Sweet Submission (Devil's Sons Motorcycle Club Book 3) (6 page)

The shaft penetrated her to her core, a delicious sensation that drove her to come down upon him harder, quivering with lust. Afia clenched her thighs around his hips and placed her hands to his chest to lean forward and stare down into his face. “Are you really here?” Her voice echoed back, her moans overlapping the question, as she gasped and whimpered in ecstasy.

His hand caressed up the length of her arm and his fingers encircled a breast. He squeezed her nipple gently, causing Afia to bite her lower lip and groan.  Sam’s hips rose to counter the downward motion of her pelvis.  His shaft was nestled deep within, and she wanted to ride him until the sunset and rose again.  Her lips parted, and she moaned his name. He stared up at her with open eyes filled with love and wonder, and she saw through to his soul. She recognized the fabric of his being because it was just like hers. He was hers. They were of one soul.

As they made love, surging against each other in an ebb and flow of bodies, he maintained the connection but sat up and held her closer so that they embraced each other face to face. She undulated against him. His lips skated down the side of her neck. She breathed his name into his ear. He whispered, “I love you” in every language. She understood each word.  His body was screaming the confession louder than his voice. The lovemaking was sensual and intense, and they were almost to culmination.

But, far in the distance, there was a clamor at the gate. She heard voices raised, and she pulled away from him in confusion. His words echoed through her. “Don’t stop loving me,” he whispered, stroking up and into her. She moaned and wrapped her arms around his shoulders tighter as his muscular arms encircled her waist.

The angry voices grew closer, and there was the crashing of bodies through the trees that surrounded the lakeside. She pulled away from him again, and he tried to draw her attention back to him, but she slipped out of his embrace and rose to her feet to face whatever was coming.

When her Maman and Baba and her brother burst through the dark green foliage to stare at her in horror and fury, Afia tried to cover her nakedness in shame. “He cannot be here!” Their words came at her from all directions, “Disgrace!” Echoing and loud, angry and overlapping, “This is no place for one such as him!”

Afia covered her ears and stumbled back into Sam’s arms. Her back was against his chest. He held up a hand between her and her angry family, and Afia looked back at him. Her eyes flew to them. She had to choose. She couldn’t keep her family and the man she loved. The disharmony caused the paradise landscape to shift and distort like a film catching fire and burning away. In terror at losing everything, she closed her eyes and her body went weightless as she fell away, sinking deeper and deeper into an endless, unfathomable darkness. She cried out in a panic, reaching for their fading faces.

She heard his voice whisper in the dense black void. “We were created of one soul.”

She sat straight up in bed, panting and breathless. The childish bedroom was dark. It took her several minutes to realize where she was and why she was there, and the dream came back to her in snatches.  She had known the minute Sam had asked her to marry him that she couldn’t have both—either she could choose to be with him or she could choose to be with her family.

Afia covered her eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to calm the emotions that lingered, feelings of loss and confusion, discord.  A sob hitched in her throat, and she swallowed it back down. She was angry…angry with her family for placing her into this predicament.  She wanted to choose Sam, but she didn’t want to lose them. She had no way to get to Sam and discuss what they should do together. She wondered if she was being a willful and spoiled child for expecting to have her cake and eat it too, defying her parents’ wishes.

She had told her mother she wouldn’t marry Jabar. She meant it. But, Afia realized with despair, she couldn’t marry Sam either. What was paradise without the joy of her family’s love and support? There was no middle ground, and she couldn’t choose. She would be with him, but she wouldn’t marry him, and she wouldn’t flaunt the relationship in front of her parents. Maybe then there would be a future in which she could have it both ways.

CHAPTER 6

Saturday evening, he put on his best suit, which was considerably nice. Sam Elison, for all his tattoos and muscles, cleaned up well when he needed to, and making a trip to the Amini household to have a much-needed chat with Afia’s folks was one of those times where making a great first impression was paramount. He stood in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the wall of his bedroom, examining his more refined self in the reflection. He folded down the collar of his crisp white shirt over a gray satin tie and snapped cufflinks at his wrists, checking the fall of the black jacket. He dusted imaginary lint from his creased black pants and ran a hand through his dark brown hair.

On the armchair next to the bed sat his closest friend, Quentin, who glanced over at him with a smirk. The burly dark brown man with a headful of neatly twisted dreadlocks was cleaning his fingernails with a switchblade. He was Sam’s right hand man, and with the leader of the biker gang en route to tussle with Afia’s parents, Quentin would be riding at the head of the gang tonight in Sam’s place. “You sure you wanna do this?” Q asked him.

“What choice do I have? They’ve got her locked up in that house, trying to keep her from me. Afia has a right to make her own decisions in life, and she chose to be with me. So, I intend to plead my case.”

