Nowhere (Crimson Outlaws MC #1) Read online

  Crimson Outlaws MC

  Bink Cummings

  Copyright © 2016 by: Bink Cummings

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Proofreader/Editor- Genevieve Scholl & Kristina Canady

  Proofreader/Beta- Mary Bevinger, Tammy Anderson, & Heather Hendrickson

  Cover Artist- Bink Cummings

  Photo provided from: Big Stock

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to the Author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedicated to those who should embrace their inner kink… or… those who already do.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Other Works: By Bink Cummings

  Bink Cummings Social Media

  Turning into the rural lot after dusk, I release the throttle and drop my feet to the ground. The wet gravel crunches under my boot heels and tires as I walk to my spot—the first space in a long row of black and chrome. Kicking my stand down, I cut the engine and dismount my bike. Riding twenty minutes outta town in a micro-mini skirt isn’t what I’d call comfortable, but it fits tonight’s festivities. My corset hidden beneath my leather jacket is even more apt for such an occasion.

  Peeling off my leather gloves, I toss them into my saddle bag and run my hands over my hips to right my skirt so that my bareness underneath is momentarily concealed. Then I remove my helmet and rest it safely on my bike’s seat. The fresh scent of spring engulfs my senses. Damn, I love being outside, riding with the wind, my legs wrapped around my bike. It’s about flippin’ time that winter’s wrath has passed. Tonight was the first time I’ve ridden my Harley since October.

  Combing my fingers through my long, chestnut colored hair, I shift on my feet, readying my nerves. A deep inhale steels them a fraction further, even though my heart is nearly beating out of my chest and my palms are clammy. You’d think after two-plus years of these monthly visits that I’d be immune to this by now. That the mixture of tension, and anticipation simmering underneath the surface would vanish. That I wouldn’t chew my glossed bottom lip as I move toward the entrance of Nowhere, a bar. That my heart wouldn’t flutter, then almost bottom out when I take the first step. Another gulp and I set my shoulders back, holding my head high as the thumping of music draws me nearer. Three more wooden steps and I’m on the bar’s wraparound porch.

  Stalling, I scan my surroundings. If you’ve ever driven by this place, you’d swear that from the Wild West exterior it would have horses tied to posts outside. Instead, there are tons of motorcycles lining the bar’s front. Across the gravel lot, alongside the butting forest, cars and trucks mark their own parking spots. A dim light attached to the bar’s roof illuminates them in the distance like something out of a bad horror movie.

  One more step toward the door and my legs turn to lead. I don’t know why it’s always this way. Why it’s so hard for me to succumb to the choice that I made years ago to feed this hunger that gnaws at my deepest self. It’s insatiable. And tonight, it’s going to be fed. It’ll gorge itself until next month when the recess is empty, and the bottomless ache awakens my appetite yet again. My logical mind tells me this is wrong. That I shouldn’t be walking into the lion’s den of a biker bar. What if my students knew I visited here for this reason? God, I’d be fired for sure.

  My fingers curl around the cool handle of the squeaky screen door. It’s time.

  Just as I pull it wide, the interior door swings open and there stands Price, wearing his cut and signature bowtie. “Well, lookie who the cat dragged in.”

  He winks at me and steps away, so I’m able to come inside. The potent scent of leather and alcohol hits my nose full force. My heart lodges in my throat as I wade further into the space, my heels clicking on the wooden floor.

  Men—the men that I’ve known for over a decade—are milling about. Some are playing pool in the corner, taking shots of Jack from a bottle. Others are preoccupied with club whores. This is the Crimson Outlaws’ watering hole—their domain. Club whores are always here in abundance, their scantily clad bodies continuously in a state of undress. There’s rarely an occasion that I don’t arrive to see a man balls deep in some pussy. These girls are pros. They put on award-winning shows of hedonistic pleasure that make me weak with envy. I’m no professional. No whore. I’m just … me. Gwen Donovan, thirty-three year old mother of one. An average, every day, high school teacher with a taste for bad boy dick, who also happens to ride a motorcycle. And…

  A catcall is whistled severing my thoughts. The music is lowered, and all eyes swing to me. It’s like being center stage when you don’t want to be. Heat burns my cheeks as I smile, raising a tentative hand in hello to the men I’m here to have service me.

