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Author Name: Cynthia Rayne
Title: Hot as Hades
Couple: Cowboy and Daisy
Series: Book Two of the Four Horsemen MC Series
Release Date: 9/5/14
Pages: Full length novel
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Blurb:
Cowboy is a former rodeo star and a member of the Four Horsemen MC. He spots Daisy Weston stripping in a club owned by the club’s rivals, the Raptors. They have taken her younger sister, Rose, and Daisy is determined to free her at any cost. With Cowboy acting as her bodyguard and guide to the outlaw world, she is getting closer to discovering Rose’s whereabouts, one lap dance at a time. Despite his better judgment, Cowboy finds himself falling for the pretty ex-Marine and putting her in harm's way every night is becoming more and more difficult. Can they rescue Rose, before the Raptors discover they are really working for the Four Horsemen?
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Chapter One
I want her.
Cowboy tried to
shake the mental
hold the stripper had on his dick.
Something about the blonde tempted
him and it should have been hard to keep his interest.
After all, he had just bellied up to a busty bar
of options.
Far as his cock was concerned, she was the only woman in
the club.
He tried to
focus on his surroundings, instead
of the woman dancing on stage. Not much to report. Although his twenty-something self would have loved the Pussycat Palace’s brothel
vibe, Cowboy had outgrown that stupid shit
for the most part.
The
place left
a lot
to
be
desired. Cheetah fabric covered the booths,
with cheap black acrylic
tables. Fake gold stripper poles lined
the stage and the long catwalk. The Palace waitresses
walked around in tight white tank tops which
featured a
nearly naked woman in
a cat costume,
along with black Daisy Dukes that showed
a generous amount of ass.
Well, the
outfits weren’t that bad.
The music sucked though.
Cowboy pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to
fight off a headache as the DJ started up George Michael
’s I Want Your
Sex. He’d never really
cared for 80s artists
because all of the music sounded
the same to him. He loved old school country,
Johnny Cash in
particular.
Cowboy needed to get some info and he’d hoped the dancers or the
waitresses would be a bit
more chatty on such a slow night. But they’d been
skittish, dodging
his questions and giving him a wide berth. Other than the
club
owner, the bouncers,
and himself? No bikers. Just a passel of
drunken, horny military dudes crowded
around the main stage hooting and hollering
at the women.
That and a man in a very expensive suit.
He kept to
himself in the corner,
scribbling away in
some leather bound notebook. Somethin’ about Suit Guy bugged the shit out of him. All buttoned up and squared shoulders,
he didn’t react to the dancers. What man comes to a strip club and ignores the main attraction? And
while Cowboy glanced in his direction, the dude actually
yawned. Yawned?!
Cowboy shrugged. Weird as it was, it didn’t happen to be his business and
he had much more pressing
concerns. Like sneaking a glance at the stripper again.
Great rack. He could get
lost between those big tits. Damn. She had just
been
fucked hair, a blond tumble of curls surrounded her pretty face, like
she’d left some lucky bastard’s bed moments ago and he’d been running
his hands through it
all
night. Her tight ass
cheeks peeked from beneath
a tiny skirt. She’d topped
off
the outfit with red, fuck me heels, and black
thigh highs trimmed with crimson bows.
He loved the tat on
her shoulder. A
lioness growling, with teeth bared, and claws out. It extended down the line of her back, and then disappeared beneath
a red corset. Made him wonder if she was
a wild cat in
bed or
a sweet purring pussy.
When he
tore
his attention away from her, he noted the rest of her co- workers were in
a daze. Sure, strippers
usually regarded horny guys with bored
expressions as they danced. But these girls?
Lifeless. Nothing but a row of pretty painted zombies shuffling
around the catwalk
as George crooned about
gettin’ some. He supposed they could be junkies. Cowboy
recognized the signs.
They had red-rimmed, spaced out eyes, dull hair and skin, slowed reaction time. Not to mention they were
skinny as understuffed scarecrows.
His girl didn’t look bored though.
She eyed the crowd, evaluating them, and then marched down the catwalk like a drill sergeant traipsing by the new recruits. All obey my
commands and
kiss
my boots attitude. He had no clue why
she had come to the Palace, but he’d bet his blue Harley Fat Boy,
it wasn’t to
strip.
When she reached
the edge of the stage, she launched
herself at the poll
and
spun on it like
a wild
thing. Women usually seduced
the pole, treated it like a lover to be gently rubbed
against. Not his girl.
