Sweet Sin: A Wild Hawks MC Romance Read online

  SWEET SIN

  A Wild Hawks MC Romance

  Copyright © 2020 K.S. Ellis

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 9798675192168

  Imprint: Independently published

  For Cameron

  Who always believed in me

  Contents

  SWEET SIN

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Books In This Series

  Chapter 1

  LENA

  Why the hell am I even here? I frown, running a hand over the A line skirt of my modest baby blue dress for about the hundredth time. Cory doesn't give two hoots about me, and yet, here I am, ready to sell my body and soul to some godforsaken biker gang just to bail him out of god knows what nonsense. I was all for letting my good for nothing, piece of crap, stepbrother wallow in whatever hell he had managed to get himself into, but the cocksucker, after I turned him down flat, I might add, the cocksucker went behind my back and whined to my darn momma that he had gotten into a tiny bit of trouble and I was the only one who could help him out. Of course my momma took his side. Of course she did. After all, he's the golden boy and I'm just some decorative woman, who's good for absolutely nothing apparently, except for bailing him out of crap he deserves to have crashing down on him.

  To be fair to my momma, he didn't exactly tell her that all I needed to do was become a sex slave for an outlaw biker gang. No, because why tell her the gosh darn truth? My momma thinks that I have to be an au pair for some family in Los Angeles, hours away, so I won't know when I'll be able to get back and see her. Cory knows that she would never go into San Remo for anything, not with all the crime and outlaw biker gangs and all that other crap that makes her clutch her darn pearls and shiver like a southern belle hearing a man swear for the first time.

  I shudder and swallow down the bile that is rising in my throat. I wish I was anywhere else. I wish that I could have told Cory where to shove it when he told me that he needed me to do this. Glaring at the back of his head, his expensive clothes stand out here, as no doubt mine do too. There is only one person who could make me do something this horrible, and he has. Cory knows exactly where my pressure point is, and he pushed down on it. Hard.

  So now, not only am I standing behind Cory in some dirty, disgusting, smelly parking garage in the middle of downtown San Remo, I'm doing it in a darn tea dress, with my hair coiffed and primped, and wearing a strand of damn pearls. I have a small suitcase full to the brim of identically prim, proper, and modest clothes. I managed to sneak in two pairs of jeans and some tee shirts without my momma noticing, but that's about it. And, like any good southern girl in her twenties, all my underwear is actually lingerie that is all lace and matching, garter belts and at least two corsets. Apparently a good southern girl is always prepared, and never caught out in baggy granny panties. I think my momma is secretly hoping that I meet some rich man in LA and, gosh darn it, my lingerie is what is going to snag him? All I can think is that some disgusting biker is going to get off on me in my matching lingerie and, darn it, think that I've packed it for him!

  'Lena,' Cory snaps at me, not even bothering to turn and look, 'stop fidgeting.' Like I'm two years old. He really needs to remember that I'm about to be some biker slut because he's a crappy human being. I blink back the tears that threaten to spill over my cheeks. Mainly because I don't want him to give him the satisfaction of knowing how upset I am about all this, but also because my make up looks fucking amazing, and I'll be damned if that's going to be ruined. Cory has no idea just how long it takes to get the perfect winged liner. I spent hours this morning on my hair and makeup, while my momma flitted around me, letting me know just how it could be improved.

  I have to make the best first impression I can. I'm not sure how dressing like a southern belle when I'm born and bred in California is supposed to do that, but my momma is from Louisiana, and she raised me like I'm southern, damn it. Throwing a scowl at the back of Cory's blonde head, I flip him off, but my hand drops and my heart leaps into my mouth when I hear the roar of what sounds like one hundred motorcycles racing their way up the levels of this godforsaken parking garage. There are some suspicious, dark stains on the ground that I try very hard not to look at, and very, very hard not to think about, a slight shudder running through me.

  The slight shudder is rapidly turning into uncontrollable shivers. I mustn’t hurl. That would make my tears spill over and ruin my makeup. I can’t think about what is going to happen. I have to focus on right now or I’ll fall apart. I concentrate on my breathing, in through my nose, out through my mouth. If I just focus on this, then my rapidly beating heart might calm.

  While I'm trying to get my heart to slow down, Cory's having his own little crisis, because I'm pretty sure he's trying not to wet himself. I can tell as much by the way he tenses up as, one by one, the roaring engines fade to silence, and a bunch of leather clad, tattooed, bearded men climb off their motorcycles in the middle of the parking garage level and stalk towards us, spread out like an advancing army. They even look a little bit like an army. Not in the conventional sense, but they all have a "uniform" on, and the way they move around each other, like they're aware of each man and his position. Yeah. Definitely like an army.

  An army that is here to take me away from my life and force me into a life of sexual servitude. No, the panic rises again and I hide behind Cory, quivering in my kitten heels. I didn’t have a chance to count how many of them there were, but there are enough of them to terrify me.

