Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 110721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Those vests seemed to be popular around here.
“I’m assuming that Juicy isn’t the name she was born with.”
In a flash, Juicy was on her knees at the biker’s feet and his cock was filling her mouth.
Taryn’s jaw threatened to drop but she somehow managed to keep her mouth shut. Probably because she was clenching her teeth.
Don’t stare. Don’t stare. Do not stare.
“Don’t matter what name she was born with. That’s the name we gave her.” He took a long sip of the coffee, then pushed out a long sigh. “Guess it ain’t gonna kill me.”
Trying not to be too obvious, Taryn flipped a finger in Juicy’s direction. “You just had sex with her, right?”
“Yeah?”
That “yeah” clearly meant, “So? What about it?”
Okay, then. She turned her back to the action along the wall. Otherwise, she’d lose the battle on not gawking. “So, you’re a biker.”
He chuckled and swallowed another mouthful of coffee. Of course he laughed. Her assumption was stupid because James Conrad was wearing the same type of vest that Patch had been. The same as the man getting head against the wall.
Don’t look.
When he fingered her chef’s jacket near her name embroidered over her heart, that pounding organ leapt into her throat. “Taryn.”
That finger was too close for comfort. Especially when he rubbed that same finger directly over the letters while repeating her name in a low whisper.
Good lord. The way he said it sent a shiver shimmying down her spine and caused her nipples to pop like turkey timers.
That reaction wasn’t due to nerves this time, but now was not the time to explore what caused it.
“Reminds me of a cut.”
She took a step back, breaking the contact. She shook her head, not understanding what he meant.
“A cut, babe.” He tugged on his leather vest. “Our colors. Who we are and what we represent. Our brotherhood.”
He pointed to a rectangular embroidered patch with the name Patch had called him. STONE. Below it, another similar patch said VICE PRESIDENT. The right side of his chest included another rectangular patch with DEAD MAN’S HOLLOW and right above it, a yellow diamond-shaped patch simply had “1%” embroidered on it.
Of course, she noticed on their way to the cafeteria that the back of his vest had the same large patches as Patch.
“Is Stone a nickname?”
“Road names are earned.”
Semantics. She could say the same about nicknames. “How did you earn yours?”
He shook his head. “Story for another time, babe.”
Taryn doubted she’d be staying for that story time. “What does that yellow diamond mean?”
“Means we live by our own damn rules.”
That was no surprise. “I have to ask…is everyone here a biker?”
“You see anyone with a dick wearin’ a cut like mine, then yeah. You see pussy wanderin’ ‘round wearin’ a cut with rockers on the back statin’ they’re property of the Kings, then no. They’re a club whore.”
“Juicy isn’t wearing a cut.” She wasn’t wearing much of anything.
“‘Cause I just got done fuckin’ her, babe. She tends to lose track of her shit.”
“If you don’t mind not calling me—”
“Babe.”
“Yes, that.”
One corner of his mouth pulled up. At least she could see his mouth, unlike Patch’s.
He lifted a wait-a-minute finger and took his now-empty mug over to Juicy and the guy with his cock in her mouth. He handed it to Juicy. Did he want her to stop what she was doing so she could get him a refill?
“Case you need to spit. ‘Cause Grim’s cum’s probably hard to swallow.” He headed back in Taryn’s direction. “Unlike mine,” he added.
The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened with amusement and his grin totally changed his face. It made him look approachable and actually pleasant to look at. Unlike when he was scowling.
He pulled a pack of Marlboro’s from inside his vest—cut—and tucked one between his lips. After putting away the pack, he patted his vest—cut—until he found a lighter. After a few flicks of the Zippo, the tip glowed red and he sucked the smoke deep into his lungs.
It escaped his mouth when he asked, “Why’s it that color?”
“My chef’s coat?”
“That what it is? Thought chefs wore white.”
Today she had worn turquoise, but she had one in every color of the rainbow. “Some do. Some like a little more excitement in their life.”
His brow dropped low. “How’s wearin’ that color excitin’?”
It wasn’t to him, apparently. His excitement came from handing a mug to a woman on her knees while she gave head. “I guess I live a boring life.” After comparing hers to Juicy’s, she was perfectly fine with boring.
“Got a restaurant?”
“No.”
His eyebrows pinned together. “Where you work, then?”
“I’m a personal chef. I cook in people’s homes or at their events. Like for a family Thanksgiving, an anniversary, or birthday party. I travel to my clients. They don’t travel to me. I also teach cooking classes sometimes when asked. There’s a coffee shop in Camp Hill that requests me a lot.”