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Curves Ahead – A Man Who Knows What He Wants
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An Alpha Older Man, Younger Curvy Woman MC Lite Romance
Motorcycle club founder and president.
Her curves are more dangerous than redlining the throttle on a mountain pass, and there’s no way I’m going to pass up this once in a lifetime opportunity to make this younger woman mine.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a woman so beautiful, so innocent…and the first time I’ve ever allowed anyone on the back of my bike. With curves that could put a plus size model to shame, it’s a shame that she somehow still doesn’t believe my intentions are real.
But once I reveal the truth about my past, and that you can’t always judge a book by its cover, will she understand that I won’t stop until we start a new chapter in both our lives, together.
And page one starts with putting a baby in her belly and making her mine…always.
*Curves Ahead is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with an HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.
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I cut the engine of my special edition FXDLS Dyna Low Rider S with the Screaming Eagle 110 cubic-inch engine, glad to be back at the bar my motorcycle club, Reaper’s Riders, owns and operates.
But while the Screaming Eagle 110 has gone dead silent, the night is anything but.
I hear a woman’s voice cry out from inside my bar. Oh hell, fucking no. Not on my watch. Not ever.
In one move I kick the stand and come flying off my bike like a bat outta hell sprinting toward the door which I don’t even bother opening. I throw a shoulder into the thick wood and it snaps off its hinges as I come plowing through the front entrance.
My eyes scan the room like a hawk, freezing on the table full of pricks in the corner, my eyes drilling holes into the head of the one who’s got his hand on the woman who apparently just screamed. Now she’s slapping at him wildly which he seems to find mildly amusing.
Let’s see how funny you find this, asshole.
I dart across the bar and grab the scum by the scruff of his dirty, dusty neck. Clearly he’s ridden across the Mojave to get here, and I’m about to make it clear to him just how easy it is for me and my crew to take him right back into the desert and drop him off, the coyotes and vultures picking him apart before sunrise.
As I lift his body up, his hand immediately releases the waitress, who I don’t recognize as one of ours. It doesn’t matter at this point. A woman is a woman, no matter who she belongs to. And women deserve to be treated with respect, and this lowlife’s about to get a first class quality education.
“Get back,” I snarl at the waitress, and she quickly escapes the situation just as the man reaches the apex of his summit as his hand reaches back for my hand, which only provides me with more leverage as I rotate my shoulder forward and use gravity and years of pumping iron and battle tested maneuvers to slam his face into the table.
Bottles fly everywhere and so do the pussies he was sitting with, as they scurry out the door.
“Don’t let them get away,” I growl at a table of prospects, who take off out the front door after them.
Why I have to tell any “man” this in the first place is beyond me. Millennials…what’s wrong with kids these days?
But as I release the main culprit, whose body collapses into a pool of his own blood, and a solid wood table which is now snapped, I see a kid who’s clearly not a kid at all. Not. One. Bit.
As a matter of fact she’s abso-fuckin-lutely perfect.
“Are you okay?” I need to know now because if she’s shaken I’m going to go outside and shake down the rest of those losers right now. They’re not gonna like hanging upside down from a tree all night either.
“I’m…okay. I’m not hurt,” she says. “I can handle myself.”
By the way she was hollering and slamming her fists at the jerk who’s currently horizontal, I’m not about to argue with her. But my mind and body are telling me she could use an entirely different kind of handling…from me.
My eyes rake over her choice of uniform, if you can call it that. It doesn’t look like she’s got much more than a handkerchief around her waist, attempting to contain those luscious curves with a pair of Daisy Dukes.
I turn to the rest of the bar and call out, “What are you lookin’ at? Mind your own table,” my words bite into the air.
It’s only then I recognize there are no patches here tonight…only prospects and hang arounds. And those prospects and hang arounds are gone, immediately, after I finish dealing with these out of towners who thought they could come in here and cause trouble in my place.
But right now trouble walks on two legs and has a flannel shirt tucked into those too short shorts of hers. Not to mention her flannel top is unbuttoned at least one, if not two, buttons too many.
“Put this on,” I say, sliding my jacket off my body and holding it out so she can slide her arms through.
“I’m not cold.”
“I didn’t ask you if you were cold. You need to cover up your…you shouldn’t be showing so much,” I stumble. “Just put your arms through the holes before I toss you over my shoulder, take you in the back, and put the jacket on you myself.”
My dick jerks at the thought of her struggling under my grasp, knowing how feisty she is. But that’s not the kind of man I am. I would never force myself on a woman. Hell, I don’t even have time for a woman, or even a sweet butts for that matter. I’ve been so damn focused on building the club, and running our businesses that women are the last thing on my mind.