Free The All Encompassing: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 1) by May Ellis Daniels

like brick in the face—I want him. I want him now . My cunt’s throbbing for him, my skin’s hot and flushed and my heart’s beating like it’s going to leap out of my chest.
    The biker Prez just stares at me. No emotion. Nothing. Those crystal-blue eyes staring into me, like he’s seeking an answer to a question he can’t find the words for.  
    Then he blinks, looks at the man on the floor, lifts his Dayton shit-kicker boot in the air…and I realize he’s about to murder the college kid. Stomp the life right out of him in the middle of his bar, and I know he’ll do it, know he wants to do it, and I know I have to stop him.  
    So I launch. Leap over Matty and straight at the biker, screaming at him not to do it, that it’s over, and I’ve taken enough self-defense training to aim for his solar plexus with my shoulder. I’m not going to try and smack at the guy.  
    I’m going to carry him off his feet.  
    That’s the plan anyway. Doesn’t quite work out that way, because slamming into the cool-eyed biker Prez is like running full-speed into a football blocking sled. There’s an inch of give, then a sharp pain in my right shoulder where it bites against his ribcage, then the biker has his heavily-muscled and tattooed arm wrapped around my torso, just below my arms, and he’s squeezing me a little, just enough to hurt, enough to tell me he could snap my spine if he wanted to, and oh God his arm feels good against me, the muscles taut and thick, his wet jeans pressed against my bare neck as he overpowers me, and for an instant I smell his sweat, and he smells like the forest at dusk when the sun is setting and the wild animals emerge from their dens, eyes glowing bright, intent on the hunt. He smells like a promise of freedom and the danger that comes with it, and then the Prez releases me and I collapse unceremoniously at his feet like a sack of very irritated, very turned on potatoes.  
    Or something like that.
    “You fucking asshole,” I say, pushing myself to my feet and brushing off my skirt, relieved to see Matty stumbling for the door. “You dirtbag. Biker. Asshole.”
    “That’s some kind of thanks,” the biker says, and his voice is low and growly and makes a flush of heat race between my legs, but it’s also unexpectedly reserved, almost melancholic.
    “We didn’t ask for your help,” I say.
      There’s a glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes. He’s laughing at me, and suddenly I feel very self-conscious. The entire bar is staring at us.  
    “No. You didn’t,” is all the biker says.  
    Like that explains everything.  
    I don’t respond. Fuck him. I turn my back and walk to Trish. She’s sitting wide-eyed and completely ignores me when I sit down. My hands are shaking. I’m craving that smoke the moron Craig offered. I lift my empty beer bottle off the floor and wave it at the waitress.  
    Trish looks absolutely star-struck.
    “Fucking dirtbag,” I say, jerking my thumb at the biker Prez.  
    Trish just nods, not taking her eyes off the biker as he racks up a pool table, twists some chalk on his cue with a goddamned way too sexy flick of his wrist, and leans over to take his first shot. His ass is a perfect tight crescent in his jeans. He pauses, then lifts his head and yells for pool music. There’s a scratching sound of a record being switched— vinyl? In a dump like this? —and then a heavy bass beat followed by a pissed-off dude singing:

    Do I look like a motherfucking role model?
    To a kid looking up to me
    Life ain’t nothin’ but bitches and money.  

    I roll my eyes, but Trish nearly leaps out of her seat when she hears the song.  
    “Gangster rap?” I say to Trish as the biker Prez leans over the table for his first shot. He hasn’t looked at us once. I raise my voice, hoping he’ll hear me over the thumping bass. “Not very white trash MC, is it? Thought they’d be in for Slayer. Maybe Led Zeppelin if they’re feeling mellow.”
    Trish fires me