Ride Me Hard: A Biker Romance Serial (The Devil's Host Motorcycle Club Book 1) Read Online Free

this equation.”
    I wonder if what he wants factors in at all. I slip my hand below his belt buckle and skim my palm over the erection straining against his jeans. I know what he wants.
    He clamps a hand over mine, stilling it, and his breath fans hot against my ear. “You’re playing with matches.”
    “I’m playing with you.”
    And then his lips are on mine. He licks into my mouth like a brush fire, hot and crazy, and I can barely stay standing. Tongue and teeth and rough hands pushing up under my skirt. I’d spread for him right here in the driveway, let him burn me to the ground until I’m nothing but a smudge of ash on the pavement.
    The kiss doesn’t slow down or taper off; it just stops. He yanks back and leaves me reeling. “Now’s your chance, Star.”
    Dizzy, I touch my hand to my buzzing mouth like it might anchor me. “My what?”
    His eyes look darker, lust drunk and heavy-lidded. A lazy predator. He doesn’t smile. He bares his teeth.
    “Run.”
    Whatever that thing is that makes animals head for high ground an hour before an earthquake, I don’t have it. I don’t get out of danger early, ever. But my fight-or-flight response works on overdrive, finely honed by years of disasters. I stumble backward to get away before he’s finished curling his tongue into the n sound. I fucking run.
    But my feet and my back hurt, and the adrenaline from the incident with Officer Wade is wearing off. Was that really only half an hour ago? Not even. Doesn’t matter. I kick off my heels. The hose are ruined anyway. Ripped open in a way no amount of nail polish could ever fix. I’m pretty sure I’m ruined.
    My palms leave sweaty blotches on the trunk of my landlord’s ancient Caddy when I push off to dart toward my steps, and then my legs are out from under me. Two hot bolts zing from the heels of my hands up to my elbows. My palms take the brunt of the fall, which seems fitting since they’re to blame. A choked sound startles me, and I realize it’s coming from my throat. From me. I’m making this muffled keening noise and crying a little bit, and he hasn’t even moved.
    I’m crab crawling backward across the driveway, totally overwhelmed, operating completely on instinct, and Noah’s a damn statue. Just as cold. Just as beautiful.
    He ran. He can’t be trusted.
    Noah’s words from before tumble up to the surface of my churning thoughts, and I freeze. I don’t want to run away from him, even if I should. Even if he’s telling me to do just that. I already know he wants me, but I want him to trust me—to need me. That thought terrifies me, and I mentally revise my desires. Who could need me? I just want him to fuck me. That’s all.
    Maybe I don’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain. Maybe that’s why I’m waitressing in East Dead End and saving my money by shoving singles and fives into a Folgers can instead of a bank account. Maybe every awful thing anyone has ever said about me is true. Stupid girl. Fucking tramp. Lazy bitch.
    I don’t care. None of that matters or makes me…me. I’m exhausted, and Noah’s mouth on mine is better than ten cups of coffee.
    He crosses the driveway in a few long strides, bends over and scoops me up. “That was some half-assed running.”
    His voice is rough velvet, and I want to wrap it around me like a blanket. I press my face into his chest instead and hope he doesn’t care that my wet cheeks are soaking his leather. “My heart wasn’t in it.”
    “Anything else I tell you to do, you fucking do it.” It’s almost a plea, and I wonder for a second if, beneath his marble surface, he’s feeling half as desperate as I am.
    Desperate or not. Command or plea. Either way, I know he means it. And I mean it too when I nod in agreement. I’ll do anything he asks me to do except run away from him. Not because he’s good and kind and carrying me to the safety of my apartment. But because he’s none of those things and he’s doing it anyway.
    He