  No doubt they have more men outside on the road, just in case this was Cory double crossing them or something. Yeah, I watch crime shows. I know shit. I might look like a moustache twirling villain's wet dream, but I'm not an idiot. Well, not entirely an idiot. After all, I did manage to get into this damn situation, so I'm clearly not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Darn it, stupid Cory. I wanted a hell of a lot more out of life than to be some criminal's sex slave. I hope that one day, he feels bad about it. But I doubt it, I've yet to meet anyone more self-entitled than Cory Christopher Channing. Yeah. His momma liked the letter "C" a little too much. A smirk quirks at my lips as I think about another C-word that might describe Cory perfectly. Not that I would articulate it. I'm a lady. In a tea
dress. In a parking garage. Being sold as a sex slave. Damn it, stupid Cory! My heart starts beating fast again.

  I take a small peek around Cory's stiff shoulders and then shrink back in confusion and surprise. They aren't all old and gross. Shocker. The one right in the middle, he looks like he's in charge (because army, right?), but he's very young. Probably only thirty or so. Still looks scary as hell though, in his dark jeans, black boots, leather biker vest and leather jacket and a scowl that could curdle milk as he looks Cory over.

  Chapter 2

  ARIC

  That weasely fucker, Cory Channing, with his ruffled blonde hair and fucking alliterated name is standing there alone, in the middle of the parking garage, on an otherwise empty level. I crack my knuckles menacingly and his milky white face pales even further, if that's even fucking possible. Looks like a fucking momma's boy with his straw colored hair, and his preppy clothes. To be honest, when Bruiser said that this was where we were meeting him for the hand off, I wondered if he'd even show. Not because he has the fucking guts to try to skip town, but because the preppy fucker might not know where the fuck it was.

  Cory Channing might have something of a gambling problem. Not that it would normally be a fucking issue. After all, one of our less than lawful businesses is an illegal poker ring that we run out of various legitimate businesses around town that we own, including a nightclub, a strip club, a tattoo parlor, and an auto garage. Normally wet suckers like him are our bread and butter at those things, since we have men at the tables. Men who know how to fucking play poker. Criminals like us, we naturally have a really fucking good poker face. Just ask the cops. We take these stupid suckers for everything they fucking have in their pockets, and then when they cash their pay check they come back again the very next week to hand it all over. Stupid fuckers. Chasing a fucking high that's never going to fucking hang around for longer than a fucking night.

  Occasionally, one fucking idiot, in this instance, Cory fucking Channing, gets in over his head and keeps betting even though there is no pay check waiting for him to cash to pay up what he owes. When that happens, Bruiser, our very aptly named enforcer, pays them a little visit and they usually manage to scrounge up the cash, and then they know they aren't to show their face again in any of our businesses, legitimate or otherwise, for at least six months. Not only did this preppy fuck in fucking boat shoes not manage to scrounge up the cash, somehow he talked his way into another one of the games and ended up owing even fucking more. Not going to lie, the stupid fucks who let him in were on the Prez's shit list for that one. He made the fuckers ride all the way to Mexico for some shitty, low paying job, just to teach them a fucking lesson.

  Bruiser tracked him down and went to work him over when the fucking sop blurted out that he had a non-monetary way to pay off his debts. Now Bruiser didn't think that a whiny little momma's boy like him would be able to offer anything to benefit the club. After all, we had hang-arounds, hoping to become prospects who did all our grunt work, and we had groupies to take care of anything else. No brother, as far as I am aware, is into wet looking men, so he was shit out of luck. Two broken ribs later, he admitted to Bruiser that he had a stepsister, and that she owed him one, and that the club could just fucking take her, as a sex slave or some shit. Fucking messed up family right there. And my Dad is the President of a fucking one percenter motorcycle club, so I know all about messed up families. But we're not that fucking messed up. Fucking rich pricks.

  Just for that suggestion, Bruiser had left him with some loose teeth. But he had duly taken the suggestion back to my father, our president. And if there is anything Holton Shaw likes, it's an intriguing offer. Showing forethought I hadn't thought the man capable of, Bruiser had even gotten a picture of the woman from Cory, and Holton had laughed and said that there was no way he was risking his old lady's wrath by taking that piece of ass home. Then his eyes landed on me at the table and I swear his grin got even bigger, like that was fucking possible.

  'But I'm sure our VP could use a piece of ass like this tied to his fucking bed,' he had bellowed, laughing. And just like that I'm here with thirty men to pick up my sex slave. She probably looks like the back end of a cow. Would be right up my fucking father's sense of humor.

  Now it seems like this fucker is about to die, because he's here alone. Now, I'm not fussed whether I get some sex slave or not, but pulling that kind of fast one is an insult to my father, to me, and to the whole Wild Hawks Motorcycle Club, and anyone who dares that kind of disrespect has to die a slow and gruesome death, just to send a message. And I have to do it. Can't rely on Bruiser for that shit, otherwise I look weak. And if I look weak, my father looks weak for convincing the club that I was a suitable successor and the right man to be Vice President. Fucking Cory Channing, making my life even fucking harder. Just for that, I may enjoy killing the cunt.

