Page 7 of Dirty Salvation

It came as no surprise to anyone when a year ago, Ambrosio Marinos, the then Vice President, had cleared out the deadwood of the Renegade Souls. Most of the old timers who had held onto outdated morals, who thought nothing of watching a girl being treated like shit, or turning a blind eye to new shitheads bringing drugs into their territory, if they got their cut they didn't care about theSoulslong set out rules.

In total, Rider had cut forty-five cancerous members out of the club, and some of the others had chosen wisely and opted out to other chapters, it was days later he was voted in unanimously as the new President, the gavel passed from uncle to nephew, a new generation ofSoulsbegan that day.

He'd been Renegade Souls material from birth and becameRiderwhen he was sixteen earning the name.Soulswere in his blood and now he controlled the gavel he was giving it his damnedest to run the club his way.

He might be an outlaw but Rider had a certain set of rules to obey, new ideas to made lucrative for one and all, and he dared anyone to go against him.

No surprise at all. Rider had literally bled for theSouls. It was a no brainer who took the Prez patch to govern them into a new direction once the dust had settled. With so much backstabbing it was a wonder he’d survived that brutal year of war from within.

He'd been thrown to the wolves and came back leading the pack.

The sweet piece walking hesitantly towards him was going to test all his rules.

His gaze raked her up and down, his mouth watered, fuck, she was cute balancing on her heels, he wanted to know just how sweet she tasted.

With his palate accustomed to the groupies hanging around doing what he wanted at any time of the day, those girls who thought opening their legs was the sure way of becoming an old lady, he suddenly wanted a different flavor in his mouth.

Pity they didn't stay in school long enough to get the lesson no biker was taking on an old lady that had done acaterpillarfor all the brothers, his firm and fast rule being if a club girl had worn the come of any one of his brothers she was for fun only, he sure as shit wasn't giving her anOwned by Ridercut.

Double standards, absolutely.

He was progressive in many ways, but on that, he was practically fucking prehistoric.

Whoever she was, she was all class. And he intended to dirty the girl up before the night was done.

She approached him with her chin back, tentative steps as if walking towards a lion with snapping teeth.

Rider grinned inwardly silently willing her forward.

If anything, the girl's college preppy little yellow dress that swayed around her legs should have turned him off, to put her back in the nice clean sea out the reach of his dirty hands.

Something about her curved frame stirred Rider's gut into tight knots.

Far as he could see she was ink free.

He kept his eyes going up slowly, such graceful arms, like a dancer, he thought, with a small smile playing around his mouth at all the dirty ideas he was having about her long limbs wrapped around him while he pumped himself off inside her, she gave him thought of a grown-up foal, all arms and legs and new to her balance.

Her sweetheart's face was what drew him next, that pert nose turned up a little at the end and her lush full lips, a slight blush to her cheeks and when she drew nearer he saw how long her lashes were.

Rider was used to women who piled on the fake. Nails, tits, tan, hair, even eyelashes. This girl was a contradiction to his norm, a bolt of sun through the clouds in his dark world.

From the elegant way she walked, sinuous art one leg in front of the other he could assume she was a dancer at some point in her life, probably ballet.

Fuck.Even her waves of blonde hair draped over a shoulder was pulling his gaze like a magnet. Stunningly innocent and he wanted to put his filthy hands all over her.

Crystal blue eyes rose and met his steadfast stare tentatively, so pale in color he could have sworn he was looking at uncut glass, and when she blinked her lashes brushed her cheeks.

Fucking hell.What was a girl like her doing in his place? Was a good girl wanting a dance on the wild side to piss off old daddy? he'd seen it all before. They never lasted long when the veneer of what they thought bikers were, wore off.

His mouth whetted.

His thumb with the black band around it rose and rubbed at his lip. Rider was already twenty deep into his fantasies. He'd give the coltish good girl a nice taste of bikers if that's what she wanted. He'd become bored of fucking groupies with their porn star moans.

If he wanted to hear a woman hollering like she was being murdered he'd fucking murder one.

If he was smart he'd tell the girl to turn around and go back to her life of caviar and horse dressage before the biker eye-fucking her swallowed her down whole.

Rider’s dad always said his son was never all that bright. Right now, he unfortunately agreed.

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