Fury’s Promise_A Motorcycle Club Romance_The Devil’s Kin MC Page 2

  “Vodka and Coke,” I manage to say.

  “Double vodka and Coke.”

  He pulls out a stool, nods to it. I glance back. Alexis is nodding like a dashboard dog, up and down frantically. I take the seat. This close, I can smell him: cologne, oil, whisky, and, oddly, smoke.

  “The name’s Fury,” he says. “Or Jack Wilson. Whichever you prefer.”

  “Fury.” My cheeks flush. I fight it back. “What sort of name is that?”

  “The name I go by.” He grins. “What about you? You got a name?”

  “Gloria Griffiths.” I offer him my hand. He looks down at it for a moment with a slight smile, and then shakes it.

  “Gloria Griffiths. Have a drink with me. I reckon you walked over here for a reason.”

  I take my drink, grateful to have something else to focus on. “So what do you think it is? My reason for walking over?”

  He tilts his head. “I reckon it’d be an arrogant man who’d guess at that.”

  “Maybe I wanted to ask for a light.” I sip my drink. Vodka, glorious vodka! It’s warm in my chest, gifting me confidence.

  “Don’t smoke,” he says.

  “But …” I trail off.

  “The smell? Is it that bad?”

  I shake my head. “No. But it’s—noticeable.” I take another drink, wishing my voice wasn’t trembling. Whose voice trembles?

  “I just came from a barbecue,” he says. “Friend of mine, good friend. Sort of a family affair.” He shakes his head as he speaks. “That’s a lie. I don’t do family barbecues, truth be told. But I can’t say what the smoke is from.”

  “Okay. That’s not enigmatic at all.” I raise my eyebrows sarcastically.

  “I know why you came over, Gloria. I reckon it has something to do with that lady over there who’s watching us but trying to pretend she ain’t.”

  He’s right. Alexis is pretending to look at her phone but really looking over the top of it, right at us.

  “She’s not very subtle,” I allow.

  “Not at all. But I don’t mind. So, a dare?”

  “A dare,” I confirm.

  “Was the dare just to talk to me, or was there somethin’ else involved?”

  “Just to talk to you.”

  “So why’re you still here?” His eyes gaze into me.

  “Do you want me to leave?” I sit up, ready to walk back to Alexis.

  “If you want.” He says it casually, swigging from his bottle of whisky. A bar like this, everybody’s trying to appear sophisticated, and this man just swigs from the bottle.

  It’s not the answer I expect. I find myself sitting back down. “Most men would’ve asked me to stay,” I tell him.

  “Most men.” He looks around the room, taking in the suited men with their stylish haircuts and expensive jewelry. He doesn’t wear any jewelry and his jet-black hair is unkempt. “Seems to me there’s a lot most men’d do that I’ve got no interest in.”

  “So what are you, then? A lone wolf?”

  “Not that. Might be I run in a different pack.”

  “A biker,” I guess.

  He holds his arms up, displaying his tattoos. His eyes dance playfully. “How did you guess?” He lowers his arms. “But don’t worry about me, Gloria. Tell me about you.”

  “What about me?” I shift in my seat.

  “Anything, everything.” He drains four shots’ worth of whisky in one gulp.

  That’s when I realize that his drinking must be infectious. I’ve finished my vodka and Coke. He orders me another. I promise myself to drink this one more slowly. “There isn’t much to tell.”

  “There’s always somethin’ to tell. What you mean to say is that there ain’t much you wanna tell me.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m an English literature graduate and I’m working on becoming a freelance editor.” It’s a rote response, one I’ve given many times before to inquiring acquaintances. “I like to watch romantic comedies when I’m feeling soppy. There, you have my entire biography.”

  “You spent more’n a year studying books?”

  “Four years.” I nod.

  “And what did you learn?”

  I smile at him freely. I never smile freely at anybody except Alexis. “That there’s more to life than books.”

  He holds my gaze for a moment, then cracks a smile, then breaks out into a booming laugh that causes the more civilized around us to turn their heads. But he doesn’t care. And because he doesn’t care, I find myself not caring, either. “Goddamn. Might be there’s somethin’ to that. But I reckon that’s not all the way true. I reckon if you spent four years doing something, it’s gotta be useful. You don’t seem like a fool to me.”

  “How can you tell? Maybe I’m an airhead.” More vodka, my body getting hotter … but is it just the alcohol?

  “You’re not an airhead,” he says firmly.

  “You’re an expert, are you?” I throw back.

  “Let’s just say I have some experiences with airheads.”

  Yes, I can imagine what sort of experience he has. I can imagine all sorts of women being attracted to those eyes, his aura of mystery and intensity. And me—am I “all sorts of women”? I don’t linger on the question for long, because the answer is so obvious it pains me, physically pains me, to think about. My breasts ache. My groin aches.

  “Maybe I have experience with gearheads,” I say.

