Read MOTORCYCLE CLUB ROMANCE: AMANDA’S DEMONS (PART ONE) (Biker MC Erotic Romance) for Free Online Page A

morning ride. He winked at me as we rode along, occasionally craning his head backwards, for a French kiss as we rode along, oblivious to the traffic ahead or behind, lost in our world of new-found lust.
    There were, however, practical limitations to riding a Hog down a dusty highway, with flimsy white and blue cotton blowing in the hot heat. My thighs were beginning to become numb to the buffeting wind, the gravel and the insects which bashed into them. My white socks were now a pasty grey color, and my chest, which had been so flushed earlier with the heat of sex, was now red-raw with road debris and weather. I needed leather, and fast!
    Mak knew it too. He had slowed as much as he dare, without dropping behind the schedule the gang was keeping for itself. After all, there was the police force of a county behind them, and a town ahead that didn’t know what it was in for. Although some 40 men strong, and armed to the teeth, this bunch of outlaws would far rather run and fight another day than stand and slug it out with an equally well-armed police force. There was method to their madness.
    The bikes roared to a halt, just by the next desert town sign. It reared up in the distance, a few sorry looking farm buildings forming an outer perimeter, street lights and some trees just visible through the heat haze, defining a more civilized town center.
    “Shops” said Mak, his Clint Eastwood whisper underlining the menace in his voice.
    “We need to get you some clothes. You need to look like a biker bitch, not a school teach. Right boys?”
    Then men nodded in agreement. A few wiped their mouths, thinking, no doubt, of how my tight body would look in skin tight leather trousers and biker shirt, undone to the waist.
    Well, if they wanted a cliché biker slut I was happy to give it to them. I knew that this was no free ride.
    Mak kicked the bike into life and we rode into town, our bike at the head of the gang. We sounded like the end of the world. 40 Horsemen of the Apocolypse.
     
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    About 4 or 5 stores back from the main street was the shop we were looking for. It was tatty and bruised, and had clearly seen better days. A half lit neon sign boasted “Dusty’s Biker Leather”, the door looked like it had been kicked in, the posters and helmets, half hidden behind a dusty security screen, had long been faded in the unending desert sun.
    The men dismounted and hoisted up their Levi’s and leathers. They congregated in a gang outside, kicking up stones and spitting. I felt sorry for the store owner. He would no doubt be eyeing the gang with a worried frown, maybe hiding any of his more valuable merchandise.
    The little bell on the door chimed a noise so out of place from the growling bikes and clatter of biker boots. A man cowered behind his counter, pump action shotgun in hand.
    “Now you guys, I don’t want any trouble ok?”
    Mak took off his helmet and eyed dusty intently. They both glared at each other. Mak’s hand made for his side, his colt automatic hidden in his jeans. He was quick on the draw, but could he out gunfight a pump action? I whimpered slightly, the intensity and danger of my new situation scaring me.
    “Dusty you old cock, that’s no way to speak to your buddies!”
    Dusty beamed from ear to ear, and put the shotgun back in its holster beside the counter. He ran over to Mak, and the two big muscular men bear hugged like old war buddies.
    “How long has it been man? 5 years? 6?”
    “At least” replied Mak. “You gonna get the Jack out?”
    “I got some cold beers man out the back”
    Dusty swooshed through the plastic fly screen behind the counter, and swiftly returned with a crate of cold buds. About 10 of the bikers tucked in. the rest had gone into the town, to find a bar and cause some minor mayhem. They were aware that this was Dusty’s town. You don’t crap on your own doorstep, even I knew that.
    After about twenty minutes shooting the breeze, Dusty stood