Read Online White Wolves MC: A BWWM Interracial Romance by Ella Douglas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ella Douglas
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my direction.
I found her sitting at my tiny, rickety kitchen table, staring hard into her oatmeal.
“He killed my partner,” she said, finally. “The sting operation broke down at the last second and he killed Winston.”
I sighed and sat down across from her.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But he knew what he was getting into.”
She wasn’t crying. No, this girl was too hard to cry. She’d already lost her husband in war and now her partner in peace—how could you even make this girl cry?
Nothing I could do was ever going to break her. There was nothing worth doing.
“He did,” she said softly, her voice losing that hard edge it had maintained all morning. “He did. He knew.”
And then her smoldering eyes caught mine.
“You can fool and fuck around but so help me god, Viper, if you don’t take this seriously, I will execute you myself and tell Doug that Fatman did it. And you won’t be alive to tell your side of the story.”
“Fine,” I said, coldly. “But you need to play your part.”
“Then teach me.”
We ate breakfast, and then, after dressing, went out to the parking lot.
“This is my chopper,” I said, mounting my bike. “You may remember her from such rides as… Last night.”
She cracked a teeny-tiny smile. Good.
“Now, this is how it goes down. Women aren’t allowed to ride the bike—I mean, to drive it. You can ride on the back when I’m there, but otherwise, you’re not supposed to fucking touch it. Those are the rules.”
“Glad to see this is a great, progressive, feminist society you’re bringing me into,” she retorted.
“Well, listen. Rules were made to be broken. Every single guy will deny it, but everyone lets their old ladies ride their bikes when no one else’s looking. That’s just how it is. You get to ride our toys, but we pretend it ain’t happening.”
Mercedes stared at me dumbfounded.
“That’s the dumbest thing in the world. Why not just change the rule if everyone’s breaking it?”
“Well, bikers aren’t much for philosophizing, honey,” I said with a shrug. “So, get over here, and I’ll teach you to ride.
“All right… Should I grab my helmet?”
“No. Helmets are for pussies. You’d get made fun of if you wore a helmet.”
“But I’m also not allowed to ride the bike in the first place, so who cares if I wear a helmet while I do it?”
I had to admit, she was raising good points. She disappeared upstairs and returned moments later with the helmet.
With me sitting on the back of the bike, practically on the rear fender, Mercedes mounted it, wrapping her dainty yet well-muscled legs around the steel beast.
“Good,” I whispered, holding her around the waist. I leaned forward and I could smell her—the scent of her hair, of her perfume. God, it would be so easy to run my hand down in between her legs, to bend her over and take her, gripping those perfect little tits as I rode the bitch hard…
“So, what do I do now?”
As we ran through the steps of bringing the chopper to life, how to accelerate, how to brake, how to turn and move with the bike as if you were an extension of it and the bike an extension of you, I found myself savoring her scent and feeling of her pressing against me, her ass practically on my crotch like a stripper, enjoying the way she adjusted her weight and struggled with the bike.
A flush was coming to her cheeks as she worked, as she fought with the beast.
“Don’t fight it,” I whispered in her ear, my lips mere inches from her skin. “Let the bike talk to you. Let it tell you what it wants.”
“I don’t care what it wants,” Mercedes scowled. “I care about what I want it to do.”
“Well, that’s not the way the bike’s going to respond,” I cautioned, teasing her, running my hands over her arms as I covered her hands with mine on the
I found her sitting at my tiny, rickety kitchen table, staring hard into her oatmeal.
“He killed my partner,” she said, finally. “The sting operation broke down at the last second and he killed Winston.”
I sighed and sat down across from her.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But he knew what he was getting into.”
She wasn’t crying. No, this girl was too hard to cry. She’d already lost her husband in war and now her partner in peace—how could you even make this girl cry?
Nothing I could do was ever going to break her. There was nothing worth doing.
“He did,” she said softly, her voice losing that hard edge it had maintained all morning. “He did. He knew.”
And then her smoldering eyes caught mine.
“You can fool and fuck around but so help me god, Viper, if you don’t take this seriously, I will execute you myself and tell Doug that Fatman did it. And you won’t be alive to tell your side of the story.”
“Fine,” I said, coldly. “But you need to play your part.”
“Then teach me.”
We ate breakfast, and then, after dressing, went out to the parking lot.
“This is my chopper,” I said, mounting my bike. “You may remember her from such rides as… Last night.”
She cracked a teeny-tiny smile. Good.
“Now, this is how it goes down. Women aren’t allowed to ride the bike—I mean, to drive it. You can ride on the back when I’m there, but otherwise, you’re not supposed to fucking touch it. Those are the rules.”
“Glad to see this is a great, progressive, feminist society you’re bringing me into,” she retorted.
“Well, listen. Rules were made to be broken. Every single guy will deny it, but everyone lets their old ladies ride their bikes when no one else’s looking. That’s just how it is. You get to ride our toys, but we pretend it ain’t happening.”
Mercedes stared at me dumbfounded.
“That’s the dumbest thing in the world. Why not just change the rule if everyone’s breaking it?”
“Well, bikers aren’t much for philosophizing, honey,” I said with a shrug. “So, get over here, and I’ll teach you to ride.
“All right… Should I grab my helmet?”
“No. Helmets are for pussies. You’d get made fun of if you wore a helmet.”
“But I’m also not allowed to ride the bike in the first place, so who cares if I wear a helmet while I do it?”
I had to admit, she was raising good points. She disappeared upstairs and returned moments later with the helmet.
With me sitting on the back of the bike, practically on the rear fender, Mercedes mounted it, wrapping her dainty yet well-muscled legs around the steel beast.
“Good,” I whispered, holding her around the waist. I leaned forward and I could smell her—the scent of her hair, of her perfume. God, it would be so easy to run my hand down in between her legs, to bend her over and take her, gripping those perfect little tits as I rode the bitch hard…
“So, what do I do now?”
As we ran through the steps of bringing the chopper to life, how to accelerate, how to brake, how to turn and move with the bike as if you were an extension of it and the bike an extension of you, I found myself savoring her scent and feeling of her pressing against me, her ass practically on my crotch like a stripper, enjoying the way she adjusted her weight and struggled with the bike.
A flush was coming to her cheeks as she worked, as she fought with the beast.
“Don’t fight it,” I whispered in her ear, my lips mere inches from her skin. “Let the bike talk to you. Let it tell you what it wants.”
“I don’t care what it wants,” Mercedes scowled. “I care about what I want it to do.”
“Well, that’s not the way the bike’s going to respond,” I cautioned, teasing her, running my hands over her arms as I covered her hands with mine on the
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