Quentin chuckled. “Man, I gave up on tryin’ to talk you out of being with the Persian Princess forever ago. I’m talkin’ about are you sure you want to go into that place alone? You’ve got a whole squad behind you. Me and the rest of The Devil’s Sons would be glad for a little ride and excitement. That piss ass race out west ain’t gone keep our boys’ attention for long. The way I see it, we could lend you hand with all that pleadin’ and what not.”

Sam tittered at his friend’s sarcastic tone. “In other words,” he said, “y’all want to come in with guns blazing and ride out with the girl, right?”

Quentin shrugged, not taking his eyes off his fingernails. “If it gets the job done. No sense in pussy footin’ around.”

Sam sighed with a grin. “Sounds like a good plan. Won’t you ride out to the Widow Makers and pick up your girlfriend that same way. Come back and tell me how it works out for you,” he teased good-naturedly. Quentin shot him a look and then shook his head, chuckling.

“Rei is a different breed than your Persian Princess. Problem with Afia is she spends too much time doing what she’s told. Problem with Rei is she don’t spend enough.”

“Just try to keep the kids in line for me tonight, Q. I promise it won’t be long now before I get all this stuff situated and get back to focusing on the gang.”

“Gang’ll be there with or without us. You should think about going ahead and lettin’ Mango, Manga, whatever that fool boy calls himself, join. He’s old enough now, and I got a feeling the ranks will be thinning soon.”

“You better not step down on me yet,” Sam pointed at him. Quentin rose to his feet, considerably tall and imposing. In contrast to Sam’s suit, Q was in his Devil’s Sons vest, and a pair of dusty, comfortable jeans hung low on his hips. He was wearing combat boots, and his black tattoos glistened against his dark brown skin. He looked like a bad ass, which belied his waning interest in the lifestyle.

“Not just yet,” he muttered. “Convincing Rei to get out of the game too is about like you convincing Afia’s brother to straighten up and fly right…but, I’m pretty close to having her sold on the idea. So, maybe there’s a chance for you after all.”

Sam nodded with a soft chuckle. “I hear you.” They’d had the talk about Quentin getting tired of the lifestyle of a biker. He didn’t know how he would handle it when his best friend and confidante walked away from the motorcycle club, but Sam figured he’d better start coming up with an alternate wingman soon. He could see by the way Quentin dragged and stalled about heading out to meet with the gang that the drive just wasn’t in him anymore.

He followed Q out the bedroom door and down the stairs to the living room. It was around six in the evening, and Sam had to leave, but Quentin paused at the threshold before leaving the house and turned back to Sam with a warning. “Just be careful with that brother of hers. Word around town is he’s a desperate man. Got people after him and shit. He really doesn’t have much to lose if he decides he wants to come at you the wrong way.”

“Rayan is the least of my concerns. He’s a bully, but he’s not a threat.”

“He’s a petty thug who knows people that know people. I wouldn’t trust him. For his reputation’s sake alone, he might end up cornering you into a fight you don’t want—just to make himself look better in front of his friends. You know how to reach us if you need us. We’ll be on standby. Anything go left, call us, and we’ll get it right.”

“If I smell a fight, I surely won’t let you fellas miss out. I’ll shout you a holler,” said Sam, as he flung his car keys in the air and caught them, smiling. He waved goodbye to his friend and locked up after Quentin left. He threw on the alarm and jogged to the garage, climbing into his classic 1969 Pontiac GMO.

He would’ve preferred to tear down the highway on the back of his Victory Cross Roads, but he knew, for appearances sake, he had to take the car. When he pulled up in the driveway in front of the Amini house, Sam took a deep breath and mentally prepared himself to enter. “Just stay cool,” he said to himself. “Say what you have to say. Don’t be temperamental.”

He chuckled to himself as he climbed from the car and stood to his full height, his shoulders squared to do battle. They weren’t expecting him, and he didn’t know what to expect. When he made it to the door, he rang the bell and clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels and waiting for someone to open up and let him inside. Ostensibly, one peek through the peephole by whoever was on the other side could lead to the door not being opened, but he saw the cars in the parking lot. He knew someone was home. Sam wasn’t leaving until he had his chance to at least talk to Afia, if not her parents.

The door was swept open by a middle-aged man with full, fleshy features and suspicious eyes. Rashad Amini looked the gentleman at the door over. He didn’t know him. “May I help you?” he asked politely. Perhaps the fellow was looking for a neighbor’s house. Rashad glanced out at the classic car parked in his driveway.  Definitely not someone there for Rayan. His son’s friends tended to be a little showier.

Sam stuck out his hand and put a relaxed smile on his face. “How are you? I’m Sam Elison.”

Rashad’s ears perked up at the name, and his eyebrows came together in a scowl. “Sam Elison?” It was the name Rayan had given as the man Afia had foolishly gotten herself involved with. Rashad crossed his arms and barred Sam’s entrance. “What do you want?”

Sam squinted, undeterred. “I’m here to speak with you and your wife about Afia. I’m concerned about her. She’s very dear to me and, as I understand it, she hasn’t been allowed out of the house. You realize that’s a bit unorthodox around here.”

