Page 32 of Rider Daddies
He reaches out and grabs my hand. “You’re coming with me.”
“No. You can’t tell me what to do.”
I expect another hot-fired response from thebastardo,but instead he pops a hand into his breast pocket and pulls out a?—
“Absolutely fucking not. I don’t care how many carats it is.”
“You’re mine,” he says.
I tug back my hand, ready to catapult the ring at his face.
But I don’t get the chance.
Ryder grabs Tristan by the hair, dragging him to the door by hisliteralhair follicles. An agonizing cry rips out of his mouth. I guarantee that still doesn’t hurt nearly enough as me discovering him and Willow.
The commotion rouses others from their bedrooms, a crowd building. I turn around, expecting guns to appear, seeing as though everyone here appears to have an unlimited amount of anger.
The bikers simply look and chuckle, all light entertainment for them.
My stomach churns. If dragging a man by his hair is easy entertainment, I dread to think what gets them belly laughing.
Saint and Ash follow behind for backup, but it seems like Ryder is handling Tristan fine on his own.
“Tell anybody that you were here, and we’ll cut off your dick, slice it thinly and serve it to you in a sandwich like salami,” Ryder says.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” grits Tristan, taking back his hair. He composes himself and has a good look around the place.
I hope he’s not taking a mental photo so he can write this up in a report later. Maybe I’ll have no other option but to take a page out of these bikers’ books and give blackmail a shot.
I was mad when I saw him and Willow on my wedding day. But now I’m seething.
I wanted to be tied up in those ropes all night.
I wanted the brothers to take turns inside of me, each filling me with their cum.
I wanted them to claim my body.
To use me.
To not stop until the life had been fucked out of me.
How dare he storm in here and ruin a good thing?
Clarity comes to me in a sharp, sudden burst. He’s the smallest man in the room, but height doesn’t have anything to do with it now. Everything about Tristan is too reformed. Too man-made. He’s an airbrushed version of a man, and I’m sick to death of smelling that artificial Louis Vuitton shit on his skin.
I want something raw. Unfiltered. I want my sheets to smell like gasoline and smoke, and tax evasion.
What did I ever see in this man?
Of course, my emotions can’t be switched off with the flick of a button. I dedicated a piece of my heart to Tristan, so I will always have a soft spot for him.
But right now at this current moment, I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.
It was my first real job, my first time as a practicing lawyer. Everything was new and exciting and Tristan, with his firm handshakes and smoldering looks, made weirdly intense eye contact and said he would look out for me.
I took that as an invitation into his bed…which wasn’t even anything special.
The only reason I was wet was because I was fucking ovulating.
