Sinner on a Steel Horse (Erotic Motorcycle Club Biker Romance) (2 page)

When I returned, I found Finn resting underneath a tree. Color had returned to his face and he had stripped off his leather vest and white undershirt. On closer inspection, I noticed his vest was covered with all sorts of patches and insignias. A few seemed to relate to military service—it looked like he had been in Afghanistan, with the Marines—but most were motorcycle related.

He had wrapped his t-shirt around his waist and the white cotton cloth had soaked through with blood. I knelt next to him and without asking, because to remove the undershirt.

“What are you doing?” he demanded roughly, his eyes fluttering opened. It seemed he had drifted off to sleep.

“I’m helping you. We’d better get this taken care of before you get an infection and if you won’t let me get you to a hospital, this is the best you’ll get.”

“I’ll do it,” he said gruffly, reaching for the materials in my hand. I darted out of his grasp.

“No, you won’t. You are in no condition to attend to your… condition,” I said, somewhat lamely. The old nervousness was back. I had never been this awkward around boys in high school—or, at least, the short amount of time I had spent in high school.

And what the hell? Boys? This wasn’t a boy. This was a man. Every part of him screamed man. From his powerful, built chest to his cheese-grater abs to the haunted, hunted look in his eyes… Eyes that could only have spoken of some far off tragedy, a pain which the heart never forgets… All of it identified him as nothing other than a man.

“My condition? I was shot!” Finn yelped as I took the tweezers and began prying the tiny shotgun pellets out of his gut. He gasped as I teased the deformed pieces of lead out of his flesh, dropping them on the ground and dousing his wound with disinfectant.

Eventually, his grumbling and his whining subsided and he allowed me to tend to him. After nearly twenty minutes of excruciating surgery, I was positive that I had excavated every bullet fragment out of his wounds. I wrapped a bandage around his powerful torso, allowing myself to savor the feeling of his muscles under my hands as I passed the bandage around him, over and over.

“You haven’t even asked my name yet,” I said, after a long silence.

“It’s a hell of a lot safer for you if you don’t know my name,” he murmured, looking off into the distance.

“Oh, is it? Big mister scary biker…” I murmured.

“Yeah, that’s right. If you only knew…”

“Then tell me.”

We locked eyes.

“You’re a nun, right?” Finn asked.

“That’s right.”

“Where’s your… Your head thing… Your hat….”

“The habit. I don’t wear it when I work outside. Can you imagine wearing all that stuff while gardening?”

He shrugged. “I can’t imagine wearing it at all, frankly.”

“You get used to it.”

“Why’d you become a nun?”

“Why’d you become a biker?” I retorted.

“Because I hate when people tell me what to do and I love riding. Why’d you become a nun?”

I sighed. I sat back on my heels, looking at the ground.

“I got knocked up when I was fifteen. My parents are super conservative Catholics. They pulled me out of school, stuck me in a home for girls—most everyone there was either on drugs, a lesbian, or pregnant—and after that, I didn’t really have much choice but to take orders.”

“That’s fucking primitive,” scowled Finn. I shrugged.

“It’s my life.”

“Why don’t you leave? Are you eighteen yet?”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Then fucking leave. Tell those old hags to fuck off. I mean, unless you like being here.”

I glanced behind me, back in the direction of the convent, which was camouflaged and obscured by trees.

“No. No, I hate it.”

“Then run away. Who’s going to stop you? You’re an adult.”

I shook my head.

“It’s just not that easy. I don’t have any friends outside the convent anymore. My parents wouldn’t take me in. I just don’t know anyone.”

“So? Knowing people is awful. Being by yourself, that’s where it’s at.”

He pulled a cigarette out of the pocket of his vest and lit up. The smoke smelled sweet and fragrant. It had been so long since I had smelled a cigarette. I had been a smoker in high school, carrying a pack in the pocket of my Catholic schoolgirl skirt or even tucked into my bra strap and thinking I was so bad. Of course, I hadn’t smoked since I had gotten pregnant and then not since I had got to the girls’ home.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Sister Marie Sanchez.”

“Marie. That’s a pretty name. That was my older sister’s name.”

“Really? Was?”

“She’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” he said with a sigh, blowing a ring of smoke drifting out of his lips.

“What’s your gang called?” I said quickly, trying to change the subject. He had been looking at me expectantly, as if he wanted a piece of holy wisdom—a promise that his sister was dancing like an angel in heaven with all the saints. But at this moment, I didn’t feel like passing on the good word.

“The Damned,” he said with a smile. He pointed to the tattoo in his arm.

“It’s Dante,” I said, smiling back.

“Good eye. I love Dante.”

“So do I,” I said quickly. “I learned Italian so I could read it in the original. I told the sisters I wanted to read theology but I read Dante and Boccaccio instead.”

Finn grinned.

“Speak some Italian to me, sister,” he said leaning back. I gulped. I hadn’t expected to have to recite anything but fortunately, I did have a few passages committed to memory…

I began:

“
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
ché la diritta via era smarrita.

Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura
esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte
che nel pensier rinova la paura!

Tant’ è amara che poco è più morte;
ma per trattar del ben ch’i’ vi trovai,
dirò de l’altre cose ch’i’ v’ho scorte.
”

Finn let out a long, low whistle as I finished up. His eyes were shining and he grinned at me. His smile made me want to go to sleep, made me want to fall into his arms. I had to avert my eyes, or else I was afraid he would see me blushing.

“That’s fucking beautiful. No one writes like that, anymore, I bet. He was one in a million.”

“Why ‘The Damned’ then?”

“What’s wrong, sister? Do you want to save me?”

“I already did,” I said, poking his bandages. He hissed in pain.

“It’s because we’re damned. We’re the trash society threw out. Folks didn’t want us—not in school, not in the army, not in a job, not in a family, not in nothing. You have to belong somewhere, so the Damned, that’s where the trash belongs. That’s me. Just trash.” He pressed out the remains of his cigarette. “Not the kind of guy a girl like you should mess around with.”

“Who said anything about messing around with you?” I demanded, not really angry but more curious than anything. As he had been speaking, I could only think of how similar the Damned seemed to… to me. Hadn’t I been cast out, unwanted, like trash? I was loved and adored and pampered my whole life until I made one mistake, one stupid mistake that tons of kids make, and then I get thrown out.

“You’re the one who’s talking to me. You’re the one who hasn’t called the cops yet. You don’t know what I did. I could be a mass murderer for all you know. A drug dealer. A rapist. But you’re here, talking to me and taking care of me like a Good Samaritan.”

I shrugged. “Love thy neighbor.”

“I know a way you can love your neighbor a little better,” he said with an evil grin. I blushed harder. He reached down and began to unzip his pants.

“Stop,” I said quickly, putting my hand over his.

“Oh, come on, sister. No one’s going to know, and how long has it been since you tried anything like this?”

Fuck, but he was right. The thought of fooling around with him excited me, more than anything else had in years.

“You’re a gorgeous little thing,” he said, his breath husky. “And it’s a fucking crime… A fucking sin… That something as beautiful and sweet as you is locked up here. Don’t you agree?”

Frankly, I did. I said a silent prayer as I took my hand away and let him unzip his pants: Forgive me, Lord, for I am about to sin…

He slid his boxers down and revealed his tool to me: fat and thick, longer than I expected, bulging and throbbing in the open air. For a man who had just taken a shotgun blast to the gut, he sure seemed ready to go.

“So, is this the first cock you’ve seen since you were in high school?” he asked smugly as I reached my fingers towards it. He gasped as my soft fingertips made contact with his hot flesh. I blushed and nodded.

“Yeah. You’re… You’re a hell of a lot bigger than I was expecting.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

I laughed shyly as I ran my fingers over his length, tracing the long vein of his cock from the base of his dick up to the throbbing, meaty tip.

“How many girls have you knocked up with this thing?” I asked, starting to jack him slowly. I gripped him by the flesh of his cock, by his sheath, and ever so delicately began to slide his skin down, began to work his cock. My hands felt clumsy and awkward. I was out of practice.

“None, so far.”

“But I bet it gets a work out pretty regularly,” I pushed, sliding my finger along the fat, twitching flesh of his cock. I could feel the hunger emanating from it. I could feel his desire. I darted my eyes up to meet his. He was watching me, waiting to see how I reacted to his cock, waiting to see what I would do with it and how I would touch him. But more than that, I think he was waiting to see the same desire in my eyes.

“You mean from my hand or from girls?” he asked with a grin. I gave him a sharp squeeze, eliciting the slightest of pained yelps from his lips.

“From girls, silly.”

“Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t.”

I wasn’t going to get a good answer out of him, so I lowered my face to his cock and gave the tip a kiss. I realized then and there that I hadn’t even kissed him. Somehow, it felt more right to begin with this. We would probably never see each other again, so why bother with the kissing? We’ll just have fun and this afternoon would be a memory, the kind of thing I’d take with me during my years at the convent—proof of my defiance towards the mother superior, proof that I was still a woman, underneath the habit and robes.

His flesh was hot and tasted salty and sweaty. As my lips ran over his skin, I was seized by an almost uncontrollable hunger—the kind that I knew wouldn’t be sated just by this encounter. Damn it all to hell, I thought to myself, as I began to lick him.

I ran my tongue from the base of his cock up to his thick tip, swirling my hot, wet mouth around the fat head of his cock. He grunted in delight and reached out to run a hand through my hair. That was the first time in years a man had run his hands through my hair. Hell, that was the first time in years a man had touched me. The touch of his fingers made me feel like he was dropping little pinpricks of electricity onto my skull, like I were one of those pink electric globes you put your fingers on to generate static electricity. His hands were surprisingly gentle, though, in spite of the calluses I could see dotting his palms and finger tips.