“What I do in my house is of no concern to you.”

“All the same, as a friend of hers, I’d hate to jump to conclusions. I just wanted to make sure she’s okay.”

Afia heard his voice from the living room. She lurched to her feet and rushed to the foyer. “Sam?” His eyes lit up at the sight of her. “What are you doing here?” she bubbled. She couldn’t hide her enthusiasm. She had missed him so much.  The dinner with Jabar had gone terribly. Her parents were so furious with her, and Rayan wasn’t speaking to her at all. She had imagined she would be forced to suffer through their angry silence all weekend. The sight of Sam was like a ray of light. But her father glowered back at her, and she stood her ground, not coming any closer.

“Now you see she is well,” Rashad spat inhospitably. He started to shut the door in the man’s face, but Sam’s considerable strength held it open.

“Yes, but there’s still the matter of that discussion we need to have.”

“My wife and I have nothing to say to you. Goodbye, Mr. Elison.”

Rayan stepped into the hallway. “Well, well, well. Look what we have here,” he slurred. “Figured you’d come calling eventually. Come to take a peek at the family harlot?”

Rashad growled his son’s name and pointed sharply at the living room. “Go back in there and silence your filthy mouth.”

Sam didn’t budge. “I’m not leaving until I’ve spoken with you.”

“I’ll call the police,” Rashad threatened.

“I won’t mind their presence, Mr. Amini. I’m not trying to make this difficult. Let’s be reasonable.”

Rashad glared out at the neighborhood, knowing his neighbors might be watching. He reluctantly waved the man inside if for no other reason than to hurry him back out the door. “Fatima!” he shouted for his wife. She came out of the kitchen with a startled look at having unexpected company. Fatima patted her dark, lustrous hair and smiled graciously, thinking Sam must be someone from Rashad’s job. Then, she noticed the look on her husband’s face.

“What’s this?” she asked, her smile wavering.

Rashad gestured to Afia. “Something your daughter has brought calling.”

Rayan giggled and sat back in his familiar seat on the living room couch. He reached between the seat cushions to pull out his trusty flask for a drink while he watched the fireworks. “Here, come sit next to me, Afia. Let’s enjoy the show together.” She glared at him.

“What are you doing here, Sam?” Afia asked again soberly. She had been thinking all week, going back and forth between what she should do about her future. She had ultimately decided she should try to adhere to her family’s wishes as much as she could, short of marrying Jabar, and she had hoped she could maintain a clandestine relationship with Sam as well.  She had no idea what to think of his visit. She stood nervously beside the couch.

Her father faced Sam. Her mother was at the archway between the living room and the kitchen. Everyone waited impatiently, and Sam studied them all, as if pondering where to start.  He smiled at Afia and replied, “I had hoped we’d be able to have this discussion with your parents under better circumstances, but after not hearing back from you, I gathered things hadn’t gone as expected when you told them about me asking you to marry me.”

Afia’s gaze flew to her feet at the shocked gasp of her mother and her father’s furious sputtering. “M-marry you?” he said in amusement, laughing angrily. Sam realized then that she hadn’t spoken to her parents about the future wedding at all. He frowned in confusion, wondering why they had locked her away, then.

“I can see it now,” Rayan quipped. “The two of you riding off on the back of that shitty little motorcycle of yours. Hey, Sam, tell Maman and Baba about your motorcycle gang.”

“He’s in a gang?” Rashad fired the question at Afia. “Really, Afia? A thug? A criminal? This is what you invite into my home?!”

“Baba, it’s not what you think,” she tried to explain.

Sam interjected, “By gang, he means motorcycle club. I’m not affiliated with any gang activity. I’m actually a mechanical engineer by profession.” He gritted his teeth, wishing he could loosen some of Rayan’s.  “Mr. and Mrs. Amini, I love Afia. I understand that you don’t know me from Adam, but I would love for us to all get to know each other better, because I intend to marry her. I know it would make Afia happy if you can find it in your hearts to give me the opportunity to show you I am a worthy mate.”

Fatima muttered angrily and turned her back on them, walking back into the kitchen with a shake of her head. “I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense.”

“I don’t care if you’re the President of the United States, you have behaved improperly with my only daughter. You can’t seriously expect me to grant you permission to tarnish her even further with this ridiculous idea of a union between the two of you. It’s obvious you’re not Islamic, Mr. Elison. You’d know the error of your ways if you were.”

Rayan chuckled softly and swallowed another swig of alcohol. “Ah, go ahead and let them be together Baba,” he slurred. “I’m positive he’s already taken her virginity.”

Afia colored, Sam’s gaze wavered, and Rashad realized his uncouth son was speaking the truth. In sheer outrage he pointed at the front door with a shaking hand. “Get. Out.”

Sam groaned inwardly, knowing there was no recovering from the blow to his integrity that Rayan had just dealt. He glowered at the cackling younger Amini. “Mr. Amini,” he tried again to get through to Afia’s father.