Floating (10 page)

Shaking her head rapidly against the pillow, she makes her demands, “I want to feel you, Nate. Please, I need you inside me. All the way in.” Goddamnit, so much for taking it slow. Hearing her beg me to push all the way in makes something snap. I have to get in there, now. Taking slow, easy strokes, I edge my way deeper, finally coming into contact with the barrier that separates me from making her truly mine. I know she can feel me right there; feel the tip of my cock bumping at her innocence.

Cupping my face she looks into my eyes and nods her head slightly. Silently giving me her permission to go ahead and take her. I pull my hips back and thrust in the whole way until our pelvises are touching, my balls slapping her ass. Her cry of pain and the tightness around her eyes makes me freeze. I stop, waiting for her to accommodate me, waiting for her tight pussy to relax, so that I can finally go about making her feel good and erase the pain.

Placing light kisses all over her cheeks, eyelids, and mouth I ask, “You okay, Baby? I’m so fucking sorry I hurt you.”

Rotating her hips a little and tipping them up toward to mine she answers with, “Mmhmm, you feel so good, Nate. So big, so thick. I want you to move, Nate. I’m okay now, promise.” Glancing over her face, to reassure me that the pain has subsided and she is ready for more, I experiment by swivelling my hips in small tight circles. When that earns me a moan, I continue.

Thrusting in an out of Ronnie’s tight, wet pussy is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Not just because I’m bare for the first time, but because she’s the first woman I’ve had sex with that I love. Scratch that, she’s the first woman I’ve ever made love to that I am in love with.

It doesn’t take long before I can feel her pussy tightening, waves rippling along her inner walls. My hand makes its way down her body, my thumb finding her clit as I rub in circles, adding extra pressure each go around. Just when I don’t think I can hold off coming before she does a second longer, Ronnie screams my name and clamps down hard around my cock. That immediately triggers my own release as her pussy milks my cock dry. I throw my head back and roar my release along with her name and a whole heap of other incoherent, filthy shit that comes to mind.

I’ve never I come so hard in my life. I swear I think I see stars and shit. I can only imagine what sex with this amazing woman will be like after we get some practice in, not that she needs any, she nearly fucking killed me this time. I can’t see myself wanting to be anywhere but, buried inside her, day in, day out. And I will be, as often as humanly possible.

After getting a warm, wet washer from the bathroom and cleaning my sexy, sleepy woman up, I pull her into my arms and nuzzle her hair. With her head resting on my chest, this is the first time I’ve felt truly content. It’s a heady feeling, one I wouldn’t mind having for the rest of my life. Where that might scare some twenty-two-year-olds, it’s calming, a balm to my soul almost, for me. I’ll happily make this woman my wife, the mother of my children, have her in my bed forever. Actually, right now, there’s nothing I’d like more. Sighing, Ronnie buries her head further into my chest and whispers, “I love you, Nathaniel. Thank you for making that beautiful for me.”

What she doesn’t realise is that it’s her beauty that did all that. Her beauty inside and out made our love making something I’ll never forget. “I love you more, Veronica May. You’re fucking perfect.” With that, we drift off to sleep, not knowing that in four short weeks this will HAVE to be a memory we cherish forever. It will be one of many, but it will end up being the one I hold onto in my darkest times the most. The one I remember every detail of in the years that follow.

If I’d known my relationship with Ronnie would be torn apart in so little time, I would have done things differently. Fuck. I would have done everything differently. I would have watched her a little longer when she slept. I would have kissed her more often. I would have made better choices period. I never would have drunk half a bottle of vodka and smoked two joints, leaving me open and vulnerable for Verity to pounce. I would never have given up searching for Ronnie after eighteen months, and I would never, never have been so close to giving up, that I considered taking my own life, more than once, because I couldn’t handle the pain of being without her.

