      She'd never thought in a million years that would be a visceral factor in attraction for her, but there it was, beating a thrum between her legs, making her breasts peak and ache to be touched. Lust. And the attraction didn’t stop there.

      His left arm was covered from his wrist with colorful ink all the way up until it disappeared beneath the black T-shirt, she had the urge to discover how far up it went, wanting to look closely at the design, to run her fingers over the vivid orange, blue, red and black.

     Her gaze strayed to his chest, to his vest patch.

     This was the president of the Renegade Souls. Morgana had told Zara his name before they’d arrived, said how feared and formidable the guy was, but at the time she'd been too busy trying to breathe and not panic, wishing she was back at home under a blanket with a mug of cinnamon hot chocolate and a good romance book, she'd clearly forgotten it.

     "What's your name, Dorothy? You're a long fuckin' way from Oz, arentcha..."

       Oh, that sexy voice. No hint of drunken slur, nor was he a native to Colorado either just like her.

      When he took the bottle to his lips she watched every slow movement. His throat worked in a rhythmic swallow. Her gaze ate up the moment, and she had to bite back a moan. Perfect neck. Tanned, with thick veins. Biteable.

      With all her etiquette lessons her mother pushed onto her from the year she was pushed out. The many debates she'd chaired at college, speaking in front of hundreds of people with an air of confidence and impassioned wisdom. Zara found herself without a voice suddenly. Shy and intimidated by the beautiful man who continued to gaze at her, a sly smile turning up one end of his mouth as his brow lifted expectedly waiting for her to speak.

      Say something. She chastised. Anything. Pick a word. A verb. A half-baked sentence!

     "I..erm..I'm Zara Freeze." Well that didn't sound too moronic. Tell him you carried a watermelon, too.

      His laugh was rich, cream thick ... beautiful like he was.

     "Icy. I should have known from the cold shoulder you just gave to my VP. Take a seat, Zara Freeze. Lemme get you a drink. Grinder, bring the lady a beer down here." He rose his voice to the bartender before taking the red cup out of her hand she’d been clutching.

     "You got it, Prez. Here you go, babe." He uncapped a beer, a bottle so cold condensation ran down the slim neck, and he slid it over. She grasped it automatically murmuring her thanks.

     Perspective was in the beholder. No two people that night would describe what happened in the same way, simply because everyone sees situations differently, a word added here, an embellishment there, but no one's interpretation was more vibrant than Zara's right then while she soaked up the steadfast attention of a pair of blue eyes and a wicked smile.

     Her perspective was alive in color and ink and a beating of sexual longing.

     "This is your place? I mean your gang?"

      He laughed again listening with his head cocked to the side, eyes studying her, repeating the bottle to mouth action. Zara's gaze followed, wanting more than anything to lean into his space and place her hand on his throat to feel it work in swallows. What on earth was she thinking? Maybe that smoke in her face had been pot, it would explain her all gutter thoughts and all of him in raging stages of filth. I want him.

     "It’s a club, babe. I haven't been in a gang since I was seven. And it’s all mine, every broken and fucked up piece of it. You can call me Rider. I saw you come in with your girl. She's with one of my prospects, he fucks like a porn star, wouldn't expect her back anytime soon."

     "Oh." He said it so matter-of-factly like it was the norm to talk about people's sexual capabilities, the details made her cheeks stain, she dipped her head, wondering if she should go looking for Morgana, maybe her friend didn't want to be holding company with a porn star wannabe…but then, it was Morgana and she had gone looking for the guy.

      Like a best friend would in the face of a gorgeous god, Zara forgot all about Morgana, she was fascinated. Intrigued. Breathless. Caught in his stare.

     "Fuck me, look at this, she even blushes. That's fuckin' adorable, Icy. I didn't think chicks over the age of ten still did that."

     "Zara." Her throat cleared. "My name is Zara."

      "Yeah, I got that." She'd never cared for a smirking guy until this very second. It pushed his dreamboat factor up ten points. "But I love your chill. Fuckin' sexy, Icy. I'm gonna melt you until there's nothing left but a giant fuckin' wet patch on my bed."

      How could he look so smug and calm when Zara's head was going off like tiny bombs detonating behind her eyes? No one had ever stated their attentions so sexually blatant to her before, it took Zara's breath, her nerves jangling like Christmas bells, gripping the bottle tight, she'd taken a long gulp just in order to give her some time to think before she spoke.

      She’d liked the direct statement. Sexy.

      It might be the debauched atmosphere doing her thinking, but she really liked it. This outlaw biker was not just flirting with her he wanted to sleep with her. With her! Oh, wow. This was something.  Be cool.

      Manic butterflies in her belly, she looked up at him from under her pale lashes, her lip caught in her teeth. She was pathetic at flirting, serious zero skills whatsoever, she was more likely to tell him of her Disney mug collection than to ask him to kiss her just so she could check if his full lips were as soft as she hoped they'd be. And her fingers itched badly to run across his shadowed beard.

