Page 1 of Savage King

The throaty roar of half a dozen bikes growled through the room, pulling his focus from the club bitch currently wiping the thick, white cum from her swollen mouth. Grunting, he stuffed his still half-hard cock back into his jeans and did them up, bending down to plant a quick kiss on Tammi’s cheek. She purred, her bright eyes hooded and hungry, which made him smirk. He was pretty sure he’d just filled her up. His cock was a monster at ten inches, and nearly as thick around as a human forearm. Though Tammi had given it her all, she—like all the other eager to please club bitches—couldn’t take all of him without needing the Heimlich or spinal traction. But, damn, they made up for it with enthusiasm.

“Thanks, sugar,” he drawled, feeling gracious enough to give a little praise where praise was due. Tammi was the best cocksucker in the club, which was why he’d even let her in his office in the first place. He’d been busy finishing up payments to club vendors when she’d knocked on the door. The clubhouse was usually empty save for one or two prospects during that time of the day, so he wasn’t expecting anyone. He called out for whoever it was to enter and Tammi popped her head through the door, her large rack following close behind, and then her tight little body bringing up the rear. Her ass was pretty spectacular, too, but he didn’t have the time for a full-on fuck, not with his brothers on their way in for Church. Thankfully, her pouty lips, painted a sinner’s red, had given him an idea, one she was more than willing to help him with.

As usual, she was staring up at him expectantly. With his long, white blonde hair, light blue eyes, braided beard, sharp features, and massive size, Odin looked like the modern-day fantasy of an ancient Viking warrior. And he liked it that way. And like all the club bitches, Tammi got wet on his look and was hopeful for a property kutte on her back with Property of Odin on it. Not going to fucking happen in this lifetime or the next. For any woman. Odin was a bachelor for life—no chick was going to tie him down when there was so much free, hot, welcoming pussy to explore.

A twinge in his chest brought him up short. Shit. Must’ve been the cherry pie he’d had for lunch because it wasn’t the fact that the thought of being a bachelor for life suddenly made him weary.

“Any time, Big O,” Tammi purred, rising to her feet from where she’d been kneeling at his. Where she belonged—even if she was skirting the line by being much too familiar with his road name.

“Tammi,” he gritted out, his post blow job high tipping toward the ass end of dissatisfying at her pout. “You know better.” He raised his hands and wrapped one around her neck, squeezing just enough to make her tense. No one played loose with his name, not even the men he ate dust with for ten years in the sandbox. And he would die and kill for those motherfuckers.

As president and founder of the Savage Raiders MC, Tammi—like all the other club bitches and hangers on—knew the score. And not just them; every single member of his brotherhood knew who the fuck he was, and they damn well treated him with the respect he deserved.

Or they found themselves ass naked, branded as a traitor, and left in the middle of the Nevada desert to live or die by their own deeds. Not that he had to do that in the last two years since he’d tightened up the rules and raised the bar on who could and could not prospect for the Raiders. In Las Vegas, everyone knew their name, recognized the emblem and rockers on their cuts, and they paid—money and homage—to the Savage Raiders—pigs, prostitutes, and politicians alike. The Raiders had earned their place in the city with the blood of their enemies and their drive to be the goddamn kings of all they surveyed.

Not a single motherfucker in Vegas dared to even look at them cross-eyed.

When people heard the thunder of their raiding party out for fun on the Strip, they stop, stared, and tipped their heads. He couldn’t count how many women flashed their tits at them as they passed in an attempt to catch the eye of him or one of his brothers, desperate to get an invite to one of their club parties or a ride on one of their cocks or bikes. On the regular, one led to the other.

Matter of fact, that’s how the club ended up with Tammi…and three of the six club bitches that came around when the sun set and the booze flowed.

“I’m sorry, Odin,” Tammi choked out, her face turning red. It wouldn’t take much to break Tammi’s neck. Like all the other club bitches, she was skinny, short, and could be bowled over with a stiff desert wind. Not a single one of the club bitches could take all of his massive cock, but they sure tried. Oftentimes he had to take his dick elsewhere for full servicing. Like the club-owned bordello, Sex & Candy. Those bitches were trained to take men of any size, and most of them salivated for a ride on his monster—free of charge, of course. Too bad none of them had what he really wanted, not that he even knew what the fuck that was. He just knew that no matter how many bitches he fucked or how many times he got off, there was still something missing.

