I’m no hero. Never have been, never will be. One good, long look at me tells the entire story. I’m the guy pulling a carpe diem with his jeans unbuttoned and shoved down just far enough to bare my best part. The guy with the leather MC club vest, a battered T-shirt, and all the right stuff going on below the belt. I’m hot as fuck.
Right. I get it. You’re too busy staring at my dick to talk.
Shock and awe, baby. Shock and awe.
I don’t blame you. I’ve got an enormous dick, a monster cock, and right now it’s sticking out loud and proud for anyone who walks into the alley to see. Ten inches, thick as my wrist, and I know exactly how to use my tool. If you don’t believe me, ask the biker chick I’m banging against the bar’s back wall. I work said miracle dick deeper inside her until I’m practically coming out her throat and she’s shrieking my name loud enough to be heard clear across Baton Rouge. The screaming, the scratching, and the way she’s clawing at me are popular stops on my orgasm tour, but right now we’re headed for the main attraction—and my big O is definitely worth the price of admission.
I could make a killer living renting out my dick, but when I’m buttoned up and not drilling deep into club pussy, I’m a patch-wearing member of the Breed MC, a hardcore biker, all-round bad boy, and a werewolf. Only the first three are public knowledge. My hair is buzzed close to my skull in a way that makes you look at my eyes and realize that I’m one part stone-cold killer and one part don’t-give-a-fuck. The ink marching up and down my arms and throat is bold and colorful because the only thing I keep on the down low is the shapeshifting, and that’s only because I’d never do anything to hurt my pack—at least not now.
I’m totally fucking reformed.
You don’t believe me? You’d like to point out that humping a random chick in an alley behind a biker bar doesn’t scream model citizen? That putting her back to a brick wall instead of a Sealy Posturepedic smacks either of urgency or an unflattering unwillingness to put extra time into what’s shaping up to be a ten-minute relationship? I feel you because the ambience is definitely lacking. The pavement beneath my motorcycle boots is littered with cigarette butts, broken glass, and beer caps of the cheap twist-off variety. The décor is of the suspicious stain variety and the eau de dumpster wafting our way from the other end of the alley makes me regret my super-sharp werewolf sense of smell.
Doesn’t seem to bother the woman riding my dick any, although that could be because I’ve got her distracted. She tightens her arms around my neck, dragging my face toward hers as her pussy clamps down hard. Not sure if she’s coming or trying to snap my dick off so she can keep it as a souvenir. Since I don’t kiss on the first date, I divert and bury my face against her throat. Bad move. She’s drenched herself in something musky. If roses had a hooker twin, that would be the scent clinging to her skin like one of those perfumed strip things stuck into a magazine so you can take a particular perfume for a test drive, rub it all over your body, maybe stick it in your panty drawer.
Too much?
Suck it. I’m reformed, not dead.
The universe clearly isn’t certain on this point, however, because this is when my phone goes off in my back pocket. For a moment, I think baby girl is aiming her pocket rocket at my ass, which is a no-fly zone. I don’t get fucked. Not anymore. It takes me a moment to realize it’s actually my phone. See—it’s just my alarm, okay? Nothing to get bent or in a pissing match about. I just have to remember why I set the alarm for four in the afternoon. I’m not an alarm kind of guy. Unless it’s club business, I don’t care when I get up, show up, or get off.
So I pound harder, cupping my girl’s ass and working her against me. She moans louder and louder, her noises almost drowning out the annoying buzz of my phone. I’m gonna come. My balls tighten as I jackhammer harder, pushing my hand between us so I can work my companion’s clit. She deserves an orgasm for all the work she’s putting into this. And yes, mine will feel even better if she’s squeezing me tight while I finish. We both win, so don’t bitch.
This is me. The not-hero, totally villain me. Okay, so maybe my reformation didn’t one hundred percent take.
“Fang,” she moans.
“Right here, baby girl.” I piston harder, catch her clit between my fingers, and pinch. She shrieks like a fire alarm and combusts. This is excellent timing because my phone vibrates again, right as I realize that I’ve forgotten her name. Or maybe I never bothered to learn it? Doesn’t matter. We’re having sex, not a relationship. Not like we’re gonna be buying monogrammed sheets together and so I need to know her initials.
She collapses against me, and I do the gentleman and keep holding her up, my hands cupping her ass as I come hard. I’m done, she’s done, and it’s time to get this show on the road. I pop her off my dick, lob the condom into the dumpster (which is a fucking three-point shot that baby girl totally fails to appreciate), and start buttoning up. She sags against the wall, trying to make her legs work which is smart, seeing as how the pavement is fucking nasty.
