Craving It All (The Hellfire Riders Book 5) Read online

  Craving It All

  Kati Wilde

  Contents

  Craving It All

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Also by Kati Wilde

  Reading Order

  Newsletter

  Craving It All

  A Hellfire Riders MC Romance

  As the Hellfire Riders’ enforcer, Bull makes sure the club’s enemies get what’s coming to them. But this giant tattooed biker never saw what’s coming for him…

  Every morning for months now, I’ve been watching her. Sara Abu-Hamdi’s got a sweet smile and a curvy ass—and real soon, I’m going to make her mine. But I’ve got to move slowly, because there’s grown men who take off running when they see me coming, and the shadows in her dark eyes tell me she’s been running for a while.

  But when one of the Hellfire Riders’ deals suddenly goes sour, and Sara sees something she shouldn’t, my plan to go slow gets flipped upside down real fast. Because she’s ready to run again—but I’ll do whatever it takes to get her sexy little body under me until she craves my touch so desperately, she’ll never leave.

  Whatever it takes. Even if that means keeping her in lockdown and forcing her to share my bed…

  Craving It All is a completely standalone romance within the Hellfire Riders series. You don't need to have read the previous books in the series to enjoy Bull's story. Craving It All is a double-length novella of 45,000 words.

  1

  Bull

  Used to be, I hated early mornings. Hated dragging my ass out of bed before dawn to spend an hour pumping iron at the gym. Hated grabbing a shitty breakfast and washing it down with shittier coffee before riding out to the job. Hated showing up at the site while the fucking bright-eyed birds were still catching their dickless worms.

  Loved the work. I’ve been a foreman with T&E Construction now for a handful of years. It suits me. But the goddamn early hours that the job requires never did.

  Not until Reggie’s opened up across from the Hellfire Riders’ old clubhouse in town. Not until Sara Abu-Hamdi started working there.

  Now early hours and I get along real easy.

  The light is shining bright through Reggie’s front window when I come out of the gym, but it’s still ten minutes before five, when Sara will unlock the door. The first hour is usually pretty damn slow, so she works the place alone, making customers’ espressos and breakfast sandwiches in between filling the display case with baked goods and prepping for lunch. Another girl comes in at six, the pace starts picking up, and that’s usually when I haul off to the job.

  The old clubhouse where I work out sits back from the street, with an asphalt parking lot surrounded by a chain link fence. I leave my bike in the lot and head through the open gates. My hair and beard are still damp from my shower, and I’m wearing the jeans, boots, and T-shirt that’ll get me through a day on a construction site. For now I’m wearing my kutte, since I’ll be riding out to the job, but even though the Riders’ VP is my boss and owns the company, rules state that the vest comes off when I get there.

  Probably for the best. Midsummer, it’ll end up being a jackass scorcher of a day, but right now the air’s still carrying the deep chill that falls overnight in this arid part of central Oregon. And I love wearing the Hellfire Riders’ colors, but breaking ground on a site in heavy leather under a blazing sun that wants to beat me into submission?

  Not my idea of a good time.

  When I hit the sidewalk across the street from Reggie’s, I can’t see anyone at the counter, which means Sara’s still finishing up in the kitchen. Sometimes she’s a few minutes late opening, and I start to worry, the back of my neck tightening and my gut uneasily churning, imagining her hurt back there, maybe she accidentally cut herself with a knife or some pervert was lying in wait for her when she went in at three-thirty, and just when I’m on the verge of busting through the door, she’ll show up wiping flour from her hands and laughing at herself as she apologizes for losing track of time.

  And I look at her dark eyes and her dark hair and that laughing smile and as long as she’s all right, I’ll forgive anything.

  So I’ve got it bad. I have for a few months now. And it just keeps getting worse.

  But it’s all right. I’m a patient man.

  I lean back against the chain link fence and pull out my phone. No surprise, no one’s sending me messages at four-fucking-fifty in the morning. Got an email about penis enlargement, though.

  Don’t need that. My dick gets any bigger and it’ll need its own kutte and a bike to get around.

  Thinking about Sara does the job better than any herbal supplement, anyway. Thinking about her husky laugh becoming a husky moan and maybe one day seeing her thick hair out of its braid. Thinking about sliding my cock deep, feeling her hot and wet and writhing beneath me.

  Hell, I’m half hard just standing here waiting for the moment I see her. And the moment I do see her?

  There’s a reason I always sit at her counter so fucking quick. I don’t want to scare her with my cock trying to bust through my zipper like something out of Aliens.

  That is, I don’t want her scared more than she already is.

  The familiar rumble of a Harley engine approaches. The headlight shines into my eyes as it heads for the old clubhouse, but I don’t need to see to know who it is. Duke’s one of the few other Hellfire Riders who comes in to the gym this damn early.

  A good number of the brothers put in time on the weight benches and up in the ring during the afternoon and evening, but I hate that “change your clothes in the middle of the day and shower and get ready again” shit even more than I hate—used to hate—rolling out of bed early. I like getting ready just once, then wearing the same goddamn thing until I head for bed.