And fuck if that wasn’t shitty as hell.

He loosened his hold on Tammi’s neck, leaning forward to pin her with his glare. At six foot ten, he was a giant compared to the petite yet busty Tammi. Matter of fact, all of him was giant. His voice, his shoulders, his chest, his legs, his arms, his cock, and his wallet. He was a big motherfucker. He was a beast, and he ruled like a king and fucked like a god, sending all the bitches who won a ride on his dick or face straight to heaven.

Odin, biggest, baddest of all gods, was a road name he earned in battle and in bed.

Something on his face must’ve scared Tammi because she trembled, her lipstick smeared lips turning into a pout. She probably thought it made her look sexy, but it didn’t. He backed away, suddenly too fucking tired to deal with her and her shit.

“Don’t let it fucking happen again. Just because we’ve fucked doesn’t mean I won’t strip you of your privileges and kick that skinny ass into the street.”

And he fucking meant it.

She placed her claw-tipped hands on his chest, her fingers sliding along the leather of his kutte, and nodded vigorously, suddenly overly eager to please.

“I’ll do whatever you say, Odin.” Tammi rubbed her tits against his chest. “Let me make it up to you later.”

The urge to roll his eyes brought him up short.

Usually, he loved the pandering, especially from the bitches that literally fought each other for the honor of being his ride for the night. But…right then, the thought of Tammi and another conversation overflowing with her coy murmurs and husky attempts at flirtation made his jaw tighten.

The sound of the main clubhouse door banging open echoed up the corridor and into his office.

“Beat it,” he commanded and she did as she was told, wiping the leftover lipstick from her lips as she went. On her way out the office door, she passed by Trouble, his VP, who didn’t even bother giving Tammi a look even though she was leering at him, probably hoping to ride his cock after Church.

“Busy mornin’?” Trouble asked, his ugly ass smirking as he dropped into a thick leather bound chair on the other side of Odin’s desk. “I can tell you I had one hell of a busy night—Rosa rode my cock like a carnival ride, then Daisy ate Rosa’s pu—”

“What the fuck do you want? Get your ass to Church.” Odin was not in the mood for anyone’s shit, most of all his most trusted officer and best friend. The man knew all the fucking buttons to push to get Odin worked up.

No one wanted Odin worked up. It never ended well for the button pusher.

Chuckling, Trouble jumped to his feet, all six feet eight of his body agile despite his massive size. Not nearly as big as Odin, the man was still formidable all on his own. And it didn’t hurt that he had saved Odin’s life once or twice in the Sandbox. So the asshole knew he could get away with more than any of the other brothers could. Like testing Odin’s motherfucking patience.

After locking his office door, Odin left the enclosed corridor where his office was located, and stepped through the archway leading to the massive concrete and steel loft hanging over the immense open space of the main club house. Once a fire station, the building had been cleaned up, retrofitted, and remodeled for club use. The loft boasted a 70-inch plasma TV, four black leather couches, two pool tables, and a smaller bar which was manned by a rotation of prospects. The main floor was filled with tables where the club members could eat, chill, or play card games, and when there was a club party, the tables were removed to allow for dancing or fucking, whichever the partier preferred. There were another two pool tables, four couches along the walls, a buffet where the club bitches put out the food for every meal. It was just before lunch so it was currently empty, but within the hour, it would be heaping with whatever meal Bonnie, the club’s one and only old lady, had planned for the day. The main club bar was against the back wall. Beside it was a jukebox which was really a top of the line sound system that pumped kickass music into the large room through speakers mounted throughout.

When Odin had bought the building ten years ago, it was a wreck, the municipality having lacked the money for upkeep or to even keep their fire/rescue force. Once the funds were gone, the building went up for sale, and Odin had bought it for a steal. Since then, he’d modernized it, loaded it with all the bells and whistles, including a media room, and a commercial grade kitchen, and added on a wing comprised of six bedroom suites for officers, a dormitory-slash-bunkhouse where the prospects were allowed to sleep, a garage to house officer bikes to keep them out of the scouring and biting desert wind, and a separate wing just for him. His own private luxury apartment that easily compared to the penthouse suites at any of the hotels on the Strip.

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