She attacked it
and then forced it
into
submission, upending
her body on the rod, and then clenching it with her strong thighs. Squeezing.
Holy fuckin’ shit.
Cowboy had a boner the size of Texas in his Levis. He’d love nothing more
than
to explore every single inch of her long, powerful
legs. He couldn’t help
but think of
them
wrapped around his waist as he
fucked her.
Oh hell yes. He could back her
up
against a wall, drive into
her
while she
clawed up his back, coming for him again and again.
He drained the rest of
his lukewarm beer and tried to
pull
his shit together.
He had a job to do. He’d come to
question the girls since the Raptors were out
on a run and he
shouldn’t be
sitting here getting
his motor revved.
The Four Horsemen, his MC, had gotten wind that the Raptors had been
trafficking in women, using them for profit. From what he’d pieced together from the night of
the living
dead strippers on stage, there had to
be
some truth to the stories.
That sort of shit didn’t
sit well with the Four Horsemen. He’d bring the info back to his club and they’d sort this out, preferably the hard way.
The
Horsemen were something of an anomaly in
the MC
world. They had many ways to earn, but none of
them involved using women.
By far
their favorite business, a very lucrative one
at that,
involved karmic facilitation, a Horsemen term for
meting out some richly deserved vigilante justice.
Usually for profit
and hell, sometimes just for
fun. In other words?
What goes around comes around
to bite you
on
the ass.
The club motto wasn’t Think
on Your Sins for nothing.
Unfortunately, he
was in a holding pattern until
he conferred with his
brothers. Cowboy felt naked without his Four Horsemen cut, the leather vest which marked him as a member of the MC. He wanted to shut this thing down.
Tonight. He
fantasized about drawing his Colt, rounding every single one of these dickheads up, and then making
an example of them, all by his Lone Ranger
self. But he knew it would be suicide.
And
he’d
gotten over
his death wish a couple
of years ago.
He scanned the back of
the
club. Two big guys served as bouncers.
They both had to
be
pushing three hundred
and fifty pounds, easily six and a half feet.
Both of them wore Raptor prospect cuts, so
they hadn’t been officially let
into
the club. Like a fraternity, potential members had to pledge before they became full
members.
Down the hallway, to the left of the stage, he spied the Raptor meeting
room.
The club symbol, a bird of
prey
with talons bared, had been carved into
the
wooden doors. Took
some balls, to
put your MC’s club house in a strip joint funded by drugged women.
He couldn’t help
but eye the pretty
stripper again.
And damn if she didn’t look good enough to
eat. From the way
his dick
reacted, you’d think he hadn’t seen a woman in
years. Even though he’d gotten a blow job this morning from one
of the hellions, naughty
girls who
hung around his club. Nothing
special, but it had drained his balls and cleared
his head. Well, until he
saw the stripper.
The
wild
cat locked eyes with him and wrapped one, long, lean leg around the pole, held on tight. Then bucked against it. Hard. Again and again as he
watched every fucking movement. He imagined her thrusting
against him like
that,
as she rode his cock.
He clutched the empty beer bottle in his hand, worried he might bust the fucking thing.
She shimmied away from
the pole, teasing him with more glimpses of
her panties beneath the fabric of
that
short skirt. Then, turned and rocked
her ass back and forth to Warrant’s Cherry Pie, pausing only to glance at him over
her shoulder and then she winked.
Oh fuck me.
She glided down the stage steps, but snubbed the military
douchebags and Suit Guy, eyes completely focused on Cowboy alone.
The boys frantically tried to flag her down with dollar bills, but she strutted to his table instead. Then eased her arms up over her head and danced just for him.
She swung her hips, shook that ass. Then, she leaned
over, giving him a real good view of those big tits, straining
to break free
from her corset.
Cowboy clenched his jaw.
She leaned down and whispered to him, her cherry mouth against
his ear.
“What do you say, baby? Take me to the champagne room?”
Christ. His
cock reared at her words, stood up in
his pants like
the stripper
pole
she’d twirled on. He knew she had only offered him an invitation to buy a
lap dance, a poor imitation of what he really craved but his cock didn’t seem to
give a shit about the circumstances.
Mentally, he said no. However,
his dick, the traitorous fucker, made him
say yes.
Before he could stop himself, he’d gotten to his feet
and followed her down a very narrow hallway to a small, empty room. Discreet, and off the beaten,
the room had red velvet chairs,
a private pole, and a big
black coffee
table that
could
serve as a tiny stage.
