Friday, September 5, 2014

~Release Day Blitz~ Hot as Hades (Book Two of the Four Horsemen MC Series) by Cynthia Rayne

Posted by BookGroupies

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


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?

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 werent 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 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. NotOne.  Damn. Thing.

They   stood staring at one   another for  a moment and he  got  the distinct

impression that shed 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 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. Im 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


“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  theyd 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. Im 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.


Post a Comment


Book Groupies Copyright © 2012 Design by Antonia Sundrani Vinte e poucos