Smex Scene Sunday

Hero: Max . MC president. Mutiny left him half dead and a burning need for revenge

Heroine: Joan. Con artist, Will do whatever it takes to save her sister from a dangerous cult leader.

Can two shattered souls survive their road of redemption?

He grinned at me while I danced. Smirked, really. Those lips twisted in his beard. His blue eyes burned right through me. I know you, his expression told me. I know every dirty inch of you. I know the shit you’ve done and the shit you’re going to do and I will fuck you till you cease to care. I will punish you, so you can stop punishing yourself.

The music ended and I walked off the stage, and I expected him to come tearing back to the dressing room. I was shaking and wet and wanted him to bend me over the makeup table and make good on the promise his eyes had been making me.

Punish me. Because I can’t keep doing this on my own.

But he never came back there.

And when I went back out to give some half-assed lap dances and serve drinks, he was gone.

After that, I’d known the second he walked into the club. I’d feel his gaze, weightier and sharper than the gaze of other men. It had taken me a long time to get used to it. To stop hating it. Because it had felt like he was looking right into me. Right into my head.

A few days of that and I’d fingered myself raw. Found every woman in the place who’d been eyeballing me and fucked them raw.

Nothing seemed to help.

He never asked for a private dance, a trip into that back room, and I’d told myself I was glad.

But I was lying. Because after he’d vanished, I’d missed it. That all-seeing, blue-eyed gaze. I craved it. Craved him.

Yeah, yeah, I know.

Like I needed an affair with the dangerous president of a motorcycle club on top of everything else. But drama is kind of my thing. It’s status quo.
And now he was here. Tonight. And the fact that his hand was practically burning a hole through my hoodie made me want to drag him back into that private room down the hall and fuck the stress tears right out of myself.

Frankly, the solid weight of his hand, the scent of his body—cigarettes and leather and something remarkably clean beneath that—made me want to tell him everything.