  “Gwennie-bee, get your fuckin’ ass over here!” a familiar voice yells from behind the bar.

  Not wasting any time, I unzip my jacket to hang it on the rack by the door. My bare shoulders and cleavage are on display as I purposely saunter over to the bar, and slide onto a black stool. The heat of eyes searing into my back sends a shiver through me. I know they’re watching. The distinctive grumble of the whores is indication enough. They don’t like me. I’m not an old lady, which is biker code for a wife or serious girlfriend. And I’m not a club whore. I’m the sister to the club VP, Nash. Or, to be more accurate, his step-sister. Although, we’ve been in each other’s lives since I was nine. We have a unique relationship to say the very least.

  Across the worn bar top, Nash stands in his usual badass fashion—arms tucked across his broad chest, making his inked forearms stand out. His jade green eyes are fixed on me, one brow raised in question. Tonight, his long, jet-black hair is tied into a low man-bun. The thick stubble on his jaw tells me that he’s not shaved in days. With the strong lift of his chin, he silently asks for my order. Some may not understand his subtleties, but I’ve known this man so long I often wonder if we can’t read each other’s minds.

  “The usual,” I say, laying my palms flat on the bar, one red fingernail nervously tapping the varnished top.

  Without delay, Nash pours my usual double of Jose, then slides it over to me. I catch it between two fingers, raise it to my lips, and give him a tiny grin before tossing it down the hatch. No lime, no lemon, no salt for me; just the powerful burn of tequila as it settles in my gut, warming me from the inside out.

  Damn, that’s the good stuff.

  Savoring the taste, I lick my lips, and he smiles, flashing me a set of pearly whites.

  “You almost had a panic attack on your way inside, didn’t ya?” he asks.

  Frowning, I give him the hairy eyeball. “No,” I lie, shifting g
uiltily on my seat. I hate that he knows me so well.

  Nash steps forward and lays his big paws on the bar as he closes the distance between us, his body arching over the edge. Those all-knowing eyes meet my blue ones. The corner of his lip twitches. “You know the brothers would understand if ya decided to break tradition.”

  I’m not sure why he’s mentioning this again. We’ve had this heart-to-heart before. A year ago, I went cold turkey to try and screw my head on straight. To fuck normal Joes and cleanse my dirty conscience. Regrettably, the void couldn’t be filled, and my conscience can never be power washed. The hole inside of me just grew bigger and bigger until I went mad with need. And the only way to fix myself was to sell a piece of my soul. I was a very bad bad girl that night.

  Just like I’m gonna be tonight when my pussy takes on a mind of her own. Nash gets it. The club brothers get it. It’s how I’m hardwired— I can’t explain why I am the way I am. I just have to live with it. The sane part of me hates the kinky darkness. While the other bitch residing in the twisted parts of my soul rejoices in it. I know I sound crazed talking this way. Perhaps this is how men feel when their dicks and brains work apart from one another. My pussy and my mind rarely agree. She’s over here being a relentless slut while I’m dousing holy water on my soul to cleanse it of sin.

  “I’m fine with it.” Another lie.

  Nash shakes his head, expression disbelieving. “Uh huh,” he mumbles as his eyes cast to the side, where a topless club whore plops onto the seat beside me. Throwing a dirty look my way, her tits jiggle as she flings her blonde hair with attitude. Then she dismisses me and taps the bar top with her fake, pink nails.

  Yep. Fuck you, too, bitch.

  “The girls and I need some more tequila and limes for the body shots,” she addresses Nash, unmistakably checking him out.

  To add insult to injury, she licks her pouty lips, openly flirting with him. The sudden desire to slap her upside her head rides me hard, but I ignore her. I’m not up for a round of cat fighting tonight. Not that it hasn’t happened before. It has. I can throw a mean hook. Nevertheless, I’m not in the mood for BS.

