Filthy Daddy

  Filthy Daddy

  Satan’s Saints Motorcycle Club, Book 2

  Bella Love-Wins

  COPYRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Filthy Daddy - Satan’s Saints Motorcycle Club Book 2

  Copyright © 2017 Bella Love-Wins.

  Written by Bella Love-Wins.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Contents

  Blurb

  Prologue - Molly

  1. Tate

  2. Tate

  3. Tate

  4. Tate

  5. Molly

  6. Molly

  7. Tate

  8. Molly

  9. Molly

  10. Tate

  11. Molly

  12. Tate

  13. Molly

  14. Tate

  15. Tate

  16. Molly

  17. Tate

  18. Tate

  19. Molly

  20. Tate

  21. Molly

  22. Molly

  23. Molly

  24. Tate

  25. Tate

  26. Molly

  27. Molly

  28. Tate

  29. Tate

  30. Molly

  31. Tate

  Author’s General Note

  Would You Like More of These MC Couples?

  Check out Ruin Me, Mac’s Story

  Check out Risk Me, LeVan’s Story

  Check out Rule You, Sly’s Story

  Get Your FREE Bella Love-Wins Read!

  Other Books by Bella Love-Wins

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  About Bella Love-Wins

  Blurb

  FROM FILTHY BIKER TO...PROTECTIVE DADDY?

  Tate

  I was nothing and had no one. Trouble with a capital T until the Satan's Saints MC found me. They picked me up from the gutter and gave me purpose. Showed me I could put my top three talents to good use.

  My ABCs.

  Automatic weapons.

  Breaking bones.

  Cracking computer code.

  Years later, we leave the underground life behind. We may have stopped skirting the law, but trouble still has a way of finding us.

  Then the woman I've been messing with becomes a target. On the surface, she's a good girl. A law-abiding nursing student with a promising future ahead of her. Beneath that outer layer, she's sassy and smart-mouthed, a kinky sex kitten I can't get enough of.

  But one sharp tug on the fabric of her past and everything unravels.

  I keep denying she means something to me... until the inevitable happens.

  I find out she's carrying my baby. The only piece of me that's good.

  Now, nothing and no one will stop me from holding on to what's mine.

  Filthy Daddy is a full-length (54,000 words) standalone MC Romance with no cliffhanger and a guaranteed happy ever after ending.

  Trigger content warning: This story contains sensitive scenes and topics that may be disturbing to some readers.

  Prologue - Molly

  I can’t draw a full breath. My mind can’t think past his voice crooning in my ear, promising all kinds of sexual wickedness if I follow his orders. I keep my mouth shut. I can’t un-hear what he said downstairs. His double standard is pissing me off. Why the hell should I agree to say I’m his? I push my ass backward, rolling my hips on the bulge of his rigid cock. There will be hell to pay for my silence.

  I’ll enjoy it either way.

  “Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” Tate’s displeasure pours through his tone. I’m hot from head to toe and goosebumps are prickling across my flesh. “You just had to make it hard for yourself. Fine. Have it your way, little hellcat. I’ll teach you exactly who owns you.”

  His voice is deep and dangerous, low in his throat as he runs his fingers down the front of my body, all the way down until he stops at my mound. Heat and need spread through my system, and I part my legs a little when his fingertips start to circle my clit through my yoga pants. Then he lets go of me and exits the room. I turn and sit on the bed, asking myself whether he plans to come back at all, or if his leaving is part of his punishment. I want to know how far he’ll take this, given that I have to be at work soon.

  But don’t get very long to question his intentions. He returns and slams the door shut. The way his arm is behind his back, I know he has something hidden.

  Tate comes to me and stands between my legs. “I want you in that bed. On your hands and knees. Now.”

  I hear some sort of clinking metal. As I crawl into bed and get into position across the width of the mattress, I try to guess what it is from the sound. Even not knowing has me aroused. My clit is throbbing, my panties are soaked, my nipples are sensitive against my tank top, and every small sensation seems magnified from just anticipation.

  That and the crazy chemistry between us.

