Page 25 of His Road Dog

She pursed her lips, looked out the window, and finally said, "Twenty-five years old, I think."

"You think?"

"No birth certificate, so I can't swear on my life." She flashed him a grin. "My parents have changed the date a few times over the years, but that's pretty close to my true age, I believe."

"You lived in a cult?" He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. "A nudist camp?"

"A commune." She laughed. "I'm not that weird, am I?"

"How did that happen?" Honestly curious about the tale she weaved, he wanted to know more about her.

"A bunch of friends pretty much took over an unincorporated area during the sixties and grew a community. From what I've been told, my parents were at some party, fell in love with the idea of like-minded people starting their own society away from the government's eyes, and helped create what I know as home. They were all about protests, screw the big guy, and peace and harmony when I was little, but times have changed. They like the seclusion and quiet."

He grunted. "I thought those were a thing of the past. Hippies grew up, got jobs, and relied on money to raise their family."

"Some do. My parents and the older generation didn't. Well, not much, anyway." She walked around the counter. "I wasn't made for that kind of life and don't plan on moving back."

"Do you see your parents still?"

"I go back every couple of years, but mostly we write." She stepped between his spread thighs and looped her arms around his neck. "I want more out of life than my parents wanted, but they're good people. The best people. Everything good in life, I learned from them, and I'll always be grateful for how I grew up and the freedom I was given. But I like grocery stores, shopping, and electricity."

Her life had been the opposite of what he'd experienced. The beatings. The rules. The fact that it was written on paper that he was never wanted. He had no family, nobody he owed loyalty to.

He could hate her for what she'd had.

His past hardened him for what he'd become.

He'd stepped into the role of president of Tarkio Motorcycle Club, not because someone pushed him into accepting the position. He'd fought, killed, and proven himself responsible for three hundred men, and he'd get rid of anyone who stepped in his way.

He gripped her hips and brought her forward. "Let's go to the couch."

She gathered his hand and pulled him into the other room. Hearing about her life stole his good mood. He wasn't here to lollygag around.

Nicole cuddled up against his side. He stretched his legs out. The pressure put on him as the leader of Tarkio came back with a vengeance.

He unbuckled his belt, shoved his jeans down below his hips, and took out his cock. The only relief he got nowadays came when he was getting his nut. The older he got, the more he had to push to lose that responsibility from weighing him down, even for a few minutes.

He wrapped his fingers around Nicole's wrist and put her hand on his limp dick. "Get me hard."

"We just had sex before we got up." She stroked him. "And all night."

"If you're tired, get out. I can find another woman to get me off."

Her hand stilled. "I didn't mean anything by my comment."

Her sweetness, especially while his mood soured, frustrated him. He had no part of his life that was tender enough for her.

His world was rough, dangerous, and temporary. He lived each day, taking what he wanted because the bad could take it all away in a split second.

He rotated his shoulder. His dick was still limp. "Get on with it."

Her hand left his cock. She stood from the couch.

"Get back here," he said.

She walked behind the couch. "Find another woman to treat that way, Michael."

He waited, seeing if she would come back to him, and a door shut deeper in the house. Women were free for the picking at the clubhouse and came to him willingly, without needing pampered. He stood, fastened his jeans, and walked out the front door.

There was no reason to hang around the house today.

If he stayed, he could end up hurting Nicole.

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