Page 19 of Biker's Collar: Property of Scrap

And where the fuck did I pull that Texas answer from? I never gave Texas or escape much thought until now. But my sassy response makes me think it’s a damn good idea. My heart pounds as he stares at me. “I want to get to know you,” he says. “But… the one thing I can’t let you do is walk out of here without letting me taste you again.”

I want to stammer something sassy and clever, but nothing comes out. He appears to enjoy my momentary shyness. But I don’t. Any control I lose here could be fatal. I don’t want to end up back under Hakeem’s thumb.

My best chance of survival here is smiling and playing along, not getting caught up in an emotional game with some crazy biker who just lost the downpayment for a mansion in one night at the poker tables. He spells trouble and after all that whiskey, he smells like trouble too.

"Did you pay to taste me? I thought you would prefer the other way around..."

What the hell type of crazy response is that? The response jumps out of my mouth before I fully come to terms with what I'm saying. He just smiles at me like I'm the crazy one, but the thought of having this man's tongue between my legs means having far more vulnerability than I expected to have tonight.

If I'd been smart, I would have drugged him ten to fifteen minutes ago. But here he is, Vegas sober -- which means just drunk -- and clearly ready to unleash some sexual freakery on me. The only men I've been with did what they had to do in ninety seconds, smacking my ass lightly to get themselves over the edge at the absolute freakiest.

I had my own fantasies in the past but none of these fantasies involved an absolute stranger putting his face all up in my business. Especially not a stranger who looks like... this one.

"I'd prefer if you let what I wanted to happen without questioning it," he says. "Hop up on the kitchen counter and let it happen."

I stare at him, waiting for him to expose this as some kind of twisted joke.

"Come on, Vickie," he says. "What are you scared of? This is the city of sin, right? You must have had a man between your legs before."

I back away from him until my ass hits the counter. I was just trying to put distance between us, but the way I approach the counter appears almost obedient. My chest is thumping out of control, imperceptible to Scrap, but a chaotic twister in my chest. Everything I feel is confused. I want to push him away. But... I'm human. I've been without anyone's caring touch for a long time.

There's something I can't help but want that he offers, and the way he looks at me makes me think he would make it good. He certainly has a nice mouth. Soft, dusky rose lips. He isn't bad looking either. That's what made him such an appealing mark in the first place. He just keeps staring at me, making the confusing mixture of feelings worse. The desire for this man between my legs becomes a dark thought I urgently suppress.

I can't let him do that and if he does it... I can't enjoy it. If I want to survive this situation, I have to keep things strictly business.

"I'm not scared of anything," I respond, saying what I think this man wants to hear. I can get out of here alive without drugging him. Without anything but a little sex. What's the big deal? I can deal with a little bit of a racing heart and confusion for what... 90 seconds?

"What about the other men?" Owen asks, closing the distance between him so I would have to physically force my way past his large body to get space from him in the kitchen or to escape. He can't seriously want an answer to that question.

"You don't want to know that."

"I do," he says.

"I never had a guy go down on me," I answer him, feeling so uncomfortable that we've having this conversation instead of him just quietly doing what he came to do. The odd intimacy with this attractive stranger should feel way more dangerous. But here I am standing here with him... jumping headfirst into that danger.

Owen makes that worse by reaching out and touching my cheek with the back side of his palm. His hand is rough and hairy, most likely from working on his bikes and judging by where I found him, several other criminal activities.

"That's fucking crazy," he says. "The second I saw you, I wanted to know what your pussy tasted like. The older you get, the easier it is to tell just by looking at a woman how juicy her peach is..."

I open my mouth to question Owen's scientific theory but he interrupts my potential answer with his hand's continued examination of my face. His thumb enters my mouth and he slowly reaches inside my cheek with a firm, controlling exploration, never dropping eye contact. A shiver goes straight through me at the strangely dominating gesture.

He shudders as he exhales and my instincts probe me to close my lips around his finger.

"Fuck..." he whispers, slowly moving his finger around my cheek before removing it and then sucking my spit off his finger. "We're going to have fun, Veronica. Now hop your ass up on that counter or I'll put you there myself."

He's so close to me that his hips almost push me up against the counter completely. It's so easy to listen to him. So much easier than everything else. Owen looks at me so fiercely, like he's in complete control over the situation and it's just enough of an intense and dominating stare that I hike my ass up on the counter and allow my legs to dangle off the edge.

I'm not the shortest woman around, but I'm not Brittney Griner either. Once I sit on his counter, Owen spreads my legs and stands between them. I have to spread my legs wider to fit his tall, muscular body between my thick thighs. And then we're close... closer than I've ever been to a fine ass white boy.

It makes sense that this one is a degenerate. You don't find men who look like a more rugged Clark Kent chasing after women like me when they can sift through catalogs of 115 lb clones on Instagram. Nothing against the clones but... I've been in this body my whole life. I know how men typically treat women like me and it's not like this.

"You're too fucking fine to be in a club like that," he says. "I don't know how you got there but... if nobody ever told you, let me be the first."

He makes me oddly speechless, which I hate. I normally know exactly what to say. Always. I'm the loud one. The one who isn't submissive enough to be anything but the one who handles the girls and the money. Before tonight, nobody ever asked for me or looked twice at me. It's just a weird feeling.

Before I can come up with even the most basic ass statement, Owen leans forward and kisses me. When he pulls away, I have to fight my gut instinct to slap him. Why did he do that? And why was it so gentle? I have to stifle my strangely angry response. It doesn't feel normal. But nothing I feel with him is normal.

"Sorry," he murmurs, tucking a braid behind my ear. "I wanted to do that too."

---