Another thought suddenly
occurred to him.
What if the Raptors used the dancers as prostitutes as well?
Maybe the
club
had the girls proposition men for
sex on site. It made sense.
The
club didn’t have to buy or rent a separate facility or even secure a hotel room. The bouncers could even protect their “merchandise” from dudes who might damage their investment.
And this situation
put
Cowboy securely
on the horns of a real fucking dilemma.
When it
came
to the wild
cat, he
didn’t know if
his moral compass currently pointed due north.
Could he pass up the chance to
fuck her if she offered
it up? He swallowed thickly.
Dear fluffy Lord,
I hope so.
He’d never paid for sex. Never. He
considered it a point of
pride. The
women he slept with craved him as well. Nothing but mutual
lust, attraction
and never a business arrangement.
Cowboy argued with
himself.
He’d
just look, okay, maybe touch, but definitely not fuck. Because it wouldn’t be right.
He just needed
to know exactly what kind of
bullshit the Raptors were into. That’s it! If she offered,
he’d pony up the cash and make her turn on
the dickheads and blab all
the details.
But, she didn’t
offer him anything. Not. One.
Damn. Thing.
They stood staring
at one another for a moment and he
got
the distinct
impression that she’d never done this before. She bit her lip,
not meeting his gaze and her confidence seemed to fade. The silence stretched in the small room. Just the two
of them without
the hypnotic, hard pounding music and the benefit of nearby alcohol
to smooth the rough edges.
To
clear
the tension, he reached for his wallet. “How much do
I owe you?” She shook her head. “We’ll worry about that in a bit.” She stepped up on
the coffee table. “For now, I want you to watch me.”
A stripper or possible prostitute who
wouldn’t take money up front? His bullshit o’ meter started
ringin’. Yeah,
she didn’t belong here. She didn’t seem drugged and had way
more attitude than any stripper
he’d ever seen.
None of it added up.
She hit the button on a remote she plucked from the table and then tossed
it on
the carpet.
Chris
Isaak’s Wicked Games filled the room. Much more
mellow than the bump and grind music
on the main floor. Like a puppet on
her G-string, he sank down in the nearest chair, duty promptly forgotten in a haze of lust.
Everything seemed to melt away, the throbbing music from down the hall, the drunken catcalls. Nothing in all
of Texas, but the two of them.
She started to move leisurely, seductively on
the table. He couldn’t talk now, even if
he wanted to. She ran a hand down the long, graceful line of her neck and then rubbed between the mounds of her breasts,
touching herself where he
longed to.
Then, she turned around slowly and bent over, showing
him her shapely ass as she stroked her impossibly
long legs.
Cowboy gulped.
He gripped the armrests to keep from reaching for her. Fuck. Bent over like that, he
could yank her panties
aside, push his stiff cock in her. He could spread her wide
open for
him and then take her again and again, making her
come
for him until she pleaded
with him to stop. Then he’d fuck her some more. Until they
were both too exhausted to
see straight. But he
wouldn’t.
Couldn’t.
What the fuck am I doing? Engaging in some masochistic blue ball torture,
that’s what.
She hopped off the makeshift stage and walked
to a table by the door. “I’m sorry. I forgot to offer you
some bubbly, baby.
This is the champagne room, after all.”
She reached into a bucket of ice and pulled
out a small bottle
of
champagne. The cheap shit. Not that he expected Dom Perignon or
anything but it figures the Raptors would stock second
rate alcohol. Perdition, the bar his club owned, only carried top
shelf, but nothing
as girly as sparkling wine.
She poured them two glasses of bubbly and then carried
them both over. Her breasts nearly spilled over
the top
of her corset, bouncing
as she walked. He wanted to see her rosy nipples
puckering up, just begging to be taken in his mouth. Damn. Then, he wanted to pour the alcohol
over them, lick it off her while she squealed
and not in
protest either.
But he settled for taking a sip from the glass she offered
him, eyes glued to her chest. The
alcohol tasted strange, medicine-y. It reminded him of the foul flavor of uncoated aspirin on his tongue. He took another swig of it,
just in case he’d
been mistaken. Nope, shit still tasted bad. Maybe because it was the cheap stuff?
“Something wrong?”
“This tastes like ass.” He grimaced. “Maybe I’m more of
a tequila man?”
He
started to
reach around her to
place the flute on the table, but she
clinked her glass to his. “A
toast to discovery?”