  He studies me for a moment, taking all of me in unabashedly, his eyes roaming from my face to my green heels and then back again. My body tingles as he takes it in. I find myself stretching my legs just a little, highlighting the muscle. Yoga, blessed yoga! “No,” he says, again with the same firmness. “I don’t think you have.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “’Cause you ain’t covered in tattoos.”

  “That seems slightly stereotypical.”

  “I don’t know about stereo, but yeah, it’s typical.”

  The night moves on and we talk about nothing and everything. I drink more vodkas and he drinks more whisky. At some point I glance at Alexis’ table, but she’s no longer there.

  “Has your friend abandoned you?” he asks.

  “It looks like it.”

  His eyes are full of animal lust. I know exactly what he wants and he knows I know. It’s like he’s waiting for some sign. I should excuse myself, tell him I’ve had a good evening and that maybe we could do it again. What I definitely should not do is give him any indication that I’m willing, right now, to—

  “It’s not even late, is it?” I whisper, though the bar is near-empty and the staff is packing up.

  “No,” he agrees, voice slightly choked. His hands tremble. He wants me. He wants me more than any man has ever wanted me. “Let’s take a walk.”

  “Where to?”

  “The reception area.”

  So we walk to the reception area. He stands close to me, his chest brushing my shoulder, and then he wraps his arm around me and turns me around, pressing our bodies together. I gasp, his body rock-hard against mine, and then look up into his eyes. He leans down, crushing my lips. Then he stops for a moment, watching me. I’m the one who kisses him this time. I throw myself into it, my breasts pressed flat against him. There’s no give to him at all. He’s all muscle.

  “I don’t normally do this,” I say, breaking off the kiss.

  “Okay.” He kisses me again, this time harder.

  “Shall we …”

  He leads me to the desk and smiles at the man there. “Your finest room, please. I’ll pay in cash.”

  “Sir.” The receptionist brushes an imaginary crumb off the desk. “That is the presidential suite. It’s two and a half thousand dollars a night.”

  Fury nods. “Like I said, I’ll pay in cash.”

  The man still doesn’t believe him, so Fury reaches into his pocket and starts laying out fifties on the desk. By the time he’s finished, there’s a huge stack of them. “Here’s a little extra for room service.”

 
; The receptionist counts it, nods shortly, and then hands him the keys. “Enjoy your stay, sir.” His tone is much politer now.

  My world is spinning as we ride the elevator up to the tallest floor, as he opens the door and I take in the suite: a dining area, a kitchen, a lounge, and, finally, a bedroom the size of some apartments, with a four-poster bed, paintings on the walls, and plush rugs on the floor. He approaches me from behind when I’m studying the bed, moves his hands up my legs and under my skirt, to my panties. He presses his hand, hard, down on my panties, squashing my clit against my pussy. Then he rubs, fast, faster than fast, so fast that my pussy floods with wetness and all I know is his touch.

  He throws me onto the bed and strips naked, pulling his T-shirt over his head. I do the same. There’s no romance in it, no slow-down-take-our-time. Both of us are tipsy—perhaps more than tipsy—and horny. I kick off my heels and almost tear my dress, flinging it off, and then lie there, completely naked. He is already rock-hard for me, his cock at least ten inches, thick, with a vein running down the side.

  “You’re the sexiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen,” he mutters, stroking himself. “Bend over for me, Gloria.”

  A thrill runs through me. I get on all fours and stick my ass out for him, looking over my shoulder, loving the way his eyes settle on me. Predator’s eyes, starving eyes. Like all week he has been waiting for something but he didn’t know what, and now he does. He grabs me by the ankles, pulls me to the edge of the bed, and slides his cock inside of me in one fluid motion. He’s huge and there’s pain, but only a moment, then the lust and the vodka and the unbearable heat combine into a pleasure that is all its own.

  I’m never loud but I am tonight, digging my fingernails into the expensive sheets and throwing myself against him, his cock smashing into my sweet spot over and over. The pleasure builds with each powerful thrust—and the knowledge that this is dirty, wrong, somehow; this man is a stranger—and then the tension is so taut I can’t take it anymore. I bury my face in the sheets and let out a scream that is loud even though I’m muffled. My pussy goes tight, unbelievably tight, or maybe his cock is just unbelievably huge. The tension slaps, the tautness loosening, and euphoria floods through my body, wave upon wave of it, the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had. I tilt my hips, press my ass cheeks flat against his abs, take every tiny piece of pleasure I can from him.

  And he does the same with me.

  “Goddamn,” he whispers, barely constraining himself. “God-fuckin’-damn.”

  “Come for me!” I scream, once my orgasm has passed. “Come for me, Jack!”

  He hunches over, his body flat against mine, hands cupping my breasts. And then he comes inside of me.

  We roll aside, both of us panting for breath.

  “Let me just go and clean up,” I mutter, padding into the en-suite bathroom.

