Ride Me Hard: A Biker Romance Serial (The Devil's Host Motorcycle Club Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

you—people like you. Hanging around the club, looking for…something. What are you looking for?”
    Chest to chest, his voice rumbles through me. I jerk against him, desperate for that friction, the bite of his zipper against my clit. Anything.
    “I don’t know.” I lie.
    Somewhere distant I hear a bang and realize it’s the front door caught in the wind. The door he kicked in is hanging from its hinges, and so am I.
    I bite his shoulder to keep myself from begging him to fuck me already. Or to let me fuck him. I struggle to break free—to do just that—but he squeezes me tighter. Pinches my ass with those greedy hands I’m so desperate for. It’s almost enough to tip me over the edge. “God, please—”
    “Whatever you’re running from? I’m not a way out. I’m a fucking self-destruct button.”
    “That’s exactly what I want.” I grind down harder—as hard as possible with what little leverage I can manage—and this time the friction is pain. A sharp bolt, flashing bright white behind my eyes and fading into something so bone-deep good I’d risk any hurt to feel it again and again. “Fuuuck. This apartment, this life? It’s not worth anything. We can tear it all down.”
    “We?” His sigh, heavy and tired, rolls over me. A different kind of bone-deep, like I’ve said the wrong thing. And it’s the same wrong thing he’s heard a hundred times before. He grips my shoulders and pushes me up.
    I watch his mouth while he talks, barely hearing the words as they trip over the disgusted sneer curling his lips. “You mean me. Usually I get paid to fuck shit up. We could work something out.”
    Somehow I’m smoothing over that snarl, tracing the edges of his mouth where softest skin meets scruff, willing it back to the stormy smile with the tips of my fingers. The smile that left me frightened and giddy. I want that one again.
    I don’t know if he hates what he thinks I want from him or if he hates who he is. But I know he hates something, and I can understand either way. Sometimes I’ve got so much hate inside me it’s a wonder there’s room for anything else. It’s an awful feeling, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. “Not like arson or vandalism. I don’t mean literally.”
    His eyes are flat mirrors as I study him. Reflecting nothing and everything. “I do. Did you forget why I’m here?”
    “No.” I lie again. Two lies in one morning and I think I’m only getting started. At least they’re transparent and utterly pointless. I’m not really lying, not really hiding anything, just preserving some false shred of modesty.
    I had forgotten why he was here, in town, in my apartment, in my bed. For hours while we slept. For long seconds while his fingers raked over my clit and that other spot deep inside me, the one that felt like a self-destruct button too, he existed only to make me feel. Each stroke dragged me closer to the abyss.
    God, I want him to touch me again, screw modesty. I grab his hands from their resting place on my thigh and pull them up to my breasts.
    “Look at you. One little taste and you don’t want to stop. Just say no to drugs, sweet girl. I could have you strung out and working the corner in a fucking heartbeat. Is that the kind of destruction you’re begging for?”
    Adrenaline spikes my bloodstream, the butterflies in my belly turning into bats that swoop and whirl and scream into the night. Because this is something I’ve thought about, many times. Not so much the drugs, because he’s right. One taste and I probably would be done for. That particular sweet tooth isn’t just a thread of family history; it’s rooted deep in my DNA from every side. But the other part…the part where I might take money for sex.
    I’ve been hungry and alone. There were times I felt so disconnected from my body that I thought it might not even matter who touched me. Fifteen minutes of tugging or grinding and… I shake my head. I get by. It’s what I do. The only thing