Page 8 of Dirty Salvation

His thumb brushed his lip again, feeling the soft bristles of his beard, watching her wide nervous eyes.

Hungry to get his mouth all over her.Gonna dirty you so bad.

The train to his particular Hell was paved with bad intentions, and Rider was a ticket holder.

He wasn’t thinking anything good while he looked at her.

Nothing good at all.

In fact, he was pure dirt.

She was so fucking sweet asking about his club, the nerves grabbing her voice. So fucking sweet Rider had two new cavities and her innocence beyond obvious every biker that landed eyes on her could see how fresh she was.

Lamb to the fucking slaughter in this kinda environment.Send her on her way.

Nope.

Rider was many things to a lot of people, but no one would mistake he was just a man wanting to get really fucking laid right then and with the sweetest piece he'd seen in a long time.

One look and he was hard andready.

Not much conversation was exchanged, he didn't need fancy words and cheesy chat-up lines, not in his clubhouse. If a chick was there it was for one reason only and hint; it wasn't to roast marshmallows on the big-ass bonfire out back.

He worked his thumb against her inner wrist, sending electric charges up his own arm, she felt like silk.

His mouth watered, nothing to do with the beer he was swallowing, he wanted to discover if she was as soft all over.

He dumped the empty bottle with a prospect who had his ass propped on the wall, bent over toking on some of the newest batch of pot they'd received a shipment of this morning.

From the glassy gaze in Pretty Boy’s eyes, it was some good shit, but Rider would know more when he tested it out later with his boys.

He never touched hard drugs, he'd drop-kick any of his men who brought it into the city let alone their compound, and he never did pot on the regular either.

A president who got too far into his own shit was a fool in waiting and in truth didn't deserve the gavel.

Rider had worked too damn hard to let a little high get in his way of making his mark in this godforsaken world.

He'd needed sex tonight like he needed a lungful of fresh air, thought he'd have to settle for one of the groupies who all looked at him like he had the keys to the chocolate factory in his pants. One motion of a finger and any one of those girls would have stopped, dropped and mouth opened for him.

So used to sex when he wanted Rider was so damn bored of their eager when it barely roused his dick.

Bored of not having to work for his pussy.

The tease, the chase, the heated stir of air between him and a woman.

There was a time in his younger prospecting days he would have dipped into any available pussy and kept on going until the house was dry.

But now, fuck if he didn't prefer his own hand.

There was a thrill in the pursuit, the want of a woman who wanted him back just as dirtily.

Easy fucks were a dime a dozen around the biker culture, and while he didn't judge any of his brothers for getting it where they could, he was fucking bored of it.

So much so the last time he had sex he'd almost pulled a Meg Ryan and faked the hell out of the fuck.

Between the over-exaggerated porn star moans ---he couldn't even remember her name now---- and fake tits bouncing in his face, Rider had stroked his fingers down between her thighs, got her off fast and pulled out, dumping the unused condom into the trash can and sent her on her way telling her she was 'the best'.

The best fucking boring fuck.