  “Sure. Take your time.”

  I stare in the mirror for a moment, grinning from ear to ear. I have never done anything this wild. I clean myself up and then return to the bedroom, wondering how we will spend the rest of the night.

  But there isn’t a rest of the night.

  He is gone.

  Chapter Three

  Gloria

  I go down to the lobby, taking out my cell phone to call a cab, but then I spot Alexis sitting on one of the lobby couches, staring down at her phone. She glances up at me, a look I can’t read passing across her face, and then puts her phone away.

  “Wow,” she says. “That was …” She lets it trail off. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Fine. What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for a cab. What happened?” Alexis is short and brown-haired and kind-faced. I sometimes call her ‘mother’ as a joke, which she hates, but it isn’t a complete joke. She does have a matronly air about her. We were friends in college and now she’s waiting tables while she writes her Great American Novel. “Is he gone?”

  “He’s gone.” I drop onto the couch next to her. My whole body aches, a cool aching that doesn’t feel unpleasant, though the sudden finale sours it a little.

  “You wanna catch a cab with me?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “That sounds like a good … Hang on.” Here’s a little extra for room service. “Wait here a sec.”

  I go to the reception area, where the same prim gentleman sits. He looks at me like I just fell out of a sewer. I ignore the judgmental gaze and rest my forearms on the desk. “How much did my friend leave for room service?”

  He flicks through a book, stops a page with his forefinger, and then mutters, “Three hundred dollars.”

  “Three hundred … and we have the suite until morning.”

  “Checkout is at eleven a.m., ma’am.”

  “Okay, thank you. Sir.” I make the last word an insult and then go back to Alexis. “Cancel your cab. We’re staying here tonight.”

  ***

  “So he just left you?” Alexis says, going to the door for the room service. She returns with three bottles of champagne and three large burger meals. We sit in the living room, the TV playing on silent. I’m about to pour myself a glass of champagne when I giggle, shake my head, and drink from the bottle just like Jack did. She lays out the meals and sits down. “What an asshole.”

  “What did I expect, though?” I swallow harshly, way too much champagne, the bubbles attacking me. I repress a burp and go on, “He met me tonight and took me up here. I knew it wasn’t going to be a long-term thing or anything like that, but—”

  “Just to leave like that, though. Yeah, that’s a real prick move. What’s his name, again?”

  “How drunk are you?” I’ve only just told her his name.

  “Drunk!” She throws her hand up, forgetting that she’s holding a handful of fries. They fly through the air, landing in a heap on the floor. She shrugs and grabs another handful. “I don’t know what that word means!” she declares.

  Laughing, I tell her.

  “Fury,” she mutters. “What sort of name is Fury?”

  “His name, I guess. Or his nickname anyway.”

  “Fury. Jack. Let’s call him Jack for the rest of the night. I don’t want to say Fury. It sounds silly.”

  “It does now,” I agree. “But it didn’t then. It was—”

  “Say it!” she urges. She wriggles along the couch and throws her arm around me. “It was hot. Where did you do it? How many times?” She stands up and bends over the glass coffee table, miming doggy style. “Was it here? You dirty bitch.”

  “You drunk bitch,” I counter, taking another too-long swig of champagne. I take a massive bite out of my burger to keep it down. It’s a chicken-mayo burger and mayo smears my mouth.

  “Wow.” Alexis turns, points at my face. “You really sucked him good.”

  “Bitch!” I squeal, wiping my mouth and diving at her with my mayo-covered hand. We run around the suite, drunker than is smart, and then collapse in a heap on the couch.

  “Are you annoyed, though?” she asks. “I remember one time in college when I brought this guy back to our dorm and he tried to leave and I got up and blocked the door.” She speaks sleepily, not remembering that she’s told me this story before. “I asked him where he was going and he just looked at me like I was crazy. Then I asked him if he didn’t love me. I told him he’d said he loved me and that he wanted to marry me. He was wasted, so he actually believed me! How funny is that?”

  “You’re cruel. What if he’d tried to keep his promise? I can’t imagine you getting married.”

  “Hey!” She slaps my arm. “I’ll have you know that I’m marriage material. The finest there is.”

  “Wouldn’t that get in the way of your novel? What is it about, again?”

  She bares her teeth. “Oh, ha, ha, here we go again. Alexis’ novel keeps changing; she’s never going to write it. Ha ha ha. What about you? Why would you want to be an editor?”

  “Because I’m creative.” I smile. “But not that creative.”

  “W
ell, I am that creative.” She tosses her head. “I, my dear sweet Gloria, am an artiste.”

  “Don’t you mean an artist?”

  “No, an artiste, with an e.”

  “That might be the most pretentious thing anybody has ever said to me.”

  “In all seriousness,” she says, sitting up, “I need to know every juicy detail. As you well know, my lowly editor companion, it’s scenarios like these which we writers live for.”