  Though if Sara was a reason to be taking off clothes in the middle of the day, I probably wouldn’t hate it so much. She already changed my mind about early mornings. I bet I’d take real well to getting dressed twice, as long as the naked time in between was with her.

  Or better yet, I’d just get us naked midday and keep her curvy little ass in bed until the early morning. No getting ready again.

  Win-win.

  Duke turns toward the gates but stops his bike before heading through to the lot. We get along well, Duke and me. If there’s one brother I had to go out with—going out as in a blaze of fucking fire, not going out as in holding hands—it’d be him. Now he takes a long look at me, then turns to look across the street at Reggie’s.

  And the genius says, “You could just ask her out,” like I’ve never thought of that. Like I don’t think of it every damn second of every damn day. Like either he’s real fucking dense or he thinks I am.

  So I give the only appropriate answer—a middle finger raised in his general direction. Considering the size of my hands, it’s a damn powerful statement.

  His laugh joins the rumble of his engine as he revs up and rides into the lot.

  Because, yeah. I could ask her out. But I’ve been sitting at her counter for a few months now and I’ve seen what happens to every man who does—and because she’s sexy and sweet, there’s been more than a few who’ve asked. She shoots them all down.

  But that’s not all I’ve seen. I’ve seen the way she eyes
them more warily the next time they come in. This early in the morning, it’s mostly regulars. So it’s not like they’re strangers coming in.

  She was comfortable until they asked her out. Then she wasn’t so comfortable anymore.

  And a few months ago, when she just moved into town, she was all-around more skittish—her gaze jumping to the door every time someone came in and only relaxing into a smile after she saw they weren’t whoever the hell it was she was afraid might be coming through.

  The first few days, I thought it was me. I’m a big motherfucker, built like a mountain and tattooed all to shit. The sight of me has frightened men who weighed in at twice what Sara does. Throw in the kutte and I make some people real nervous. And thinking she was afraid of me, thinking I was the reason she was so jumpy—it got me right in the gut.

  Then I realized it wasn’t me. Because she was always so damn friendly when I showed up, and she eased up around me real quick—but she still had that jumpy look when others came in.

  Over time, even that nervousness has eased up some. I like to think she’s feeling safer, knowing I’m sitting there.

  But I figure that as the months pass, she’s probably just not so afraid that whoever she believes is coming for her is ever going to come.

  The way she shoots everyone down, though—then doesn’t look at them the same way after? Makes me think that once upon a time, she said yes to someone. Or maybe she said no. And either way, it didn’t turn out real well.

  So I’ll continue being patient. I’ll continue holding off until more of her fear bleeds away. Because that woman is worth waiting for.

  In the meantime, maybe I’ll find out who it was that hurt her. Maybe make sure he never comes through that door.

  And it’s about time for her to open. She’s not out front yet, but I push away from the chain link fence, then wait for a long boat of a car sailing down the street to go past.

  Instead the fucker swerves across the road and pulls over in front of me, right up across the clubhouse’s driveway like he’s cutting off the entrance. But I know the driver. Vern Woodridge isn’t cutting anything off. He’s just too fucking stupid to know better.

  And he should know better than to stop and talk to me in front of the fucking clubhouse. Especially with what’s supposed to go down tonight.

  His wheels are a joke, a giant pink Cadillac that his grandma probably drove until she croaked. His weaselly little head jerks from side to side as he hastily cranks the window down. Inside, the floorboards and seats are covered with all kinds of shit—dirty clothes and Monster Energy cans and Jesus knows what else mixed in. Probably a few talking rats and magical portals to Dipshitland.

  Genuinely fucking pissed and letting every bit of it show, I grip the top of the door and lean down. “Don’t you ever stop to talk to me. You’ve got to the count of fucking three to move on before I start shoving you ass first through this Caddy from tailpipe to engine.”

  “Okay, okay! But listen to me, man”—his hands are flailing and he’s high as fuck, eyes bright and glassy—“tonight’s no good! Tonight’s no fucking good! Osprey called it off.”

  “What the fuck do you mean, called it off?”

  “He got spooked! He wants to change the meetup.”

  Fucking hell. “What time?”

  “I don’t know yet! I’m waiting to hear—” Abruptly his head jerks back, courtesy of my fingers fisted in his greasy hair, his scraggly goatee suddenly pointing toward the Caddy’s ceiling. “I’m not bullshitting you, man! Ow! Ow!”

  “What time?”

  “I’ll find out! But if you’re in a rush, man, I can get the product from another— Ow! Shit, fuck!”

  “Osprey.” Because I want that fucker in my hands. “Only from Osprey. You understand?”

  He tries to nod but I’ve got his head bent too far back. Instead he wheezes, “Yes!”