When I’m alone, in the dark, and melancholy as fuck, I occasionally wish I’d never gone back to Patterson that summer. I should have left her alone so she wouldn’t have to suffer for my mistakes. Then I remember the good times, the fucking perfection of just being in her presence, the peaceful bliss I’d never felt before. Watching her smile and laugh, being able to hold her in my arms while she slept, the feel of her hair tickling my chest when I woke in the mornings.

I remember every-fucking-thing about that summer and as much as I regret how it ended, I can’t bring myself to regret anything else. No matter what, loving Ronnie that summer, and ever since, is the best thing I have EVER fucking done.     

CHAPTER FIVE

Nate

              Since that afternoon the week before, when Ronnie fell asleep on my lap after telling me her plans to get a tattoo to cover her scar, something has changed between us. She isn’t quite as closed off, and I couldn’t be happier that it looks like I’m making progress. She stays in the same room as me for longer making idle conversation. She spends more time in the living room reading while I watch a game on TV, instead of holing up in the bedroom where she undoubtedly was making plans to kill me in my sleep. It’s as if she’s now actively seeking me out, trying to spend time with me, and I fucking love it.

I know its early days in my mission to win her back, but fuck, I’m just glad Ronnie isn’t being ice cold towards me anymore. Her thawing out, cultivated more hope than I’ve had in weeks that maybe we can get past this, putting it behind us and moving on.

Ronnie’s due to start back at Skin Fusion, in a few days, and about an hour ago, Kendall picked up Ronnie to take her in for the tattoo that will cover up her scar. That should take most of the day and it will be Ronnie’s first day back at the shop since Kendall and Cage’s wedding.

I still don’t know how I feel about her getting this tattoo. I understand it’s her body and her choice what she does with it. Still, in some sick, twisted way, I like seeing that scar marring her perfect skin. It reminds me how strong she is. That Ronnie survived something most wouldn’t. That she’s is alive. In the end, it isn’t my choice though; it’s hers. Thankfully, Tank will be here soon to hopefully distract me enough that I won’t go barging into Skin Fusion to watch over her while Kendall works her magic.

I was forbidden to go with them. Who forbids a biker from doing shit? Lou, that’s who. Fuck. The women wouldn’t even let me drive her there. When I asked Ronnie if I could take her, she just gave me a cute, quirky smile and shook her head. Damn infuriating woman. Turning my head to the sound of the front door opening, I look over my shoulder from my recliner. I see a pissed as hell, six foot seven, 280 pound, ex-Navy Seal, MC Enforcer prowling into my living room, his face set in a mask of fury. Chucking at the look on his face I ask,

“What’s your fucking damage, Brother? You look like you’re about to shit bricks.”

Throwing himself length ways on to my poor groaning couch, it protests his significant bulk, Tank scowls at me. “Fuck you.” I laugh outwardly at his gruff tone and Tank continues to glare daggers at me. “She’s gone and done it now. I swear to fuck, I’m not speaking to her for a fucking year, at least, after this.” I know exactly who he’s talking about. Priss. There isn’t another person on the planet that can make the man as furious as he looks right now. The woman has a fucking gift!

I’m not sure how it all started other than to say; when Priss and Tilly’s parents died, a little over four years ago, Tank was put in charge of rounding up prospects to help do menial work around their house. Things like small repairs, mowing lawns, repainting the house, staining the deck, shit like that.

During those first months, Tank formed some kind of bond with Tilly that’s only grown with time. It’s now so strong, that Tank watches over her like she’s his own. Whether it was because she had just lost her father, and needed a male role model, or she just needed a friend and Tank was always around, I don’t know. Nevertheless, Tilly took an immediate liking to him, as he did to her. Since then, Tank became a significant fixture in Tilly’s life. In turn, that meant he became one in Priscilla’s, as well. It helped Priss out to have another adult on hand to assist in daily shit like, picking Tilly up from school if Priss was working, dropping her at her art classes in the next county, and feeding her if Priss got home late.

There have been rumours going around the clubhouse for years that Tank and Priss are secretly an item. Some of the brothers are sometimes worse than their ol’ ladies, with their gossiping and shit, they can’t help themselves. Tank denies it each and every time, but it doesn’t help matters when he isn’t seen fucking any of the club whores; doesn’t meet random bitches at Rough Shod and has never had a girlfriend.

