Page 22 of The Biker's Last Rodeo

I’m an addict and I’ve only just begun.

“You okay?” I pant, trying to control my thrust.

“Yeah,” her eyes squeeze closed for a second and the pressure I’d been pushing against opens up ever so slightly, “don’t stop!”

Glancing down, I see the streak of blood in her juices. I see the physical signs of her body being claimed.

Maybe it shouldn’t get me off, but it does. It really fucking does.

I thrust into her harder, my hands gripping the rope where her wrists have been tied. “Tell me where you belong, bunny.”

“With you,” she moans, and I pull the rope, hauling her up, tightening her grip around my cock.

It’s unexpected and blinding.Fuck.

“Say it again,” I growl, drawing the rope tighter. “Tell me where you belong.”

“With you,” she pants again, her eyes closing as her walls tighten around my cock. “I’m gonna come, Duke. Don’t stop!”

“That a girl, come on my cock. Give it all to me.”

Her eyes squeeze closed, her mouth drops open, her head leans back, and the sweetest sounds hum from her lips.

I loosen the ropes, letting the fibers fall against her wrists as she comes hot and warm, strangling my cock with her tight little pussy.

Lord, I’m not going to make it. No way in fucking hell.

I grip hold of her hips and thrust into her one final time, howling out as I fill her up and make her mine.

The sky hangs heavy with heat, pale and stretched thin over the land like a sun-bleached canvas as horses paw at the stalls inside the barn. I’m sure I’ve scared the fuck out of everyone with the noises I’ve just made.

“Damn, little one. You okay?” I lean into her small frame, lift her from the bale of hay, and hold her against my body. “Was I too rough?”

“No,” she breathes heavy against my chest, “I want more.”

I kiss the top of her forehead as a breeze dances across the field, brushing our naked bodies with a cool, refreshing ripple. “What do you say we head inside, and I whip us up some supper? I’m thinking I’d like more of that little bunny rabbit that’s been chasing me.”

Her smile isn’t soft. It’s wild. And just like that, the chase begins again. This time toward the farmhouse, toward forever, toward a life I never thought I’d find.

Epilogue

Maci

Five Years Later

The scent of sagebrush hangs heavily in the air as I step out onto the front porch to holler for the kids to come in for supper. The whole MC is coming to our place tonight for a wild turkey and whiskey-basted corn meal. It’s a tradition Duke and I started shortly after our shotgun wedding here at the ranch. It wasn’t anything crazy fancy, but there was a lot of meaning packed into our short little ceremony in the round pen. We picked wildflowers that afternoon and sprinkled them around the enclosure, and all our friends were in attendance.

“Kids,” I shout down toward the barn, “I need you two ready to eat in thirty minutes.”

Raylee yells back from somewhere in the barn, voice high and sticky with laughter, “I’m brushing Champ’s mane, Mama!” Our oldest is four years old and I’m obsessed. I swear she’s quite possibly the sweetest girl ever born.

Some days I get thinking about how scared I was to become a mom. I thought having no parents meant I’d have nothing to emulate. Turns out, everything you need shows up exactly when you need it.

I shake my head and lean against the porch rail, spatula still in hand, apron covered in flour and cayenne. The breeze swirls hints of mesquite smoke from the pit where Duke’s beentending the bird since sunrise, his MC cut draped over the fence like it belongs here more than it ever did on the highway.

Colt barrels past me chasing the dog, boots muddy, shirt inside out, completely unfazed. He’s only two, but farm raised boys are a different breed. This kid has been riding horses since he was old enough to walk.

“Hey,” Duke’s deep voice rumbles in behind me as his heavy boots creak up onto the porch, “you look at the Gazette yet?” He holds his phone up in front of me, showing off an article that I wrote last week about how groundwork does wonders with green colts and how that translates to raising kids. I never thought I’d be writing about ranches and horses, but people say you should write what you know, and lately, that’s all I know.

“They printed it?” I say, scrolling through the article.

“They did more than print it,” he beams, “they gave you the front page on a Sunday. I’d say that’s killin’ it.”

I appreciate the sweetness, but writing doesn’t mean what it used to, and neither does the front page. I used to think that finding someone else’s story would help me find my own. I guess it did.

I lean into Duke’s chest as the rumble of motorcycles echoes outside the fence line.My family.None of them by birth. Every single one by heart.

A tear slips down my face as I look out over this ranch. The big red barn sat off to the left with daisies growing up around the walls. The round pen with a worn fence and clovers peeking beneath the posts. The pasture with horses grazing peacefully in the dimming light of the late afternoon sun.

I always thought I’d be chasing the next big story. Turns out, life had a story waiting for me. A sweet one. A story with two kids covered in dirt, a little farmhouse on a hill, and a big ole red flag waving monster of a man who never makes me feel like I’m anything less than perfect.