  “The Riders gave you a nice chunk of cash to get this shit done for us. But it’s not done yet and I’m not a patient man. You hear what I’m saying? You make us wait too long and when I take our cash back, maybe I’ll also be taking a few fucking fingers. Maybe I’ll bust a few fucking knees. You want that, Vern?”

  “No, no, no.” He’s crying a little now, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny throat.

  “Then you best not fuck me over, and you’d best get me what the hell I want. I want a new fucking meet up time, I want to know the fucking location where you’re meeting him, and I want that fucking meth in my hands by tomorrow night—and you better fucking deliver all those things to me, or maybe next time you go for a ride in this Cadillac you’ll be in that nice big coffin of a trunk. You understand?”

  Another attempt to nod is followed by a wheezing, “Yes, man.”

  I ease off. “Now you don’t ever fucking stop here again.”

  “Sorry, man,” he babbles, still holding up his hands. “I just knew you’d be here and wasn’t sure you’d get my message on that other number.”

  The back of my neck stiffens. “You knew I’d be here?”

  “You’re sitting at that counter every day, man. Every day.” He’s rubbing his neck. “I don’t blame you because she’s smoking hot even though she’s a—”

  “Don’t you ever finish that,” I say quietly.

  With bulging eyes, Vern nods—not finishing it now because my hand’s wrapped around his throat and squeezing, and his fingers are desperately trying to pull mine away.

  I give him another few seconds, until it becomes real damn clear that my grip isn’t ever going to loosen unless I want it to.

  He gasps and wheezes some more when I let him go and say, “Now get your fool ass out of here,” while stepping back from the Caddy. And he’s not all stupid. Not a second passes before his tires are screeching and he’s fishtailing onto the street.

  Then I turn and see Sara standing at the front door to Reggie’s, watching me with her dark eyes looking big and round and her full lips parted, as if in shock.

  And suddenly I wish I’d killed the fucker.

  2

  Sara

  What do you say when you’ve just seen a giant biker choking the driver of a pink Cadillac?

  Good morning doesn’t seem to cut it. That’s what I usually say to Bull. Good morning, just your usual? And will you kiss me, please?

  Not that I ever really say the last. I think it, though. I’ve got a bit of a crush on the big guy—okay, more than a bit of one—but my instincts when it comes to men are obviously shit. I can’t trust them.

  Except now. Because Bull’s only ever been polite and sweet and sometimes hilariously funny, but my instincts always said there was a darker side to him, something he wasn’t letting me see. But then I told myself I was being a judgmental asshole, because he’s huge—just freaking huge—and covered with tattoos and he wears that leather vest. And I know what it’s like to have someone look at you and assume some crazy shit. Like, hey—she’s Muslim, so she’s either a terrorist or she at least sympathizes with those extremist fuckers. Or, hey—she’s a virgin, so she’s going to fall in love with me the moment I stick my dick in her and our passion will be glorious to behold, until that passion turns insane and she has to flee across the country to get away from me. So it didn’t seem fair to paint Bull with a “maybe he’s also into some illegal shit” brush just because he rides with a motorcycle club.

  But it looks like my instincts were right. And it’s kind of a relief, actually. Nothing sucks worse than not trusting your own judgement.

  Actually, a lot of things suck worse. Much worse. Heartbreakingly worse. Some of those things happened because my instincts were so off when I met Raphael Wainwright four years ago. But right now, for the moment, I’m just basking in the relief of being right about someone.

  And Bull looks as if he’s about to chase after the pink Caddy and rip it apart with his big bare hands, but I’d rather have him at my counter. So I swing open the door and call to him, “Friend of yours?”

  Instan
tly all the darkness lightens. He starts across the street, his long stride eating up the distance.

  “Not a friend.” With a shrug of his heavy shoulders, he shows me his phone before sliding it into his pocket. “I thought he was a Pokémon.”

  Laughter shakes through me so hard that I can’t even move out of the doorway before he’s right there. Wiping my teary eyes, I ask, “Gotta catch ’em all?”

  “Trying to.”

  His gaze is searching my face as he says it, and I realize on a sudden shuddering breath that he’s never been this close before. He’s been within arm’s reach—almost the same distance—and with a counter between us. But he’s always sitting and although I can’t mistake what a big guy he is, it’s a completely different feeling when we’re both standing together.

  Maybe because the name on his vest fits him. Bull. Because he’s so solid—and there’s nothing lean about all the meat he’s packing. He’s barrel-chested and thick-thighed, yet none of it’s soft. And although he works out every morning, the bulge of his biceps and definition in his forearms isn’t the overdeveloped muscle of a bodybuilder, either.

  He’s just…strong. It’s such a crazy turn-on.

  And there’s something about this closeness that’s unbearably intimate. Maybe it’s because I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and that’s what I’d do before kissing him. I’d tilt my head back, and his gaze would drop to my lips like it is now, and then his mouth would lower to mine.

  But although Bull’s looking, he’s not lowering his head. Instead he’s gripping the edge of the door that I was holding for him—now he’s holding it for me.