Wild Like the Wind by Kristen Ashley
He smiled into her hair.
“Are you . . . ready to, uh . . . lose me?” she asked.
Never, he thought.
“I’m ready when you are, baby.”
She slid up, another agony, doing it slow, and he lost the heat of her but not for long.
She turned and climbed into his lap, legs open and rounding him, grasped his hair on either side and made out with him with his cum sliding out of her ass, getting all over his thighs.
When she was done, she kept her hands tight in his hair, her face so close all he could see was her eyes, and the look in them made the blood in his veins freeze.
“I broke the seal earlier, you know how, and I’ll break it again, right now, real quick. But you deserve it and it’s important so you’re going to get it but I was virgin back there, Shepherd. So that’s all yours. No one else has had that. It’s just yours.”
She was talking about bringing out Black.
And his brother never had that.
She gave it just to Hound.
When the blood started flowing through his veins, it did it racing, fiery hot and so fast it roared in his ears so he had no control over his actions. In fact, he wouldn’t even be aware of them until later. But in that moment, he surged up, carrying her wrapped around his hips to the bathroom. He dropped her ass to his basin, turned on the taps, wiped her clean, him clean, then carried her back.
He turned her and tossed her on his bed on her belly, shoved her deeper in using her hips, then pulled them up.
He entered the bed twisting to his back, slithering up. He then yanked her pussy down on his face and ate her.
He also fucked her again, her face and her cunt.
He was barely down from coming and she was still in the middle of it when he rolled her and smacked her ass, hard, twice.
Her body jerked, her head came up, and her pussy still wrapped around his dick clenched tight.
“Was I bad?” she asked.
“Don’t land shit on me like that without warning, woman.”
She grinned. “I take it you dug that news.”
He cracked her ass twice more and her eyes shot wide then got lazy when he was done.
“He liked it,” she muttered like she wasn’t talking to him.
He pulled her hair back in two hands but only roped the long length around one, holding it to the back of her head and curling the fingers of his other hand around the side of her neck.
“You’ll get this one warning, Keely, just this one, baby. You need to be a lot more careful, yeah?”
He knew she knew exactly what he was saying when something stole over her face, a look of surprise chased with a feminine satisfaction so profound, no way unless she worked him up to it again his cock could get hard, but witnessing that look, he wondered if that was true.
It was then Hound knew he wasn’t in too deep.
He was totally fucked.
And for some reason he wasn’t sure about but it pleased him the same as it made him uneasy, he knew she was glad about that.
“I hear you,” she said.
“You sure?” he asked.
She brushed her mouth against his. “I’m sure, Hound.”
“We done for tonight?” he asked, because he never thought he’d think it, but he needed a break.
“Fuck no. Cold chicken is awesome chicken.”
Her chicken couldn’t be bad unless it was coated in a layer of shit.
“And we haven’t eaten the brookies,” she finished.
“You’re gettin’ that shit,” he replied, unwinding his fist from her hair. “I’m recuperating.”
She gave him a sassy smile that was almost as much as a turn on as the other one.
“I can do that,” she said, beginning to slide him out.
His arm around her waist grew tight.
“And bring me a beer.”
“Beer and brookies?”
“Beer goes with everything.”
“Only in Hound’s world.”
He let his eyeballs dart side to side before he said, “Where you think you are, woman?”
That got him a beam.
Yep.
Totally.
Fucked.
She slid off.
Then she cleaned up.
Then she brought cold chicken, brookies and beer.
They ate it in his bed.
And before she left, they fucked again.
It was magnificent.
And he wasn’t just talking about the brookies.
The next afternoon, Hound lay on his back in his bed at the Compound where he’d connected to the Wi-Fi and downloaded a song to his phone.
He already had “Jeremy.”
Earphones in his ears, he listened to it four times, wondering how Keely, who got so much so soon and lost it so ugly, could go to school every day and deal with that kind of shit.
He then listened to “Use Me” four times.
And he had proof that Jean had not lost any of her mental faculties.
Even so, not knowing Keely, she hadn’t hit it right.
But listening to the words, he still took her point.
He was a man drowning and he knew that shit.
He also knew he didn’t care.
Jean worried.
His brothers would be seriously pissed at him. They shared women, but no old ladies, not ever.
Though back in the day, Chew had fucked one of Crank’s ex’s, that “ex” being legally untied after being legally tied, and Crank had lost his mind even though she was no longer his to claim.
The circumstances weren’t the same, but Chew had felt the displeasure of the rest of the brothers and Hound knew it bit deep. So deep Hound sometimes wondered if no one taking Chew’s back on that was one of the reasons he’d renounced the Club.
But this wasn’t that.
This was Keely.
And for his brothers, it would only be about Black.
He had shit to do with Club business, the mess they were in with Bounty, and there was Benito Valenzuela, who had been fucking with them for years and was not exactly behind the kidnap of Millie but he’d sent men out to freak her shit, they just took it too far (and got dead because of it, apparently Valenzuela wasn’t hip on his soldiers fucking up) but he was still responsible.