One night at Rough Shod, when we were both fucked up on whisky and beer after drinking for about five straight hours, I asked him straight up what their deal was.

“Tank, Brother. You got something going on with Priss on the quiet? You know you can tell me that shit, I won’t say a fucking word.” I was slurring and shit, but I knew he heard and understood me. Don’t know how, I barely could understand me, I was that fucked up.

The flash of emotion that crossed his face was one of pain and longing. It was a look I knew well. It was a look I’m sure I had every time someone mentioned Ronnie since I’d learned she was living here in Blackwater, now. Quickly masking his face to that perfectly blank look he’d perfected, Tank replied, “Nothing happening there brother. I wouldn’t fucking touch her if I was paid to.” Tank didn’t see her until it was too late, but Priss was standing right behind him as he spoke. The look on her face was even worse than the look that had crossed his, not moments before. Priss was not only horrified at his comment, she looked heartbroken too.

Pulling herself together, she straightened her shoulders and flicked her long wavy blonde hair that was currently loose and spilling down her back away from her face. Priss narrowed her eyes and tapped Tank on the shoulder. Now there were two horrified people when Tank caught sight of her. Remorse and apology shined from Tank’s eyes, and if I didn’t know Tank any better, I’d have said he looked on the verge of tears.

Clearing her throat and putting on the best front she could possibly muster, Priss looked Tank dead in the eyes saying, “The feeling is completely mutual, Hunter Adams.” No one called him that bar Priss and Tilly, it also signalled he was in deep shit. I couldn’t help but chuckle internally at his predicament. Not that it was funny, just that someone was daring to put the big hulking man in his place. “But to be perfectly clear, you are a fucking asshole. Stay the fuck away from me when you come to see Tilly, from now on. And on the off chance you are paid to touch me, shove the money so far up your ass that you spit confetti for the rest of your life you fucking dick.” With that she stomped away, joining Lou and Kendall at the bar.

Interestingly enough, Priss never told a soul about what Tank had said or why she was upset that night. Even after him being an asshole, and she was right, because he was being an asshole, Priss protected him from Lou and Kendall’s wrath. If nothing else, that only further solidified that Priss was a good woman in my eyes. Her anger at Tank didn’t affect her desire to protect him from what would be, two screaming banshees willing to kick his ass if Lou and Kendall found out what he’d said. Okay, so maybe they themselves couldn’t kick his ass, but they did both have men that would be willing to do it for them.

It took about five months for them to get back to on speaking terms with each other again and somewhat back to normal. That was the longest they’d ever gone after one of their arguments. I could see the situation was taking its toll on my brother, in a big fucking way. To say it was strained, when Priss would drop Tilly at the clubhouse to see him, or when Tank would drop Tilly off to Priss at the diner, was the fucking understatement of the century. Priss shot daggers at him anytime he looked at her and Tank, well Tank just looked like someone kicked his fucking puppy every time she did, or refused to speak to him.

Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I figure I best confirm whether my suspicions are correct or not. “What’s up with Priss, and why aren’t you speaking to her for a year this time?”

Tank has threatened not to speak to Priss for a year every other week. This isn’t a new thing, and it’s not a threat he’ll ever carry out. He cares too much about her to follow through with it. After that five month hiatus, I don’t think he would risk having to go through that again; for his sake, let alone hers. If there was one thing I was positive of, Tank would never intentionally hurt Priss, he would lay down his life for her, in fact.

Huffing out a breath, Tank frowns at the beer in his hand that he manage to snag without me noticing.

“In a show of fucking solidarity or some shit, she’s decided, since V is gettin a tattoo today she would, too. I told her it’s bullshit her marking up her skin like that, but she told me to go fuck myself and stormed out. I warned her that if she went through with it I wouldn’t talk to her for a year. She laughed in my fucking face, blew me a kiss, waved as she hopped on her fucking bike, and rode off.” With that I bust out laughing. I probably shouldn’t because Tank is fucking pissed but shit, that’s too fucking funny. Why he thought he would get away with telling her what to do or his idle threat is beyond me.

