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Book: Final Ride: Hellions Motorcycle Club (Hellions Ride Book 9) by Chelsea Camaron
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Authors: Chelsea Camaron
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not time yet. “Do you want me to fuck you so long, so hard, and so fast that your eyes feel like they will roll back in your head?”
“Yes!” she cries out, getting louder and louder as her need builds.
“Do you want me to give it to you good, Amy? Do you want me get under your skin? You’re under mine.”
“Yes!” She thrashes wildly. “Please, Frisco, I need you in me.”
“Well, if you need it, who am I to deny you?” I smile against her as I kiss my way up her body, lining my cock up and sliding into her wet core, and sending her over the edge in two thrusts before working myself to climax as she reaches her second orgasm.
Hell yes, I definitely love what is right in front of my face. This works. This is us.
Cyclone of Confusion
A girls’ day of shopping, something I did with my mother countless times when she was on a “high on life” mania. The downfall was when the overspending left us struggling until Vic gave us more money, which meant Mom would be serving him somehow just to make ends meet. The other thing was Mom crashing when she came off a manic episode. She would fall into a severe depression that typically left me cleaning up her blood from a self-inflicted wound.
It wasn’t pretty, but it was my life.
The red-headed woman named Sass has an hourglass figure, accentuated by her skin-tight jeans and boots. She’s done up, but not overly done. It’s more of a way that screams confidence.
In the car ride to the mall, I learned her name is Savannah, and she’s Tank’s ol’ lady. They have a son everyone calls Red. She goes by Sass because she’s full of attitude. She also has a tight bond with Amy, it seems. From what I gather, the two work together at some automotive shop, and Amy doesn’t like crowds, so when she wants to go shopping, Sass usually comes along and does the driving.
I can’t help being uncomfortable around her to some degree. Her dad is Danza, the other man who was at our house the day my mother died. He gave off a vibe that led me to believe he didn’t think much of my mother or Fury MC. I remind myself I am not defined by who my parents are or were, so I can’t hold Sass to the same.
I wonder if Amy is like my mother. Does Frisco have a thing for the manic to mania and back again lifestyle of someone with a mental illness?
When I was twelve, I couldn’t wait to get out of my mother’s house, even if it landed me on my back at the clubhouse. That’s what Vic always said, that women served the club on their backs. I didn’t know what he meant until I was in high school and one of the girls in my class was given to the club to pay off her parents’ drug debt. Even knowing the hell a young girl could find at the club, there were moments when it seemed better than dealing with Mom’s extreme highs and lows. I never told her this. It’s all there in my journals, though.
How many times did I scribble the words: I hate her like this. The blood, I’m so tired of cleaning the cuts. She’s selfish ?
Kids aren’t nearly as clueless as parents wish they were. In fact, every single day I was subject to her moods, to whatever high or low, I was impacted.
When I was younger, I wanted to be just like my mom, until the first time I found her passed out in a bathtub full of water tinted a shade of pink. Panic, fear, insecurity—it all hit my tiny mind with the force of a wrecking ball on a crane, slamming into a skyscraper. Demolition. The demolition of my soul.
I was six.
From that day on, I watched, observing her every movement, every expression, and every noise she made. Every breath taken, I wondered if it would be her last.
Self-inflicted wounds cut deeper than the epidermis she was slicing away at. The more she hacked her body up, the more she cut deep into the core of who I am. And every time, every single incident, I promised myself I wouldn’t become like her.
There were so many times I wanted to run away. I wanted to get away from her and her
“Yes!” she cries out, getting louder and louder as her need builds.
“Do you want me to give it to you good, Amy? Do you want me get under your skin? You’re under mine.”
“Yes!” She thrashes wildly. “Please, Frisco, I need you in me.”
“Well, if you need it, who am I to deny you?” I smile against her as I kiss my way up her body, lining my cock up and sliding into her wet core, and sending her over the edge in two thrusts before working myself to climax as she reaches her second orgasm.
Hell yes, I definitely love what is right in front of my face. This works. This is us.
Cyclone of Confusion
A girls’ day of shopping, something I did with my mother countless times when she was on a “high on life” mania. The downfall was when the overspending left us struggling until Vic gave us more money, which meant Mom would be serving him somehow just to make ends meet. The other thing was Mom crashing when she came off a manic episode. She would fall into a severe depression that typically left me cleaning up her blood from a self-inflicted wound.
It wasn’t pretty, but it was my life.
The red-headed woman named Sass has an hourglass figure, accentuated by her skin-tight jeans and boots. She’s done up, but not overly done. It’s more of a way that screams confidence.
In the car ride to the mall, I learned her name is Savannah, and she’s Tank’s ol’ lady. They have a son everyone calls Red. She goes by Sass because she’s full of attitude. She also has a tight bond with Amy, it seems. From what I gather, the two work together at some automotive shop, and Amy doesn’t like crowds, so when she wants to go shopping, Sass usually comes along and does the driving.
I can’t help being uncomfortable around her to some degree. Her dad is Danza, the other man who was at our house the day my mother died. He gave off a vibe that led me to believe he didn’t think much of my mother or Fury MC. I remind myself I am not defined by who my parents are or were, so I can’t hold Sass to the same.
I wonder if Amy is like my mother. Does Frisco have a thing for the manic to mania and back again lifestyle of someone with a mental illness?
When I was twelve, I couldn’t wait to get out of my mother’s house, even if it landed me on my back at the clubhouse. That’s what Vic always said, that women served the club on their backs. I didn’t know what he meant until I was in high school and one of the girls in my class was given to the club to pay off her parents’ drug debt. Even knowing the hell a young girl could find at the club, there were moments when it seemed better than dealing with Mom’s extreme highs and lows. I never told her this. It’s all there in my journals, though.
How many times did I scribble the words: I hate her like this. The blood, I’m so tired of cleaning the cuts. She’s selfish ?
Kids aren’t nearly as clueless as parents wish they were. In fact, every single day I was subject to her moods, to whatever high or low, I was impacted.
When I was younger, I wanted to be just like my mom, until the first time I found her passed out in a bathtub full of water tinted a shade of pink. Panic, fear, insecurity—it all hit my tiny mind with the force of a wrecking ball on a crane, slamming into a skyscraper. Demolition. The demolition of my soul.
I was six.
From that day on, I watched, observing her every movement, every expression, and every noise she made. Every breath taken, I wondered if it would be her last.
Self-inflicted wounds cut deeper than the epidermis she was slicing away at. The more she hacked her body up, the more she cut deep into the core of who I am. And every time, every single incident, I promised myself I wouldn’t become like her.
There were so many times I wanted to run away. I wanted to get away from her and her
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