Page 17 of Biker's Collar: Property of Scrap

“You slapped me,” she says, as if saying it back to me will convince me that slapping her was a bad idea. And as if the slap wasn’t her fault entirely from being completely fucking impossible.

I was right about this woman’s audacity.

“You deserved it,” I sneer at her. “And you know that you deserve so much worse.”

Her face contorts with that impeccable hatred again and Vickie makes her situation ten times worse by spitting in my face. Her position on the ground stops the ball of spit from landing and it sputters up before landing in the dirt near her face. But the gesture is more than enough to piss me off. The outrage shuddering through me forces a pulse of energy through my dick, making Vickie squirm more.

“Pull some shit like that again and I’ll lock you in a dark basement for a week. With rats.”

I hope my basement doesn’t have rats, but I’m willing to find a few to put down there if that’s what it takes to keep Vickie’s ass in line.

“I hate you,” she snarls at me. “Just know that. I hated you from the second I saw you. I hated you in Vegas and I hate you right now.”

She knows it hurts me. She can see it on my face. That means this unbelievable woman is spewing this venom at me with the sole intention of hurting me.

“Good,” I snarl back at her, playing the game Vickie wants so damn badly. “It always feels so much better to cum in a woman’s mouth when you know she hates your guts.”

Vickie makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a scream again, but I respond to her last ditch effort at escape by slamming her back on the ground with the full force of my body.

“No,” I growl at her. “You stop this fighting, fussing and fucking around, or I promise that every night you’re with me will be your own personal hell.”

“I hate you,” she breathes desperately, but she doesn’t fight back against my grasp.

“You can hate me all you want,” I reply. “But you will obey.”

I release her palms and get up — mostly because it’s dark and just about time for us to get into the cabin. I reach down to help Vickie up. She wrinkles her nose at my hand like it’s covered in diarrhea, but she doesn’t have much of a choice if she doesn’t want to struggle to her feet. When our hands touch, I feel the same damn thing I felt in Vegas and I nearly want to let go.

But I have her. So I don’t. Vickie nearly falls over a couple times getting to her feet, but once she gets there, she has this strange elegance about her. Something you only see in black women. A way that they carry themselves that I’ve always been attracted to. I have always been smarter than my brothers — dealing with the women I deal with far away from the club.

But black women love bikers and Vickie, despite her protests, is no damn different. She came to bed with me willingly that night and I don’t know why the fuck she drugged me and ran away but… that doesn’t matter. She’s mine. My prisoner. My woman.

She says nothing once she’s on her feet, but she looks over my shoulder at the door to the cabin.

“Come on,” I tell her. “Let’s get us both a nice hot shower…”

I gesture for her to walk ahead of me not just so I can get a good view of her ass, but because I need a real solution for controlling this woman.

She won’t listen to my words but… what about a collar?

The dark thought enters my head and as I turn my old key into the cabin lock, it’s like it pushes the thought deeper into my head, making it stronger. What if I put her in a collar. Immediately marked her as mine. Made sure what happened in Vegas would never fucking happen again.

As long as we both shall live.

Nine

Vickie

Las Vegas, 5 Years Ago

Scrap’s Kitchen

“Iknow I’m a little tipsy and my brother paid you for the night,” Scrap says as he leans against his kitchen counter, facing me with that strangely handsome, angular face of his. “But… if you want to walk out that door, you can.”

The rental home kitchen relies on trendy LED lights to drown us in cold, white light. I understand places like this appeal to rich people but I would much rather live somewhere cozy and warm. It makes me feel better that Scrap looks a little uncomfortable too. Everything is just so white… so clean…

“Where would I go?” I ask him, scared to touch anything just in case I get foundation on it or somehow cause an expensive problem. He’s paying for a night with me and getting comfortable seems far out of the question. Scrap keeps looking at me with a mischievous glimmer in his eye. I saw him at the card tables.

He’s pure mischief. His tongue rolls out of his mouth as he looks at me, running over his surprising full lower lip.

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