Free Sons Of Bacchanalia (Erotic Motorcycle Romance) by Aria Cuming Page B

radiating from within me.  I wanted.  No, I needed a man in my life.  I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be treated like that.  Lifted, manhandled, groped, and humiliated.  All in front of the interested eyes of a dozen other bikers.  I pressed forward in my seat, pressing the responsive mound against the cushion.  I had been in relationships, quite a few of them, in fact.  My last one was almost a year ago, and after being with him I couldn’t stomach most of what the other men I had met had to offer.  I was sick of the boyish attitudes, the walk-all-over-me sissy attitudes they all seemed to have.  I wanted what my friend had: a real man. 
    I could feel myself growing wet as I slowly gyrated, my thoughts building with intensity.  I closed my eyes, focusing only on the electric growing within me.  With a few simple motions I was about to cum when the trauma pager blasted out loud in my ear, bringing me back to the moment. 
    The pager read, “Trauma Critical.  Motorcycle vs Pavement. Gunshot wound to the chest.  ETA 2 minutes.  Blood Requested.” I sprung in to action.  I hadn’t had a trauma in a few days and nerves overwhelmed me as I threw together a cooler of blood and fresh frozen plasma.  Rushing through the doors of the Trauma Room I recognized the familiar leather jacket and patch that read, “69/86,” in bold colors.  A wave of nausea filled me as I glanced around for my friend.  Getting a closer look I realized it wasn’t the same guy she had been with, but clearly he was a part of the gang.  I felt sick to my stomach for having been day dreaming about getting involved with these men. 
    The rest of the day passed quickly as I continued to supply blood to this guy.  He was a bleeder, but it seemed that the surgeon had managed to control his bleeding towards the end of my shift, and he would survive.  I overheard some chatter in the lab about what was really going on.  The rumor was that a drug deal had gone bad. 
    ****
    When I got home there was a huge motorcycle parked in my spot. I was angry.  I could feel warmth building in my cheeks as I parked on the street and approached the house.  I stopped for a moment and glanced at the bike. It was big, black, with shiny chrome everywhere, and…sexy. I felt the hunger welling up within me again.
    “Jesus , Natasha, get a grip.” I scolded myself.  Why couldn’t I control myself? Why was I still eager to see him?  I need to be fucked, that’s why.  Ugh.  I couldn’t deny the words playing through my head, it had been too long.  Just as I was pulling my key out the door opened, startling me.  I looked up from my purse and was staring at the chest of a very tall, very cute older man. 
    “Victoria …  oh.”
    He looked a bit confused as his eyes rolled slowly over my body, down, up, and finally to my face. 
    “Who are you?  What the hell are you doing here? And where is my friend?”
    “They cal l me Steel, but my real name is Christian.  Things are going down, bad things, and I need a place to lay low.  Your friend told us last night that it would be okay to meet up here if there was trouble.”
    I started to protest but his eyes were so damned penetrating.  I felt like he could see right through me, like he knew what I wanted.  I darted between his manly body and the door frame, thinking I would just go to my room, but my foot managed to catch on the door frame and as I fell my hand instinctively reached out and gripped the thick leather slowing my fall as I crashed to the floor.  A loud tearing sound filled my ear, and I looked up and saw that I had managed to tear the patch straight from his jacket.  69/86.  My cheeks flushed red as I realized the fool I must look.  I started to apologize but was abruptly cut off.
    “Sixty-nine, eight-six; a re you familiar with the term?”
    I shook my head as I thought about my sewing kit.  I would just sew it back on for him and this whole thing would be