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re the best.”
The gratitude’s genuine, but the superlative is a lie. Seems polite though, which is another part of my whole turning-over-a-new-leaf thing. Sex doesn’t have to be competitive gymnastics; I don’t have to flash a scorecard and deduct points for the way she failed to stick the landing or keep her legs together in the air.
“When will I see you again?” she whines.
Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Because my answer is a definite never. Yeah, we’ll bump into each other at the bar or ride past each other on the road, but when the highway of life’s so full of pit stops, why get off in the same spot twice?
“Gotta go.” I lean down and brush a kiss over her cheek. See? A whole new fucking leaf. That’s me being Mr. Tender and giving a shit about her feelings.
“Why?” She tries latching on but I’m expert in avoiding entanglements. Okay. I don’t give a big shit about what’s going on in the feeling department there.
“I’m having a baby.” I buckle while she blinks, trying to process my words. She’s not a quick thinker. Eventually, her eyes descend straight to my stomach and stay there, like somehow I’m hiding a half-hatched pollywog in there and I might go all Exorcist on her and pop a mutant wolf cub out.
Not today.
She’s still whining and bitching behind me, wriggling her skirt down into place, when I clear the entrance to the alley. My bike’s parked right out front under the watchful eye of a prospect. My dick may make the rounds, but no one touches my bike without permission.
The prospect nods his head when I come bursting out. He tries to swallow a smirk. “Done?”
I give him credit for trying to pretend he hasn’t heard shit. It’s a wasted effort, though. Not like I care if I have an audience, and the kid’s probably jealous. On the other hand, baby girl back there might be up for seconds if he asks nicely and he looks like the kind of guy who could be convinced to do aftercare. At the very least, he’d buy her a drink. I wink and jerk my head toward the alley. Have at it.
And then because I’m turning over that new leaf, I even let him know the coast is clear. “Got an appointment.”
It’s the truth, too. I’ve got a 4:30 with some chick at a birthing center. And no, it’s not what you think it is. I need some female advice. That’s why I’ve been scouring the Internet the last two weeks with Yelp as my wingman. That’s why I’ve called four different women’s health centers, and that’s why I’ve hung out at places like Babies-R-Us, listening. FYI? Women talk, and they love to compare birth stories. I’ve learned a hell of a lot in fourteen days.
Fuck, I even bought the Bible of childbirth, that What to Expect doorstopper of a book. Unless the printed word lies, I’ve got forty weeks max to make everything right, a clock that started ticking the minute Jace’s super sperm did a tango number with Keelie Sue’s egg. As far as I can tell, she’s already way past the halfway mark, chewing up my available time. Her pregnancy started off fine. She puked, she bitched, she glowed. From the look on my Alpha’s face, the rumors about pregnancy sex were less rumor and more fact. My brother was definitely getting some. And then everything changed. About a month ago. Keelie Sue still showed up at club functions and she still sang a happy song about Jace having knocked her up with his super sperm, but she got paler. And as her belly got bigger, the rest of her got thinner. The puking didn’t stop, either. And then sometimes she’d flinch, her hands flying to that never-ending belly and holding on like something hurt deep inside or maybe she was trying to keep the baby in.
It’s not that I care. I don’t. In addition to sucking at relationships, I’m not a baby person. And for extra bonus points, Keelie Sue and I have a rocky history. Yes, I tried to bang her. I’m sure you’re surprised to learn I failed. I was. I never have any problem nailing the girl, thank you aforementioned monster cock. But with Keelie Sue, I made the mistake of trying for something more. Her daddy was our pack Alpha at the time, and he made it clear that banging Keelie Sue would get a wolf promoted to number two. Yes, I was jonesing for that job. I planned to make a quick transition from two to one, too. I don’t take orders well. Showing your throat to someone, submitting, letting someone else run the show… these are not a few of my favorite things.
But shit backfired when I went after Keelie Sue. I may be the master of the quick fuck, but my dating skills are rusty. I scared her, I offended her, and I hurt her. So I have some making up to do, and lending her a hand with this pregnancy shit seems better than a dozen red ones. Somehow, I’m gonna fix this pregnancy for her. Make it work, make it stick, make it fucking perfect.
I owe a shit-ton of people after the crap I’ve pulled in the last year—challenging for pack leadership and losing, and just being an all-round, overachieving ass. It’s not that I’ve been visited by the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future and feel a need to atone for my own past dickishness. It’s just that every good villain eventually gets his comeuppance, and it turns out that I do love my pack—even more than my dick… and my dick’s really fucking awesome. You can stop looking at me like that. This isn’t a bros before hos moment. This is just part of that new leaf shit.