      Out of her element. She wondered if she had a glaring VIRGIN sign in neon over her head.

      Was she going to disappoint him?

      She identified the basics, what went where, and how it was supposed to feel, she wasn’t stupid. But the practicalities of sex were not like reading about it. And sex with a gorgeous biker who probably liked it kama sutra style. Her nerves increased.

      Rider didn't seem to mind if she was shy and too much in her own thoughts because he reached out and stroked a long finger down her cheek. "Ready to melt already. Fuck me, you're gonna be dynamite, babe."

      She was glad one of them thought so. Zara was too busy dying inside. Was she really going to have a one-night stand with a man she didn’t even know ten minutes ago?

Yes. She absolutely was.

     Perspective per Zara looked a lot like heaven and Hell. Stood in Lucifer’s backyard, faced with a heavenly man tempting her to dance with the devil.

If only she could Foxtrot.

      Did she tell him now she was a virgin or would that squash any hopes of his flirtation continuing? She kept her mouth shut, because she liked his focused attention. Another long gulp, the cold beer soothing her heat and it didn't taste all that bad, she had another. And another until the bottle stood empty.

      When Rider stood to his fullest height, her eyes went up and up and then down, catching the sound of his wallet chain. Parched, her mouth dried of all moisture. She'd been right, he was so tall his beauty had been painted in the clouds.

     "You're big." Oh, shut up. She was back to the watermelon stating the fucking obvious. Rider’s laugh implied he found her amusing, cutting through her mortified stress. He had brilliant even white teeth shadowed by his close-cropped beard.

     Masculine. Appealing.

     "C'mon, Icy. Let's get outta here,” His hand enfolded hers.

      The shame of it was she didn't have one protest. She knew what this guy wanted from her, and she had no objection to it.

       She wanted him. Quite desperately actually.

      Zara couldn't raise even a margin hint of guilt for leaving Morgana, after all, it was her friend who had left her here first and thank god, she had, she thought to herself as the president of the Renegade Souls MC led her through the unruly crowd to a quieter corridor of doors.

    Innocence and wonderment pulsed in her chaotic thoughts, her fingers relaxed yet held tightly in his hand, she tried hard not to look at one guy vigorously dry humping a blonde woman in a corner, really going at it with the sounds effects, nor did she blink when the same guys hand disappeared beneath her skirt, the woman exchanged a giggle for a wet throaty moan, her head thrown back in obvious pleasure.

      Would that be how she felt with Rider? There were too many gaps in her knowledge of sex, besides the A and B logistics, she was pretty clueless on how it felt, how she'd react. Would she moan with abandon like that girl was, not caring who heard her?

      Her anxious level rose in noise, talking herself out of it. Talking herself back into it.

      He was gorgeous and he wanted her, that was all she needed to know.                 

      She wanted to feel him against her all pump and grind and hungry, if his fingers felt good simply holding her hand, his callouses rubbing against her skin, his body pressed to hers had to be amazing.

      The scent of him, manly and clean caused her to inhale faster than her lungs needed, just to keep smelling him. Her insides wanted to explode, every vein was banging out of control dragging blood to all the places on Zara's body that pulsed with greedy need.

 His back was so wide it was like following behind a Marvel superVillain. He had to be at least six-five inches of drool worthy man. Zara swallowed a nervous giggle, clutching Rider’s hand like a lifeline. She was going to have sex..with a man..

      Not her pink bullet vibrator.

      He painted a sexy picture wearing dark jeans, thick soled well-worn boots, a white long-sleeved undershirt beneath his black Henley and his leather cut.  Zara judged his sharp unforgiving features had bewitched her, why else was she eagerly trotting to her first and only one-night stand.

       He was a gorgeous package wrapped up in a bad bow.

      She’d couldn’t claim to have been flirted with by many men, and none in Rider’s caliber. The original bad boy wasn’t that every virgin’s fantasy. No one wanted to go to bed with a stockbroker if the local biker bad boy with his lack of give-a-fucks was looking at her with sex in his eyes.

       When Rider led her through a doorway down the very far end she didn't have time to assess the room, finding herself slammed against a wall, and the sexiest pair of lips crashed down on hers, prying open, licking inside her mouth.

      It was the single best kiss of her life.

     Around the same time, Zara's brain stopped functioning as a highly intelligent organ.

      She’d just added ‘sex with a hot biker’ to the top of her bucket list and was ready to check it off, rubbing her hips against his. She might be inexperienced but she knew what felt good and rubbing on him like she was a cat in the throes of her first heat felt really, really, god, really good.  She did it again and felt the distinct hardness poking into her.

       All those evocative things she’d only read about in smut books came flooding back into her mind until they stirred her blood to boiling point.

      Being sexually destroyed. Taken over with orgasms. Owned by an alpha male.

      She wanted it all.

      This guy was the kind of man to sexually destroy you and still you’d want to thank him afterward for ruining you.

      “Gonna fuck you now, babe…”