Read Petals and Chrome: A Biker Erotic Romance (Flowers of Hell MC) for Free Online

jawline. I noticed for the first time the large neck tattoo that curled up from his collarbone and behind his left ear: it was a name, I realized, written in gothic script … Roxanne.  
    Reading it, I felt a weird pang of jealousy, deep down in my stomach, even though I knew I had absolutely no right to feel anything for him, whatsoever.  
    “Morning,” I mumbled, stretching and yawning.  
    I was back in the sleeping bag on the mattress, I realized. D must have carried me over in the night, while I was asleep, and I liked the image of that, imagining myself draped in his meaty arms.  
    I had a flashback to our early morning episode; remembering the feel of his thick cock pulsing in my mouth, and it seemed now to exist in that hazy unreality that dreams always have. I wondered for a moment if it had even happened.  
    But then I noted that D was naked, his back to me as he scavenged some clothes from a tangled pile in the corner of the room … This time I was able to read the words beneath his rose tattoo clearly: FLOWERS OF HELL.
    “Listen, Rose,” he said, turning to me and stepping into a pair of tight white cotton briefs, his thick cock creating a meaty bulge as he pulled them up tightly around his hips, “I’ve gotta go out for a little while, there’s something important I need to do, so you’d better stay in here till I get back, okay? I don’t want anyone to know you’re here for now. Those guys out there … They’re not exactly friendly. Okay? You understand what I’m saying?”  
    I nodded.  
    “Whats the Flowers of Hell?” I asked.  
    “The Flowers of Hell,” D said, raising one eyebrow. “Well, if you must know, it’s the name of our club.”  
    Once he’d pulled on a stained vest and jeans, he moved over to a battered cupboard, the door hanging off its hinges, and retrieved a small pink suitcase from the top shelf of it.  
    “Here,” he said, placing the cheap, gaudy case down by the edge of the mattress. “There might be something in there that’ll fit you. I’ll be back in an hour.”  
    And then, before I could say anything else, he’d gone, leaving me huddled there in the dirty sleeping bag, listening to the silence for a moment, before it was broke by the vicious snarl of his bike’s engine as he sped away, down the dirt track, leaving me alone in the messy, sunlit bedroom.  

    §

    Inside the case were clothes — women’s clothes, all way more slutty and slinky and revealing than anything I’d normally wear. Tiny little vests, tube tops, leggings, a couple of pairs of hot pants, and a large selection of skimpy g-strings. As I sifted through them, piecing together the best outfit I could, I thought again about that name tattooed into D’s neck: Roxanne. I guessed that these were her clothes and that she was … what?  
    Dead?  
    In prison?  
    Shacked up with some other biker guy?  
    Before I got dressed in this stranger’s clothes, I padded on through to the bathroom, finding a dirty stained sink and toilet behind the little door, and a rusting shower head dangling above a mildew-flecked cubicle. I cranked the taps and the shower creaked noisily into life, sprinkling down an anemic trickle of lukewarm water, which I stepped under gladly, soaping my body with a thin sliver of soap I found over by the sink.  
    There was no towel left in the little bathroom, so I padded back out toward D’s bedroom once more, planing to use the one he’d left on the floor in there, but as soon as I stepped out into the room, I froze in my tracks, the water dripping off my naked body.  
    Because there, standing right in the middle of the room were two huge, hulking biker guys.  
    They were both bigger than D; that burly, bulky place somewhere between muscle and fat. Both were tanned and tattooed. One had a long black goatee beard, and the other had a large spider’s web tattooed over the left side of his face.  
    I felt a pang of pure terror as I realized that they were