  'Probably not smart to come alone,' Bruiser's ominous tone rings out, and Cory's eyes widen and he swallows roughly before taking a step aside and revealing the woman we are all here for.

  A murmur goes through all the men, perhaps even a snicker or two, but it's all fucking background noise to me. She is a fucking vision. I find myself blinking and staring at her like an idiot, my jaw is probably hanging slackly, but I find it really hard to fucking care right now. My brain doesn't even know which part of what's standing in front of me to process first.

  She has honey blonde hair. And it's fucking done up on top of her head like she's going to a fucking fancy ball or some shit. Her pale skin has a hint of a tan, as though she goes for long walks in the sun or something, that's what rich women do, right? With their weird ass little umbrellas that can't get wet or they fall apart. Stupid fucking idea for an umbrella that doesn't even work as an umbrella, but rich people spend their money on some fucked up shit. Underneath her fucking classy makeup she probably has some cute freckles. Her green eyes are wide and definitely scared, yeah, I can see a flicker of fear going through them as she takes us all in. Pretty pink lips that I suddenly can't wait to see wrapped around my cock are pressed together and she's wearing a fucking pearl necklace. Some serious Gone With the Wind shit going on here.

  Her blue dress wouldn't be out of place on the fucking Queen of England, and she's wearing white heels. Probably the most impractical fucking shoes known to man. Honestly, looking at her I have two simultaneous thoughts. Firstly, that I'm surprised she's not also wearing little white gloves, and secondly, that I want her on her knees, looking exactly like she does now, begging me to fuck her. Christ, she's one of the most stunning women I've ever fucking seen. I owe my father the most expensive Scotch known to man. Seriously. I owe the man one. He's fucking looking out for my cock in all this shit.

  'This is Lena,' Cory awkwardly breaks the silence, which also breaks the staring match between me and the southern goddess looking so fucking out of place in the middle of an empty parking garage in Southern California. 'Lena Allman,' he clarifies. He places a hand on her shoulder to propel her forward, and she turns and gives him a fucking death glare, and shrugs his hand off her shoulder like she can't bear to be touched by him. I press my lips together to stifle a grin at that. So little miss prim and proper has some spirit in her. Good. I like that in a woman. Also going to make this slightly less rape-y, if I'm being honest. I've never gotten my rocks off on taking women who didn't want it. Fuck Cory, and fuck my father actually, for making me do this.

  Bruiser walks over and collects her small suitcase, indicating with a jerk of his head for her to leave her stepbrother's side and come over to us. For one moment, looking into Bruiser's eyes, she shrinks back, but then she takes a fucking deep breath. She squares her shoulders, raises her chin and starts walking towards us like she is the fucking Queen of England. Cory smirks at her as she passes him and my fingers are fucking itching to wipe that fucking look off his face.

  'Thanks sis,' he grins evilly, 'I owe you one.' Without even breaking her stride she reaches over and slaps her hand across his cheek, maki
ng a fucking satisfying crack that echoes around the empty concrete space. I feel a grin breaking through my lips, yeah, she's definitely got spirit, and I have to say, I enjoyed that fucking moment. I fucking enjoyed it a lot. Cory looks fucking shocked. Not as shocked as he's going to look once we're done here though. Once Lena Allman is standing beside me, I pull out my gun and point it straight at Cory. I can hear her suck in a breath, but I ignore it. If she's going to be living in our clubhouse, she's going to see worse than this. She can damn well get used to it.

  'You don't come near any of our fucking businesses for at least a year,' I tell Cory. I can see the whites of his eyes very clearly, and at the last possible minute, I drop my weapon while pulling the trigger, so that the bullet hits him innocently in the left foot. He drops like I've just done a fucking head shot, howling like he's dying. Bruiser kicks him in the ribs with his booted foot.

  'Get the fuck out of here, and not a word at the hospital, or you'll be getting another fucking visit.' Cory whimpers, tears sliding down his pale cheeks. Fucking pussy ass cunt.

  I turn, ready to usher my little Southern belle out to our rigs when I catch her grinning at the sight of her stepbrother crumpled on the dirty floor, shot and bleeding. Then she fucking waves cheerily at him, before turning to follow me out. As soon as her eyes meet mine the fear is back in them, all glee at Cory's misfortune gone. Still, it felt fucking good to see that she enjoyed that. Maybe she will be an okay fit at the clubhouse after all.

  Bruiser has already strapped her suitcase to the back of his ride, and I grab the spare helmet I had hooked onto my rig as Lena and I come to a stop beside mine. She takes it from me, weighing it in her hands, and I realize that she has no fucking clue, probably never been on a motorcycle before. Sighing, I reach over and pluck the helmet back from her dainty little hands and set in on her head. Fuck knows why, but I’m even careful not to mess up her pretty little hairdo. When I buckle the strap underneath her chin, the backs of my fingers brush against the super fucking soft skin there and her breath hitches, which has my cock hardening faster than a fucking lap dance could. A faint blush tinges her cheeks, and I have to bite back a smirk.