Slick
Being with Bri never gets old. We’re in the bike shop, which a VP and the President’s daughter shouldn’t be doing even if we do have Grizzly’s blessing now. Outside, a light sleet is falling, the air crisp and wintery. But inside it is warm. I have her bent over a bike she was working on, and her moans are about the sweetest, sexiest damn thing that exists in the world. I thrust into her one last time, grabbing her ass cheeks, and I feel her come all over me. It’s a beautiful thing, the way Brat comes. First, her pussy goes tight, so tight that I can feel it like a hand squeezing my cock, and then she starts squirting all over me, so that when I look down I see the come rubbing up and down my cock as I thrust. Damn, damn beautiful.
When we’re done, I pull out and pull my jeans up, looking back toward the outside.
“That was risky,” I say, buckling my belt.
Brat giggles, facing me. “If it isn’t risky, it isn’t worth it.” She gives me a wink.
“I was sent by your dad to make sure you weren’t in here. He’s given me clear orders that you’re supposed to be a lady now. You’re supposed to have left all that tomboy stuff behind you.”
“Don’t I look like a lady?” She flicks her hair, which is longer than it’s ever been before. Soon it’ll be long enough that, when she’s naked, she’ll be able to cover her nipples with it. I can’t wait for that. I get hard again just thinking about it. She dances over to me, kissing me, and then wrapping her arms around. “I’m sure I’ve persuaded you to keep my secret, though, right?”
I grin, can’t help but grin. When I think of how things are now—me living with Charlotte and Brat in the city, being VP, having a real say in the club—to how things were a few months back, it’s difficult to believe. I still have the nightmares, don’t reckon they’ll ever go away, but hell is easier to deal with when you’ve got a couple of angels of your own.
“Thought so.” She kisses me on the nose. “Anyway, this is my bike, and I don’t exactly have another garage I can use whenever I like. But don’t worry.” Holding her grease-stained hands up. “I’m actually going full-time at another job.”
“Are you? When?”
“Tomorrow,” she says. “Heather doesn’t call me the Little Fashionista for nothing, you know.”
“Goddamn, Brat.” I put my arms around her, pulling her to me so that my cock is pressed against her tight ass. Just emptied my balls, and yet I’m hard all over again. “When you talk about fashion you get me fuckin’ goin’. You’re the best of both worlds. Half greasy monkey, half fashion lady. Glamorous and dirty all in one.”
She shifts her hips, rubbing that tight ass against me. “I think I’d prefer dirty, just one more time . . .”
***
Bri
I’ve just helped one of my regular customers, Chantelle, pick out a flowing dress which accentuates her curves when Heather comes over. Heather has been nervous all day, flustered and snappish, and I think I know why; it’s the same reason Dad was acting off when I saw him earlier. Chantelle is a busty, curvy redheaded woman with a nervous smile, which gets more nervous as Heather stomps over. She hands me the purchase catalogue. Since we’ve started buying our own stock, she’s been consulting me more and more about what to go in on. As soon as she hands it to me, I push it back.
“I’ve already looked. See?” I gesture to the sticky notes poking out from the end.
“Oh.”
She flicks to the pages, and then throws her hand up. “No way!” she cries, red-faced.
“Oh,” Chantelle murmurs, peering over Heather’s shoulder at the catalogue.
“What?” Heather says, turning to her. “What is it?”
I’ve picked out some biker-style gear, all leather and studs, kinky and cool.
“I just think it looks quite—quite exciting,” Chantelle says, making for the door. “I’m sure some of the other girls would, too.”
Heather raises an eyebrow at me, as Chantelle leaves. “The girls—your regulars, she means?”
I nod.
“Oh, fine, fine!”
She almost drops the catalogue when Dad walks in, dressed not in leathers, but in a suit. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him in a suit. I’m so startled by the sight that I just start laughing, which doesn’t help matters. He grins awkwardly, and Heather shoots me a furious look.
“Heather,” he says.
“Jacob,” she replies.
Dad clears his throat. Heather moves from foot to foot. I watch, cringing, but I’m happy for them despite the awkwardness.
After a while, Heather turns to me and says, “I’ll be back in time to watch Charlotte this evening.”
“Okay, just go! And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
Heather shoots me another angry look, and then leaves, Dad holding the door open for her.
I spend the rest of the day helping customers, and then—once Heather has taken Charlotte, as promised, and once she’s ignored my questions about the date—I jump on my bike and head into the Rockies, sleet or no sleet.
Slick is there, as he said he would be, sitting at a foldout table next to my dirt bike in our metal hut. He places a picnic hamper on the table, which contains champagne and some nibbles, but I’m more interested in the blanket laid out on the floor. Candlelight throws our shadows onto the walls.
“Brat,” he says, rising to meet me. He grabs me, pulling me close to him. I love how much he takes control, how safe I feel with him.
“Brat,” I echo. “Will you ever stop calling me that?”
He grins, and shakes his head. “Don’t reckon so,” he says. “Unless you stopped being my Brat one day.”
“I never would,” I say, bringing my lips to his. Before we kiss, I whisper, “I’m glad you came home to me, Slick. I’m glad you came home to us.”
“So am I,” he says, voice throaty.
And then we kiss, and a light snow begins to fall, shrouding us.
THE END
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