Page 42 of Rider Daddies (Venom Vultures MC #6)

I look around. The circle doesn’t exist anymore.

Dark, distorted light is all I see. I don’t even hear the music, just my own thumping heart as I imagine how it might feel for them to penetrate me.

“You’re probably the same age as my daddy, but I don’t care about that.

I want you all to take off my clothes and lick every inch of me.

My tits. My pussy. Just thinking about it turns me on.

” Breathless, I pause for a moment. “I hope you feel the same way as me. I hope you want to fuck me just as much. Call me and let’s arrange something.

I want to spread my legs and welcome all three of you inside my pussy. ”

I stop the voice note after that, the circle materializing back into view.

Applause fills the room. It’s not just the players that have been listening. Everybody else in the room heard too.

“Okay,” I say, building crowd anticipation as I prepare to press send.

I hit a random area on the screen.

“Done!”

“Whoop! Go Melissa.”

Matt flashes me a jealous-looking grin.

“Okay, people!” shouts Natasha. “Time for shots!”

The circle breaks up, people dispersing toward the drinks table.

Natasha approaches me, bringing me in for a high five. “That was awesome.”

I blink, unable to focus on her face properly. Booze fuzzies my head. “Thanks.”

“But you know what would have been even more awesome?”

“What?”

She snatches my purse and fishes out my phone. “If you actually sent it.”

I try to take the phone back, but I can’t see straight, eyes not aligning with where my arm is reaching out to. I go to grab Natasha’s wrist, but end up clawing thin air.

She turns the phone screen my way, unlocking it with facial recognition.

Then, she presses send.

“There,” she says, shoving the phone into my chest.

Why is she pissed?

“What the fuck?” I explode. “You have no right to?—”

“Tough love,” Natasha says, already on route to the drinks table. “This is for your own good.”

I grind my jaw, the booze filtering into my veins. My blood feels supercharged. This isn’t regular anger. It’s anger on steroids. I want to punch a wall. Punch her. How dare she do that without my permission? It’s embarrassing.

Parts of the monologue return to my memory.

It makes me want to shrivel up to the size of a prune.

I want to spread my legs and welcome all three of you into my pussy…

What the fuck?

My heart is beating so fast I feel like I’m gonna drop dead any second. Anger continuing to surge through my veins, I race outdoors and scream, hands clamped over my ears.

I feel slightly better afterward, but not much has changed. The voice note has still been sent.

I slip out my phone and bring up my messages.

Delivered 3 minutes ago.

I hold down the sent message to bring up a list of options. One of those is delete, but the annoying I know things can’t be deleted from the receiving end.

I clamp my eyes shut.

Fuck, this is so humiliating.

I snap them open a few moments later to: Read 11:38.

No .

They’re listening to it now.

Feeling the need to explain myself, I bring up the keypad and type as fast as possible.

Me: Don’t listen to that. I’m at a college party. It was a dare. Whatever I said, it’s not true.

The message bubble starts rippling.

Oh, fuck.

(775) 375-6825: That’s a real coincidence. We’ve been thinking how much we want your pussy. It’s a shame this was all a dare…

My heart lurches out of my chest.

Is this a joke?

They’ve actually been thinking about me too?

Like it’s a surprise. I may be inexperienced in the bedroom department, but everybody knows that motorcyclists are dangerous, not just when it comes to riding bikes.

They have huge sex drives. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.

They’re riding their bikes out in the desert all day, doing all kinds of damage.

When they return home, they’re exhausted.

Seeing nothing but sand and comrades all day, they’re eager for female company.

I shouldn’t feel flattered, because they probably left their number for like, ten other women today.

But I can’t help the surge of adrenaline that rushes through my veins as I reread their message. They’ve been thinking about me too?

My pussy burns again, a mix of arousal and alcohol prompting me to reply.

Me: I’m so embarrassed.

The reply comes immediately.

(775) 375-6825: Don’t be, sweetheart. We love that you sent us that. We’re glad you feel the same. It’s made our day hearing your voice again.

“What are you smiling into your phone like that for?”

I click off the phone screen and whip around, a spell of dizziness clouding my head from the sudden movement.

“Woah!” Natasha’s hands come out to steady me. “Careful. You’re gonna topple! Maybe you’ve had too much to drink.” She exhales. “Look, I’m sorry about before. I was out of order and?—”

I stick the phone in her face, blinding her.

“Jeez, girl.” She pulls the screen further back, eyes reading the text.

It takes her a minute.

Then, her eyes widen. “Melissa Strongbow!”