  Nash jerks a nod, setting a bottle of cheap tequila on the bar along with a few lime slices atop a napkin.

  “Thanks, doll,” she purrs, grabbing the liquor and limes. But not before shooting me another disgusted look over her shoulder as she hops off the stool.

  A warm hand settles on my arm as the scent of spice and coconut hits my nostrils. It’s Toa, the club president. I’d know that smell anywhere. Without looking back, I lift my hand from the bar to rest over his.

  Shifting a step closer, Toa’s hard front meets my back, eliciting a shudder down my frame. “Hey, Gwen,” he rumbles, sliding his other hand around my middle, palm lying flat on my stomach.

  Irrepressibly, my breathing takes a turn for the worse, pumping erratically in and out of my lungs, bathing the air in palpable anticipation. I squirm in my seat, eyes glued to Nash’s massive chest, illuminated by the dim bar lights. The thumping beat of ‘Closer’ by Nine Inch Nails booms over the speakers, as if it’s spotlighting what’s about to happen. It seems to grow louder, pulsing in my ears, along with my blood as it rushes through my veins. Sweat dampens my forehead.

  “Gwennie-bee,” Nash tears me from staring aimlessly.

  Lifting my gaze to meet his, I mumble, “Uh?”

  “Toa just asked ya a question.”

  What? When?

  “He … ummm … did?”

  My nerves are starting to get the best of me. It’s pathetic. I was here two nights ago, bringing Nash a plate of spaghetti and garlic bread. Ever since Trish moved out, I’ve been cooking for one. Too many leftovers left uneaten makes me cringe. It’s bad enough the reality of being alone has just begun to set in; the extra food makes it worse. So now I drop off dinner whenever I get a chance—twice this week, and three last. So, yeah, you’d think I’d be chill here, with this … with Toa as his hands settle on my waist. Especially since I talk to everybody whenever I drop by. We’re friendly. We drink. Shoot the shit. And they treat me like family.

  Then you’ve got nights like tonight. You’d think I’d be flattered as Toa’s hot breath fans my neck, erupting goosebumps just before his lips connect below my ear, dousing my libido in gasoline. Hell, maybe I am. He is gorgeous with all of that tan skin and tribal ink. Those big hands and juicy lips. Yeah … he’s…

  “I was just wonderin’, baby, if you’re ready for me,” Toa rasps against my skin.

  My pussy clenches at his words. Nipples aching to be sucked.

  Oh … yes … I’m…

  My mind short circuits as those lips trail across my shoulder to lavish the opposite side of my neck with attention. A throaty moan erupts from me as teeth move to gently nibble my ear.

  “Gwen.” He groans his need, hands clawing at the front of my corset like he wants to rip it away. Yet, shows restraint. “Are you wet for me?” he adds.

  Yes … yes, I’m wet for him. If only I could voice my excitement. But I can’t. Instead, I swallow thickly and nod as I lock eyes with Nash. He’ll know what I need. He’ll take care of this. He’s my rock. My center. My protector. He always knows what to do.

  Emotion passes between us, his eyes conveying that he’s got me. A grin sprouts at the corner of his lips. It’s calculated—devilish. Then it’s gone as quickly as it came when he dips behind the bar, retrieving a long strip of condoms. He slaps them on the counter, along with a small bottle of lube. Not missing a beat, Toa rests his chin on my shoulder and lifts a hand from my middle, silently requesting one.

  A shot of anticipated arousal races through me. God, he’s gonna be inside me soon. That cock…

  Nash rips a condom off the strip and dangles it above Toa’s opened palm. “You gotta eat her pussy first and make her come. Then you can use this.” He drops the packet into his president’s hand. Toa wraps his fist around it, then briefly kisses my neck before standing.

  A knot forms in my throat as I hear him unfasten his pants. Suddenly, Toa’s erection pokes me in the back. He’s already hot for me. Fuck, I can hardly believe it.

