Loving Smoke

CHAPTER 1

I sprawled out on the cushioned lounger—warm sun overhead, and a perfect view of the infinity pool and the Pacific Ocean a few hundred feet in the distance. A beer in one hand and a half-smoked joint in the ashtray next to me made for a perfect afternoon. But even all that couldn’t compare with the naked beauty emerging from the freestyle pool like some kind of goddess from the Land of Un-Fucking-Believable.
Like a grade-A porn flick, Tamara ascended the pool steps, her blond hair slicked back from her perfectly tanned face, in all her naked glory. No tan lines for this princess. Even the droplets of water glistening over her tawny skin didn’t wanna leave her body.
She glided over to me, yeah, that’s right, the roll of her hips was pure magic. Money and privilege filled every pore of her toned, fuckable frame and when she slid onto the chaise next to me my dick hardened to the point of pain. Her manicured hand tried to relieve some of the pressure, but the greedy bastard wanted in, and he wanted in now.
“Feels like you’re ready for me again,” she purred in my ear as her other hand traced over the intricate tats on my chest. “I just love fucking my bad boy.”
That about summed it up. Tamara got off on the fact I was a tatted, outlaw biker who rode with the Royal Bastards MC in San Diego. Just a short twenty minute ride to La Jolla where I’d spend two or three days a week quenching all her dirty fantasies. And let me tell you, she had a shit ton of kinks and freaks. Some shit I hadn’t even heard of before meeting up with Miss Tamara Spindler down at a dive bar in Tijuana. Yeah, that Tamara Spindler, daughter of Eric Spindler, the hotel baron who spent his spare time buying and selling NFL teams like produce in the supermarket.
Needless to say, Tamara wanted for nothing and filled her days with sun-bathing, massages, facials, and fucking me, Smoke, prez of the San Diego chapter of the Royal Bastards. I still don’t know what the fuck she was doin’ in Tijuana, but after sharing a few shots of tequila we hooked up in the men’s room and three months later she was still hot for my cock.
I didn’t know how long it would last and I didn’t give two fucks because I was never one to pass up a good deal, and this gig was golden. Booze and cold beer on tap, all the weed I could smoke, and this fuckin’ over-the-top pool with a goddamn waterfall. Plus, Tamara’s insatiable needs. It was only noon and we’d already fucked four times and she was gearing up for number five.
She straddled me on the lounger, lowered her head, and devoured my dick. Deep throating every fuckin’ inch of me, and I wasn’t small. My head turned into the cushion on a groan and she pumped me harder. I had no fuckin’ clue where this society girl learned to suck dick, but she was a pro. My breathing faltered, as my fingers gripped her scalp holding her head in place.
“Ohhh, yeah, babe, fucccck!”
I pumped my hips desperate for my release and my cell phone went off. I eyed the screen barely able to focus and the damn thing kept playing “Born to be Wild” the ringtone for Blood, my VP. The ringtone I had to answer no matter what. The ringtone insisting I pull my dick out of Tamara’s warm, wet mouth.
I shifted on the lounger, and she released me with a popping sound. I swiped my phone off the travertine patio and stabbed at the screen.
“This better be fuckin’ good.” The growly rasp in my voice left no mistake of what I was doing.
“Get your ass back to the clubhouse. Now.”
Blood never overreacted or blew shit out of proportion. His cool head simmered my fiery temper making us the perfect officers. So the level of pissed off in his voice spoke volumes.
“What’s goin’ on?” I gripped the phone tighter than necessary as Tamara propped herself over me pouting.
“Bad shit.” The call disconnected and I looked at the phone for a few seconds trying to guess what the fuck had my VP so worked up. We’d had some trouble with a gun shipment two weeks ago, but we’d taken care of it personally.
Pushing Tamara to the side, I swung my legs over the lounger, snatched my jeans off a nearby chair, and tugged them on along with my t-shirt and cut.
“You’re leaving?” Tamara stood and faced me hands on naked hips, her tits jiggling from side to side.
“Gotta go, babe, business.”
“More important than me?” She threw her shoulders back and it made her magnificent tits sway. Was she trying to fuckin’ kill me?
“Afraid, so.” I pushed my feet into my boots.
“I can’t believe you’re just going to leave me.”
That was the only downside to privileged chicks. They couldn’t take no for an answer.
“Believe it, babe, ‘cause I’m out.”
“What if I say, if you leave I never want to see you again?”
I shrugged. “Then I guess I’d say we had a good ride while it lasted.”
“What am I, a horse at Santa Anita?”
“Good one.” I pointed at her, and smirked, then turned and jogged down the steps and made my way to the huge circular driveway out front, and my prized Harley.
Her piercing screech competed with the seagulls overhead, but I figured in a few hours or a day or two she’d give me a call and I’d have my ass right back in that lounger.
Twenty-five minutes later, I entered our clubhouse which was not only empty, but deadly quiet.
“Hey, fuckers! Where is everybody?” I yelled into the empty bar. Fuckin’ weird. The place was deserted so I headed toward the back office and our inner sanctum wracking my brain as to what the fuck was going on.
I pushed through the door and froze.
Jameson sat at the head of the table in the president’s seat, my seat.
My heart kicked up as his eyes bore into me like lasers.
“What the fuck is goin’ on?” I directed my question at Jameson, then let my gaze fall on Blood shifting his feet while avoiding my eyes.