But Hound had spent months trying to get a lock on Valenzuela, who had disappeared (though his operation was still running smoothly, so they knew he wasn’t gone), or trying to find a way in to find him and use his unique way to stop him, or put the screws to one of his higher ups to unravel his organization from the inside out.
He just kept coming up empty.
He should be concentrating on that. All the old ladies had constant vigilance from brothers because the men were so tweaked about what happened to Millie, High and Tack most of all. High for obvious reasons. Tack because Cherry had been taken by an enemy years ago and nearly died of the stab wounds he’d inflicted. Tack didn’t mind making it clear those flashbacks were unwelcome and he wanted this business they’d been fucking around with for years done so they could all rest easy.
Hound needed to focus on something other than drowning in Keely.
On that thought, his phone went with a text.
It was from Keely.
Eight. I’m bringing Irish stew. The American kind without lamb but with big hunks of beef. Don’t tell the Irish and don’t have dinner because it sticks to your ribs. See ya later, cowboy.
Over stew he should tell her he was in too deep and it was time for him to deliver checks and look after her boys as they did their time as recruits and then beyond.
He knew he should do that just as he knew he wouldn’t.
And as the days went by with Keely in his bed during the nights, he had less and less in him to give a fuck.
They love you down deep to their souls and I’m grateful to you down deep to mine and it’s about time I said it.
Yup.
As the days went by, he had le
“No, serious,” Hound told Keely through her shouts of laughter.
“S-s-stop,” she said, putting her spoon in her bowl of stew and waving a hand at him.
They were on his shit couch like only Keely would sit to eat a bowl of stew and dumplings.
That was, Hound was in it normal, feet up on the scratched and chipped coffee table.
She was in it sideways, legs over his lap, ass to his hip, twisted a little so she was lightly leaning into him.
In other words, as close as they could get while eating stew.
“Bev didn’t tell me that,” she said when she finished laughing. “Only Hop would kidnap his woman in order to make her marry him.”
“She was pregnant with Nash. He wanted his ring on her finger when she pushed him out. After that shit went down with her fiancé getting her drilled with a few holes, she wasn’t hip on a big wedding, but she had it twisted in her head she wanted no wedding. Hop found a way around that and they got married in jeans in Vegas by a fake Liberace.”
She cracked up again at his last and he found himself relieved that him mentioning Hop’s wife, Lanie, got drilled with holes did not make her troubled at all.
She finished laughing, scooped up more of her kickass stew, but before she shoved it in her mouth, she said, “I hear she’s gorgeous. Lanie, that is.”
“She is. But I prefer Apache pussy.”
Her gaze shot to his, it got soft, his dick started to get hard, and she chewed, swallowed, leaned in and touched her mouth to his.
She barely pulled back before she purred, “I know you do, baby.”
He shook his head. She pulled away and he went after more stew.
“I hear Tabby had a boy,” she said quietly.
“Landon Kane,” he told her. “Named after Shy’s brother and obviously, Tack. He’s cute as shit. They call him Playboy because that kid is two months old and he’s already a total flirt. In other words, got a lot of his daddy in him.”
“Her old man, uh, Shy, is a flirt?” she asked.
“Was,” he answered. “Not anymore.”
She grinned, happy for Tabby having that.
“Too bad I never got the chance to see Tack flirt,” she remarked. “I can say straight up, when Bev told me he scraped Naomi off, we went out, bought a bottle of champagne and toasted that shit.”
Hound grinned at her but said, “Tack doesn’t flirt. He gets a bitch drunk, gives her so many orgasms she doesn’t know her ass from a hole in the ground, then he puts her in her car and she’s lost sight of him before she turns the ignition. Even did that to Cherry. But she proved she had staying power.”
“Cherry?”
“Tyra.”
“His new old lady.”
“They been hitched, I don’t know, seven, eight years, so not that new, babe.”
She nodded. “New to me.”
“Yeah,” he muttered.
“She sweet to him?” she whispered.
That meant a lot to her, that Tyra did Tack right.
And that meant a lot to Hound that Keely felt that way.
He looked her in the eye. “He loves her and doesn’t hide it. Loves her fierce, Keely. And she deserves that.”
“Good,” she replied.
It didn’t need to be said, they were talking Chaos.
So another line he should have drawn Keely had erased.
And Hound again couldn’t find it in him to give a fuck about it.
In fact, now they were into it and she was interested and laughing, he loved that she wanted to know about her family again.
Better, with Dutch in and Jagger going to follow him, that legacy was secure and she needed to be a part of it again, even if it was in little ways.
Bottom line, with her boys in, she had to stop drifting away.
“Dutch is doin’ good, baby. He’s committed, and the brothers all loved him before but he’s earning respect. They aren’t making it easy. Maybe to make sure Chill knows Dutch isn’t getting it easy because of his legacy, they’re a little harder on him. But he sucks it up. I knew he had it in him, but he’s even impressing me.”