  My needy gaze meets Nash’s once more when Toa’s hands curve around my middle. He’s watching me—us. Those green eyes tender around the edges. Leaning over the bar top, he winks as his fingers drop to the top of my corset. I become frozen in shock as he unfastens it with expert precision and doesn’t stop moving downward until my breasts spill from the tight garment, landing in Toa’s awaiting palms. Groaning his delight, Toa squeezes my tits in his large hands.

  Resting back against his big chest, I let him play. I need him to play. Deft fingers pluck at my nipples, sending a spike of pleasure to my clit. I moan, brazenly. As if on cue, the good girl inside me crawls into her hidey-hole as the bad girl makes her appearance. It’s about damn time.

  Helping me off the bar stool, Toa places his palm in the middle of my back. Wrapped in lust filled silence, he bends me forward until my arms and shoulders rest on the bar top, leaving my tits to hang freely below me. My back arches, pushing my ass into the air as he shimmies my skirt upward until it pools around my waist. Toa kicks my feet apart, leaving my pussy open to the cool draft, as his eyes burn into my wanton flesh. Almost painfully, his fingers grip my hips as his dick bumps my wet folds. My legs tremble on their own accord.

  Leaving only one hand on my hip, he uses the other to run his cockhead through my pussy lips, nudging my throbbing clit. An unabashed moan tears from my lungs as he begins to fuck my little bud. My hands fist on the bar top, heart slamming in my chest.

  “That’s a sweet little pussy, Gwen,” Toa finally speaks. “All wet for me.”

  Yes … Wet…

  Standing across the bar in front of me, Nash unfolds his arms from over his chest and rests his elbows on the counter, his face mere inches from mine. I can smell the scent of beer on his breath as it wafts across my cheeks and nose. “Are you wet for Toa, Gwennie-bee?” he prompts in a low, sexy ton
e.

  I nod, then accidentally moan as Toa’s cock fucks my little clit harder.

  “Tell us,” Nash requests.

  God, I hate when he does this. I don’t want to tell him anything.

  Defiantly, I shake my head and Nash scowls. “Stop touching her pussy, Prez,” he orders, and Toa doesn’t hesitate to comply.

  No!

  “No,” I groan my plea, driving my hips back to regain friction. Sadly, I find nothing but cool air. Damn it.

  Nash traps my chin between his fingers, holding my stare. “No, what? You’re not wet? Or you don’t want him to stop?”

  I don’t want to look at him like this. It’s too much. Why can’t I just enjoy my gluttonous need? Why do I have to admit how it makes me feel? How wet I am? How much I love it when he looks at me this way, his eyes heavy, lips inviting. God, it’s so sick. I’m sick. Yet, I can’t help that I fucking love it.

  Trying to turn my head away, Nash holds it in place, not letting me budge. “Tell me,” he rumbles. “I wanna know.”

  “Yes,” I croak, humiliated. “I’m excited.”

  Nash won’t let up as he moves closer, his lips a hairsbreadth from mine. “What do you want him to do?”

  Steeling myself, I swallow down the rock that’s lodged itself in my throat. “I want him to lick my pussy.” It comes out barely above a whisper.

  Nash’s lips brush mine in a ‘thank you’. As much as I should hate it, and think it’s gross, I don’t. It’s something I live for. It’s a feeling that centers me and makes everything alright. It ignites a soothing ball of happiness in the depths of my soul. My anxiety fades into oblivion, leaving only warmth and ecstasy to indulge in. Everything switches from insecurity to strength, to want, to will. Nash makes it all okay.

  A body moves behind me, and warm hands spread my ass cheeks just before a tongue lashes my pussy. My knees nearly give out as I wail my desire, squeezing my eyes shut at the insurmountable pleasure. The tongue runs along my center, dipping into my eager core, then runs up to nibble and lick around my clit. Toa draws the little bud into his mouth at the same time Nash’s lips brush mine once more. The fire in my veins turns volcanic as the building pressure sinks its claws into me, leaving only raw emotions to govern my will.