Shit. It’d be rude not to
drink, so
he
forced himself to
bolt
the rest of it like
a
shot.
With a catlike grin,
she set her glass aside, settled herself
on his lap and he forgot he
had the ability to form words. She put one strong thigh on either side of his, draped her arms around
his neck and pressed her breasts
into his
chest. She smelled like vanilla, slightly musky from dancing, and he
wanted to
lick her from head to
toe.
“What brings you here, baby?”
she asked. She had a slightly raspy voice, sensual. For the first time, he had the chance to
see
her up close.
She had a hint of
dark
lines beneath her blue eyes, though
she’d concealed most of
it with makeup. He could still see
the
bruised appearance
at the edges. Hmm. She hadn’t been sleeping
well.
Well, he knew an old-fashioned horizontal remedy for that. He’d made more
than one girl
pass
out.
His hands hovered at her sides. He knew he
couldn’t touch, but he
wanted to. Actually, grope. Yeah, that’s what he wanted to do. Grope the hell
out of her, but that really wasn’t
his style. With a woman he really liked, he took his time. Cowboy kept
his head and he
teased, tempted.
Seduced her. He loved caressing her until she came apart in his arms.
But this one seemed to short circuit
his sexual chivalry.
He suddenly remembered the question she’d asked him. “Just a good
time, wild cat.” He smiled. “Call me Cowboy.” Not
sure why
he
cared, but he didn’t want her to think of
him
as some nameless,
faceless man.
Her full lips curled into a puzzled
grin. “That can’t be your real name.” “It’s my
road name.” Bikers often called one
another by nicknames.
She ran a hand through his hair. “No hat?” She glanced down at his shit
kickers.
“Not tonight. I ride a Harley and I can’t be chasin’ the damn thing up and
down
the highway when it blows off.”
Born and bred in the panhandle, Cowboy lived up to his road name. In his early twenties,
he’d been a bull rider in
the rodeo circuit and he
still
loved
the gear—leather pants, cowhide gloves, and ten gallon
hats. He had a serious hard on for cowboy boots too, owned a hundred
pairs at least. Tonight, he’d worn a black leather pair, decked out with longhorn
skulls.
“What’s your
name, wild cat?” he asked. “Why
are
you calling me wild cat?”
“Your tattoo. Come on, tell me your name.”
She hesitated a moment and then
pasted
on a seductive party girl
expression. “What do you want it
to be?”
He shook his head. “No.
I want to know your real name and don’t
tell me it’s
Candy or
Cinnamon or
any of those other bullshit stripper
names. What is
it really?”
Like before, the guise of professional stripper
deserted her and he
could see
the
real flesh and blood woman, not the dolled
up fantasy girl
persona she put on to entertain drunken,
horny guys. “You didn’t tell me your real name.”
“Well, let me rectify that.
It’s Jake Grant.”
She nodded to
him as
though
they’d met at a fancy
citizen party or something and were making polite
conversation. “Good to meet you, mine is Daisy Weston.”
“Daisy.” He liked that name,
very old-fashioned and authentic.
“What
brings you here, Daisy?”
She hesitated a moment and he thought she might confide
in him, tell him something real but the actual woman fluttered
away, and fantasy girl took her place. She licked her cherry
lips. “Exploration.”
With that, she started
to move on his lap and he lost the ability to speak once more. Let
alone think. He didn’t come here for
a thrill, but dammit,
he was only human. He leaned back in
his seat and let her grind on him. She carefully avoided his cock
at first,
perched a few inches above
it, but he doubted she didn’t
miss the way his jeans puckered and bulged at the crotch.
Nine Inch Nails’ Closer came on next and all that talk about feeling a woman from the inside sounded
damn
good. Might not be
country, but he could relate to
that
shit. Especially now.
She raised her hands above her head and he thought for a crazy second about tying them. Fuck yes. He
could tie her open, arms and legs stretched out. So, she couldn’t close herself
off from him, spread her wide
so
he
could fuck her. Endlessly.
She bucked against him then. Mimicking riding
his cock. How much temptation can one
man stand? Then she perched
above him, bracing
her arms on either side
of the velvet chair,
putting his face even with her cleavage.
Cowboy grabbed the chair arms again.
Then, she slowly
slipped off of him, gliding her body down over his. Every single inch
of
her brushing against
him until finally she knelt between
his splayed legs. She caressed
the outside of
his
thighs and he couldn’t help but
buck
his hips up. Meeting her. He spread his legs even wider and she rubbed
his
inner thighs.
