Page 13 of Clay

“Six of the best,” Clay says, delivering another five quick and hard spanks to my cheeks, each one as accurate and sharp as the previous. “And remember to say thank you, Daddy.”

“T-t-t-thank you, Daddy,” I say, the last of the spanks making my left buttock wobble for what feels like an eternity. “Damn. Damn. Damn. I… missed that feeling.”

“Stand up, come to Daddy,” Clay says, his voice full of lust as he watches me follow his instructions, my red butt like a shiny apple amongst the greenery around us.

I close the distance, and soon enough we’re right in one another’s space.

Our lips crash together, hot and desperate, and it’s like the diner kiss but more—wilder, deeper. He pushes his tongue into my mouth, his hands sliding to my hips, yanking me against him. I can feel every inch of him—hard, insistent, wanting—and it lights me up, a fire spreading fast.

I’m hard. And I feel it on Clay too, his big, thick cock pressing up against me. I want him. I want…it.

My back hits the bike, the heat from the metal making me gasp, his mouth trailing down my neck, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp. My fingers dig into his shoulders, tugging at his shirt, needing more, and he obliges, hands slipping under my sweater, rough palms skimming my bare skin.

It’s fast, messy, all heat and need, and I’m lost in it—lost in him, in the way he makes me feel like nothing else matters.

“Let me please you,” I say, my submissive streak kicking in as I feel Clay’s thick, hard cock pressed up against my leg. “I want to get on my knees for you, Daddy. Just like I used to.”

Clay grunts and steps back from me. It’s like we’re back in the groove once more as I fall to my knees and watch him unzip his trousers and pull them down over his powerful thighs.

Moments later, Clay’s hard, long, and thick cock is bobbing freely in the air, and my wet mouth is locking onto it. The tip at first, then the width of the head, and then all the way down to the base.

I know what Clay likes, and it’s what I like to.

Soon enough, Clay is gripping my hair and working his cock in time with my sucks and slurps, and I can reach underneath to feel his heavy balls as they tighten ahead of his climax.

“Fuck. Jesus, Dylan,’ Reece groans in pure carnal pleasure as my tongue flicks and swirls and pushes him beyond the point of no return. “Make yourself cum too. Fucking do it.”

I don’t need telling twice and grip my cock with my spare hand and bring myself off hard and fast, my rock-hard manhood needing little stimulation to cum in synchronicity with Clay as we both shoot our loads.

As I feel Clay’s hot seed blast inside my mouth, wave after wave of it, I feel every inch the submissive biker boy to my possessive motorcycle club Daddy - and I like it so much that I know I’m going to need it more and more, no matter what danger that might bring…

Chapter 6

Clay

The Harley’s engine growls low as I ease to a stop outside Dylan’s cottage, the gravel crunching under my tires and the feeling of handling such a powerful steed never growing old.

The forest ride still burns through me—Dylan’s hands gripping my waist, his lips hot against mine, the way he surrendered to the heat between us like no time had passed.

I kill the engine, the sudden quiet ringing in my ears, and he slides off the bike, his legs wobbling just a touch as he steadies himself. His dark hair’s tangled from the wind, his cheeks pink with that post-ride glow, and those hazel eyes catch mine with a spark that hits me square in the chest.

Dylan’s gorgeous—always has been—but right now, he’s something more, something raw and untamed that I can’t tear my eyes from.

The boy steps closer, his fingers brushing my arm, and I lean down, drawn in like a moth to a flame.

Our lips meet, soft and slow, a kiss that’s less about fire and more about feeling—a quiet ache that lingers as he pulls back. Dylan’s smile is small, almost shy, and it twists me up inside. Heturns toward his house, hips swaying just enough to make my throat tighten, and I watch him go, the screen door creaking as he steps inside.

I grip the handlebars hard, fighting the urge to chase him, to kick that door open and lose myself in him again.

But I don’t.

Not yet…

Dylan. Christ, I want him more than ever.

More than I did at twenty-one, when I was young and dumb and thought I could give him everything. Prison stole three years from me—locked me in a box, cut me off from the sun, from him—but he’s still the same boy I loved. The one who’d tease me over burnt toast in my shitty trailer kitchen, who’d climb on my bike with a grin and no questions, who’d curl up against me under the stars like I was his safe place.

I’d never try and say that time didn’t change people. It does its thing to us all.

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