“Alright,” I slur. “Hit me with the I told you so .” I wiggle my hands. “Come on. Hurry. Get it over with so you can tell me what to type next.”

“First,” Natasha says, “I told you so. But second…are you kidding? You don’t take it all back by saying you’re embarrassed. That’s not flirting.”

“Then what should I do?”

She narrows her hazel eyes, thinking. “Get some water down you. I’m all for a great party, but you’ve exceeded your limit, and sober you is gonna be pissed at me tomorrow when she wakes up.

Here.” She tugs my hand and guides me back inside, the bass crescendoing.

“They have sparkling water on tap in this place. Can you believe it?”

Ping!

Another message from the bikers.

(775) 375-6825: Sweetheart, are you there? I would hate for you to leave us on read. We’re all together right now, Diesel, Cash and me. We’re all thinking about you.

Natasha guides me into the kitchen, pouring a glass of sparkling water. She sets it in my free hand. “Drink up.”

“You have to help me,” I say, ignoring the drink. “Come on. What do I say?” I shove the phone in her face. “They’ve been thinking about me.”

Natasha reads the message, porcelain face lit up by the white screen.

“Maybe you should flirt with them tomorrow when you’re sober.

I’ll give you some hints then.” She grabs my shoulder.

“Trust me on this one, M. Don’t text a guy—or in your case, three—when you’re intoxicated.

” Her face turns serious. “It’s bad enough saying the wrong thing to a college boy.

We’re dealing with three middle-aged biker daddies here.

Let’s be honest. They’re not studying law at college. They’re probably breaking it.”

Why does this increase the speed of my pulse even more?

“Have fun with them, by all means,” continues Natasha, “but do it when you’re sober. When you’re in control.” She begins to lift the sparkling water to my lips when somebody calls her over. Giving me a stern look, she turns around and leaves.

I take one sip of the stuff and spit it back into the glass, abandoning it on the kitchen counter. Vile. I need another vodka cranberry. Not this shit.

I make my way over to the drinks table, unscrew a bottle of something miscellaneous since there’s no more vodka, and top it up with a White Claw mixer.

I take one sip, wince, then shrug it off. Actually, the aftertaste isn’t that bad.

I take out my phone. Text back.

Me: I’m still heeree. Dont worry.

(775) 375-6825: Are you drunk?

Unable to stabilize my body, I crash into a wall, banging my head.

The booze seems to dull the pain slightly.

God, I’m so stupid. Laughter erupts out of me, and once I start, I can’t stop. Jesus. This might be the happiest I have ever been. They’re smoking hot and they like me.

I bite my lip, debating what to type next.

Me: I saw u looking at my tits bfotre, my england.

Me: Mr. I ment mr.

Me: Not my. HAAHA.

Me: But u cud be my Prince Harry.

The neon lights flash, making me forget my surroundings for a second. Where am I? Underground in a basement? On the strip in a club? Oh yeah. A frat house.

(775) 375-6825: Guilty as charged. What are you gonna do about it?

Me: Mayeb u want to see them.

(775) 375-6825: We’ve all been thinking about them all day.

Me: Rlly?

(775) 375-6825: How drunk are you?

Me: Not rlly

(775) 375-6825: What if we sent you something…?

Me: Send me wot?

I press my back into the wall, pulse throbbing.

What are they gonna send?

Will I be able to handle it?

My virgin eyes have never seen a dick before. Not in real life. Just a photograph.

They’re not gonna send me a dick pic, are they? We only just met.

Ping!

1 attachment.

I dash to the bathroom, because I can’t open the attachment out here. Ascending the stairs, I lock myself into the first available bathroom I find and unlock my phone.

Oh my god…

My mouth starts salivating.

My pussy burns.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.

All three of them have their cocks out in the image, pants dropped to their knees. They hold their straining lengths in their hands for the camera.

For me.

And they’re huge.

So big that if we were to have sex, they’re not fitting much inside.

If it ever comes to that.

My breath hitches more the longer I look, and the burning sensation returns to my pussy.

Still gasping for breath, I reach down, slip a finger under my panties, and circle my clit. I imagine how it might feel to have their dicks there—not inside at first, just rubbing against my clit.

Fuck, I think it would feel amazing.

I roll back my head, arousal growing, and back into a wall.

Opposite me is a full-length mirror. I pause, catching myself.

I’ve never seen myself in this state before.

Never stopped to look. I masturbate rarely, but when I do, I never put anything inside.

I tried a finger once, but it didn’t really do much for me.