He knew that was a risk, bringing that up, Dutch, his legacy, but she gave him no indication she had any issue with it.
“It isn’t like he hasn’t been in Chaos training since birth, babe,” she replied.
“True,” he muttered, going after more stew and hiding his relief she seemed cool he brought it up.
“Jagger heard about having to clean your place, he told me he’s rethinking recruiting,” she shared.
Hound chuckled, knowing even that wouldn’t hold Jag back. “Jag’s a lazy fuck unless it comes to charming some girl. He’s lucky Playboy has been taken or that’d be his Club name.”
“He’s pretty desperate to work with the brother called Joker. He says his builds are sick.”
Hound quit chewing his stew, swallowed and said, “Joker is a genius and it’s been noticed. Did you see that magazine spread?”
She nodded. “Bev showed me. That chopper you all were pictured around was freaking inspired. And his designs . . . I don’t know anything about that and it made me want one. Street safe but hotrod cool.”
He grinned at her. “Joker’d set you up. Not sure he’d paint any car pink though.”
She assumed an expression of fake ticked.
“Pink?” she asked with disgust.
“Okay, purple.”
She lifted her chin and her spoon filled with stew, “Purple is cool. Case in point, Prince, may he rest in peace,” she declared and shoved stew in her mouth.
“I’ll get Joke on that. Girlie car with purple cool.”
She rolled her eyes.
Hound memorized that.
And the feel of her legs over his thighs.
And the taste of her stew.
And the warmth in his gut that he had this shot to play at this, Keely his on his couch talking Chaos shit like she belonged to him. Like she was his old lady.
Maybe he’d been wrong.
Maybe he shouldn’t have fucked up his own head with those boundaries.
Maybe he should take what he was getting, having wanted it so bad for so long, and relish it while he had it.
“Want your beer, babe?” she asked.
“Yeah, Keekee,” he muttered, not thinking about it, giving her a name that was his, he’d heard no one call her, so it was theirs, and also focusing on his stew so he didn’t see the look on her face when he said it.
But he did feel her reach for his beer on the coffee table and was chewing when he took it from her and decided this was it.
For as long as it lasted, even if it was play, make believe in his head for a man who was far from a boy, he’d take it and get off on it.
It’d end soon enough.
But even after it did, he’d always have it.
And he knew all too well, that was a whole lot better than not having it at all.
You Deserve Better
“Did you get my texts today?”
Hound was ass to his couch.
Keely was in his kitchen cooking.
It had been near on three weeks since she gave him a version of her virginity then the next night her version of Irish stew. In that three weeks she’d cooked dinner for him every night, at first bringing it over like the chicken and the stew, and then he was lugging up her fancy-ass grocery bags because she cooked it in his shit kitchen.
Since he didn’t allow her to show until after eight, this meant they ate late.
But Keely was a great cook and Hound usually ate fast food, so he was good with waiting.
Keely wasn’t, she bitched about it all the time.
But she had him, all of him, no boundaries, and since he still gave that to Jean, she had to wait her turn.
“Babe,” was all he said about the fifty texts she’d sent him that day.
This was because they were pictures of furniture. Couches. Armchairs. Recliners. Dre
In other words, his thought was they didn’t need a reply.
Or a discussion.
His furniture was such crap he didn’t even remember where he got it. He just remembered he’d got none of it new.
But it had been established he lived in a shithole, so as much as he hated having Keely with him where she had to use it, it worked.
“Babe?” she queried.
“I’m not buying furniture,” he told the TV.
“Why not?” she asked the side of his head.
He looked to her at his stove. “Because anyone sees that shit delivered, the first time I took off, it’d be in this crib for about five minutes before someone lifted it.”
“You have three locks, Shep, and you’re you. Do you honestly think anyone is gonna break in here, ever?”
She got his Keekee, he’d earned her Shep.
His girlfriend in high school had called him Shep and that was the only person in his life he’d allowed to call him that shit.
Except Keely.
He didn’t tell her about his high school girlfriend though.
And he had to admit, that part of town, as rundown as his building was, it was a constant effort to kick tenants’ asses in line, but he never tired of giving it that effort, not because he gave a shit but because Jean lived there.
So he had a reputation and Keely was probably right.
He didn’t tell her that either.
“Not real hip on droppin’ a load on new furniture and finding out.”
“So get rental insurance,” she returned, looking back to the taco meat she was stirring on the stove, his apartment filled with that aroma, and he had to admit something else. That goodness in the air, a woman as beautiful as her cooking in his kitchen, his furniture didn’t fit the scene.
And it had rattled around in his head for the last couple of years that he needed to get quit of his mattresses. They sucked. He’d just never done anything about them.
“Keely, first, I don’t pay bullshit scam artists like insurance agents money to fuck me up the ass and second, even if they’re bullshit scam artists, not a one of ’em would ever give me a policy for a place in this ’hood. And if they did, it’d cost through the nose.”
“You don’t have insurance?” she asked.
“On my truck and bike, yeah. Otherwise, no.”