Now, is probably a good time to mention that Priss is the only one of the women that actually owns and rides her own Harley. Not a completely uncommon occurrence in our world, but rare enough that it’s still a sight to behold. A sexy woman, dressed in all leather, is not something you take a look at twice, but maybe even three or four times. Regardless of the fact that Tank would more than likely fucking kill you for it. From her leather jacket to her skin-tight pants, long blonde hair braided tightly down her back and hot as fuck riding boots, Priss is every man’s wet dream when she gets around on that fucking bike.

Poor Tank when she does. Aside from constantly wiping the drool from his own chin, he has to contend with every other fucking asshole checking her out, panting after her. More than a handful of times he’s threatened death, in creatively painful ways, to brothers or prospects that stare after her too long.

Safety being Priss’s first priority means she’s also got a run around beater car for taking Tilly where she needs to go. One that Tank makes damn sure is in good working order, at all times, for Tilly of course. But when she’s on her own Priss always rides her dad’s custom hog.

It’s a sweet fucking ride. All chrome forks and pipes, midnight blue pearlescent paint with a lighter blue flaming skull airbrushed on the gas tank. It’s a phenomenal piece of artwork and the machine itself, is fucking custom all the way. Most of the work was done by her dad in the MC’s shop, Chasers, before he passed. Now, it’s Tank that has taken on that job, he wouldn’t remotely consider letting anyone else touch it.

Bringing me back to the present Tank spits out, “Fuck you, Brother. She’s got virgin skin, that’s a fucking rarity around here. I don’t want her marking it up to show she’s one of the girls or something. It’s fucking stupid and she’s stupid for doing it.” He huffs and falls back onto the couch making it creak again as he does. I swear sometimes this dick acts like he’s a cross between her old man and a six-year-old tantrum throwing kid.

He’s got no claim on her and has no say in anything she does. Doesn’t seem to matter when he gets his mind set on something regarding her, though. Tank just steamrolls the fuck out of anyone in his way, and in this, Priss is not the exception; she’s the rule.

“Brother, chill the fuck out. I’m sure she’s doing it because she wants to, not for some show. Priss isn’t stupid. She wouldn’t ink herself to prove a point or some shit.” It’s true. Priss is probably the most responsible, put together person I know. I respect the fuck out of her for it.

After raising Tilly from the age of eleven to the fifteen-year-old she is now, Priss only being nineteen herself at the time, she was given no choice but to grow up fast. At the time she should have been out having fun, partying with friends and heading off to college, Priss was working fulltime, keeping house, playing chauffer, and raising a juvenile into teen hood. If that’s not responsible, I don’t know what is.

Tank says nothing more, I never expect him too either; he’s a moody bastard and one of very few words. Sometimes I have to chuckle to myself at the false perception everyone has of Tank.

At twenty six, after spending eight years as a Navy SEAL weapons specialist, Hunter ‘Tank’ Adams, was honourably discharged and found a home as a prospect with Devil’s Spawn MC in Blackwater Colorado. A far cry from the deserts and solitude he’d called home for nearly a decade. His road name was apt; Tank was a huge motherfucker. At six foot seven and 280 pounds of solid muscle, he could scare the piss out of most people just lounging on a damn bar stool. Add to that his shaved head, almost down to the scalp, two full sleeves, a nearly covered chest and back of some of the most demonic looking tattoos I’ve ever seen, who gets a fucking skull with a dagger impaled in it anyway? With the Enforcer patch on his cut, he’s had grown men turning pale and breaking out in a sweat just conversing with them.

The misconception about Tank is one that he carefully constructed to protect parts of his life he doesn’t want anyone privy to. Coming across laid back, friendly and calm, despite his appearance and the fact he knows sixty-seven ways to kill someone with his bare hands, and probably used all of them, too, is the complete opposite of who he really is.