Biker’s Collar: Property of Scrap (Rebel Barbarians MC #6)

Chapter 9 – Vickie

Nine

Vickie

Las Vegas, 5 Years Ago

Scrap’s Kitchen

“ I know 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.

“I don’t know, Veronica. Where do you want to go? Or did you always want to end up in Vegas?”

He doesn’t care. No way he genuinely cares about that, right?

Scrap smiles at me and it gives me the feeling I used to get on first dates before I had enough bad first dates for my go-to “first date feeling” to be utter dread. First dates I went on while writing love letters to someone I should have never let get into my head or under my skin.

I try to tell Scrap something close to the truth. I shrug and play it off like I’m some overly romanticized falling angel and not just a woman who made a mistake.

“I definitely didn’t want to end up here. I just… got into a bad relationship.”

I try to make it sound old Hollywood, but I think I still sound embarrassed. Which would explain how I feel about ending up here. He doesn’t say anything stupid or corny. Scrap just nods with strange understanding. “I know the feeling of a bad relationship. If you could go anywhere else in the country, where would you go?”

Insecurity throbs in my chest again. He doesn’t care about that.

“You don’t have to ask me all those questions before we fool around.”

“I want to know,” he says. “And I don’t care if we fool around as long as we drink and get to know each other.”

He reaches for an expensive looking bottle of whiskey. I don’t drink much and the thought of losing my head doesn’t exactly make me feel good but…

“Would you feel better sober?”

“A little.”

“Do you mind if I drink?”

This night just keeps working out in my favor. “Not at all.”

I watch him crack open the bottle of whiskey and wildly pour about four ounces down his throat. Four shots at once. This man can drink just as hard as he gambles. I feel like I should be doing something, but before my awkwardness turns into full blown panic, he sets the whiskey bottle down and says, “Come here.”

Considering I’ve never been in this situation before, it’s better if he tells me what to do. I close the distance between us, feeling strangely self conscious of my club floor uniform and how basic it looks. He wants me in my basic ass work clothes. I shouldn’t overthink it.

“I need you to answer my question,” he says when I’m close enough. “Anywhere in the country. Where would you go?”

“I guess Texas.”

He laughs. “Texas? Why the fuck do you want to go to Texas?”

“Everything’s bigger in Texas,” I reply. “Duh.”

“Hm,” he says. “Not everything. They don’t make country boys as big as me out there.”

“I’ll let you know when I make it out there.”

“Is that where you’re gonna run off to?”

“Why would I tell you that?”

“Because,” he says. “I’m letting you go. Stealing you from Hakeem.”

“Yeah. And I don’t know why.”

“Because,” he says, his eyes roaming over me in a way that makes me feel so uncomfortably vulnerable. “I like how you look. I like how you act. I don’t know how the fuck you got here but… you clearly don’t belong in Vegas.”

“But I belong in your bed?”

“That remains to be seen,” he says. “I like to taste a woman before I enter her…”

He maintains eye contact with me as he makes the shockingly sexual statement, reminding me that lurking beneath whatever genteel he shows me, there is an animal inside Scrap. An animal that paid to have me for the night. An animal that I might have to drug and rob if I want to escape with my life.

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."

My nervousness now is because any contact with my hair makes me concerned he'll discover my secret and change the course of our night together. I'll have to be a lot more careful if he makes another move for my head. But he doesn't. He touches my thighs, running his hands over my thick flesh before he drops to his knees.

He's serious about getting on his knees for me. The look on my face as he gets on his knees must be... confusion. Something not very sexy. He doesn't seem bothered. I can't imagine my nervous tension is very sexy, but Owen just kisses the tops of my thighs and once he covers the tops of my thighs in kisses and warm tingling spreads through me, he gets to the true work of the night -- peeling my sticky leggings away from my thighs after a shift. Getting my pants over my ass in general usually proves to be a massive struggle.

One that Owen doesn't seem to mind. He lifts me up like I'm nothing and before I can react to help him out, he slides the pants fast over my ass and my butt hits the cold countertops. I suck in air sharply and steady myself on his shoulders so I don't fall off the counter. I'm too distracted by how broad and muscular his shoulders feel beneath my hands to stop him from getting the rest of my leggings off.

I'm one of those women who has the unpopular opinion that thongs are the most comfortable form of underwear. That doesn't mean I relish the sensation of a juiced up thong after a shift of working the poker tables. I nervously make a half-assed effort to squeeze my thighs shut, like that has a chance of stopping Owen from taking my thong off.

I can't tell if I'm wet from sweat, arousal, or just the thong sticking between my folds, but I feel nervous about having a man all up in my business while I'm this... unclean. Owen runs his hands along my bare thighs from his position on his knees and then he touches the front of my thong and exhales slowly.

"How long have those sweet ass lips been getting warm for me?" he whispers as if my pussy could talk to him directly. I shift my ass back on the counter and inadvertently make it easier for Owen to grab hold of my thong and make his best efforts to rip it away from my wetness. He gets it over my thighs and then the sopping pair of underwear falls to the floor.

I just met this man and I have my bare ass and pussy on his countertops.

The worst part about it is... I'm wetter than I've ever been in my life and I actually want his tongue between my legs. This isn't how you treat a mark. Owen taps on my thighs, sensing me closing off as I gently squeeze them shut.

"Open up," he murmurs. "I know your sexy ass pussy tastes as good as it smells..."