Cowboy nearly lost his fucking
mind. His cock twitched
in his pants, as
though it wanted to reach for
her
of its own accord.
She lowered her head between
his legs and he groaned. Damn. The thought
of her red, swollen
mouth around his cock. Fuck. Sucking
him deep, licking every single, hard throbbing
inch of him. Christ, please! He needed it. Wanted it.
But instead of undoing his pants,
freeing his cock and giving him the blow job he so desperately craved, she bent down and then placed the long
column of
her
neck up against the seat with her face
to the floor. Then, she gripped
his thighs for
balance and thrust
her body upwards
like a fucking gymnast.
She pressed her tight ass up right against his chest and splayed her legs
for
him. Giving him just a glimpse of
heaven.
Oh, fuck me.
Between her thighs,
her panties had twisted just a bit, revealing swollen pink pussy lips, so slick and wet. She wanted him too.
He clamped down on the chair, viciously, fingers digging in. Cowboy called on every single ounce of
willpower he possessed, anything to keep from lifting that tempting pussy
to his hungry mouth.
Licking it. Burying his face there.
He hovered in
hell, unable to touch or taste, for
minutes but it felt like hours.
Then, agile
as a goddamn cat, she rolled
back off him. With a grin, she
snagged the glasses and sauntered to the table near the door once more,
just tantalizingly out of his reach. She peeked at him over her shoulder. He knew the look. She silently
dared him, like a grown up game of
keep
away.
She undid a few
hooks on the front of her corset and turned around again.
Winked. The corset peeled away from
her skin. Damn that tattoo was fucking
hot.
He had the urge to trace the line
of it with his tongue.
The
corset dropped to the floor, but she wouldn’t
turn around. She
was so good at teasing. When,
she finally came his way, she held the champagne flutes and he was treated to the sight of
her
breasts bouncing. Cowboy rubbed his hands up and down the length
of his thighs, hoping
to ease his need to touch
her by stroking himself, trying desperately to quiet his greedy body. His good intentions nearly shredded
by need.
“Champagne is delicious, although
it
is an acquired taste.” She set her glass down, but held on
to
his and then straddled him once more, knees on either side of his thighs.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Try it again, for me?” She brought it to his lips and he
obligingly took another sip, some leaked from the corner of
his mouth.
Yep, still tasted like shit, not that he fucking cared at the
moment.
“Oh, you missed a spot.” She captured it with her fingertip
and he sucked it in his mouth, licking
the sweet little digit clean. Cowboy drew on
her finger in a pantomime of
what
he’d rather be doing, sucking fiercely on one of her nipples. Both of
them
were hard, pinkish tan and so tantalizingly close he
could fucking
scream. The wild
cat was killing
him slowly.
Her voice
lowered to
a throaty whisper.
“Here,” she said, pressing the glass
to his lips once more, “have
another drink.” He gulped down the rest of
the foul-tasting stuff. He would have done anything
to make her happy in that moment. He
just
didn’t want her to get off
his lap.
She brought her mouth to his, soft lips
grazing his. For a second, he
thought she would kiss him, but no, she just teased him with the promise
of one.
Damn. I’m going to cum in my pants.
And
that’s when shit started to
go south in a big way.
He suddenly
felt a little lightheaded. Tipsy. But that
was
impossible,
besides the girly champagne, he’d
only had a couple of beers tonight. Okay, four beers. But that couldn’t be it. Now and then he’d stay out with the brothers all night, doing shots with beer chasers
for hours sometimes. He had a high tolerance. Sure, he felt queasy as fuck afterwards and sometimes he
even made an ass out of himself by
singing Ring of Fire at the top
of his lungs but he never, ever passed out. He could handle his liquor like a man.
But not this time.
A few drops of champagne had him feeling
like a debutante
on prom night.
He had the strangest notion
he’d just been fucked over.
He searched
Daisy’s face,
but she seemed
perfectly fine. In
fact, she’d dropped the stripper
facade altogether and watched him with a raised eyebrow and an air of impatience.
What the hell? Did she drug me?
He slumped further down in
his seat, nearly unable
to keep his eyes open. He heard her chuckle as she crouched
over him. He struggled to lift
his head,
move
his arms, but it felt like lead weights
had been cuffed
to him.
“Lights out, Cowboy,”
she purred.
And
the world faded to fucking black.
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