“Yes!” she screamed, arching her lower back so hard it ached. “Yes! I don’t want it to stop.”
“It won’t.” Noah adjusted his arm so that her fingers were trapped under it. She felt more pinned than ever, yet still sure it was going to end. Even as her cunt swelled and the rough thrust of Noah’s fingers felt a hundred times bigger. Even as her nipples hardened and her toes curled, she knew it wasn’t going to happen no matter how much pleasure he force-fed her. “Let me go! I can’t do it!”
Noah pressed his face against hers. “Too fuckin’ bad. You’re gonna get it.”
Her cunt throbbed hard, a circle gripping tighter, tighter, tighter. “No!”
“Yes. You love it too much. You’re gonna come like the dirty little girl you are.”
She recalled her fantasy, being naked and spread open on a dirty mattress. Noah the biker between her legs, taking what he wanted from her. She was so wet and filthy and bad, of course she’d come. What other purpose did she have?
“That’s it,” Noah said. “That’s a good girl. Give in.”
“More names,” she gasped. “Meaner!”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Come, you filthy little slut. Come, then you can suck my fingers while I fuck your little pussy raw.”
Nicole felt the swell of something flawless between her legs, like a diamond being born. She could hear herself crying out, but it was a stranger’s voice. The real her was inside vibrating with joy.
She could smell herself in the air, the sweet musk of lost control. She laughed, enjoying the freedom to not care about it or anything.
Noah straightened, slipping his hand from her underwear. Nicole’s shorts snapped back into place, as though nothing had ever happened. She looked up and saw him wipe his hand on his jeans. “That what you needed?”
“I…”
He stared down at her like an expectant dentist—clearly not caring he’d just made her orgasm harder than any man she’d been with before. “Yeah?”
“I need to go.”
She stood on her rubbery legs, needing to be somewhere away from the salt smell and pounding rock music andhim.She rushed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
“Yeah, that seems about right,” he said right before it shut.
Chapter 7
Noah’s earliest memory was of the clubroom. He was playing with a screwdriver, trying to push a nail back into the dusty floor. He pushed too hard and the screwdriver cut his hand open. A thick slug of burgundy blood had oozed out and he’d opened his mouth to scream and then he bit his cheeks instead.
Bikers didn’t like kids. They might love their own, but as a concept they didn’t rank high. They couldn’t follow orders or ride a bike; they couldn’t do anything but cry, shit and sleep.
Noah didn’t know how old he was when he cut his hand on the screwdriver. Four? Five? Not at kinder, because he could draw by then and the nail came before the pencils. The clubhouse was his daycare, tools were his toys, the naked women on the walls were his babysitters. His dad was in the other room laughing in a way that was almost as scary as yelling. No one wanted him there. He’d tried to stay quiet, stay out of the way.
Then the pencils.
He didn’t know who gave them to him. A little red box just appeared one day. He’d picked them up, pressed them hard against his fingers and he’d been born. He didn’t know any other way to put it. Paper became his life’s mission, shopping receipts, electricity bills, phonebooks and magazines—finding blank spaces and filling them with the pictures in his head.
He had another memory, almost as clear as finding the pencils. He was lying on the floor, drawing on a phonebook when his dad sat beside him. He smelled like sweat and what Noah would later realise was whiskey.
“Like drawing, don’t you, mate?”
He must have said yes because his dad’s next words came in clear as a bell. “Good. Stick with it and you’ll be tattooing the boys in no time.”
Baby Noah was sick with excitement. He didn’t know what tattoos were, but he understood being useful for The Rangers. He understood not being a pain in the ass.
He stopped sketching dragons and forests and kings and drew The Rangers patch. He drew it until he could draw it in his sleep. His dad stuck the pictures on the club walls.
“When are you getting him a machine, Harry?” other bikies asked.
“Soon as he’s old enough not to fuck it up.”