  He mutters something that I can’t hear and stands behind me. “If you know what’s good for you, doll, you’ll do exactly as I say. I’m not above making you scream for the whole clubhouse to hear. Don’t move from that spot until I’m done with you.”

  It’s heaven and hell rolled up into one, keeping myself in place while I let him have every bit of control over my body. He knows how much I enjoy this type of play. Except I’m out of my element, not knowing what toy he’s brought out while in a room I’ve never been in before. Given his mood. It’ll hurt. I hope it hurts.

  He slaps my ass with his open palm a few times. I feel the movement of air as he turns away from the bed. Glancing around, I look over at him.

  “I saw that,” he barks. “That’s strike one. Three strikes and you don’t get to cum at all tonight.”

  My ass cheek still burns from his spanking, which I know isn’t even close to full power. That sting from his palm against my ass causes me to angle my hips to find a comfortable position, but that won’t happen, not now that he wants me off center and uncomfortable.

  “Fuck, yes. It’s time to make you say it,” he says, sounding gleeful.

  Anticipation causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. I bite down on my bottom lip, curious as he makes me wait, listening attentively through the tense silence. Finally, the mattress lowers from the weight of his body as he presses his knees on either side of my legs. I swallow the hint of my fear as his hands graze over the sides of my waist. He grips the waistband of my pants and drags it down to my knees taking my panties with it. Cold air hits my skin and licks me in intimate places. I fight the urge to squirm beneath his heated gaze. He can see everything, including my obvious arousal.

  He parts my legs wide, hovering a violet wand a couple of feet from my head for me to see. I want to scream. I want to frantically resist the electric jolt he threatens to deliver on my sensitive flesh. And I also want to feel the sting of pain. God, how I want it, but it seems like Tate is all threat and no follow-through tonight. I open my mouth to beg him to please just do what we always do. I need our routine, but as I turn and meet his eyes, I know that won’t happen. It’s right there on his face. He has no plans to get into our usual play, and he probably won’t until this Jett scare is over. I’m mildly annoyed that he’s playing it safe. He’s soft and tame, using the threat of everything we’re used to doing without actually doing it.

  I’m beside myself with need, slick and longing for him, my skin blazing with heat and desire, my whole body awake and alive.

  “Please,” I beg as he moves the wand away without using it.

  “You’ll open your mouth for that, but not to tell me what I told you to say?” Tate tugs on the cord of the wand, nudgi
ng the prongs out of the electrical socket. He trails the powerless device along my skin, and I moan. There’s no pain, but I’m so desperate for his touch that my senses are heightened all over me. He uses the wand to circle the handprint on my right ass cheek from his spanking. I lower my torso to the bed and tilt my hips, raising my ass higher for more of his touch.

  “Say it,” he demands. “Say it if you want me to bury my cock into your tight, wet pussy and take you the way you like it. Or not. Your choice.”

  I whimper a sound, but I don’t say what he wants to hear. I shouldn’t resist. But it’s what we do. As I lie there with the comforter rubbing my sensitive nipples through my bra, I know I’m extending the inevitable, making every second total agony. There’s also the chance that he’ll stop altogether if we run out of time. I just can’t say it yet.

  His fingers slide along my lower back, drawing me away from my thoughts as they glide along my waistline. As they pass the hem at my stomach, he pulls me ass back. I feel his free, full, thick cock at my upper thigh. Tate lifts my tank top past my breasts, unhooks my bra, and cups each beast with rough hands that make my nipples harden to pebbles.

  He grinds his cock into my ass cheeks, trailing the tip along my seam in a slow, teasing motion, showing me what I wish he was doing deep inside me. I’m losing my mind, whimpering and writhing on the bed beneath him. The words are on my lips. I just can’t form the sound to get them out.

  Tate snatches a handful of my hair. “Tell me what I want to hear, or this goes away,” he taunts me, his hot breath tickling my neck. “Just. Two. Little. Words.”

  My body bows and bucks beneath him, silently screaming out for an orgasm. He teases one nipple, twisting it as his cock dips between my inner thighs, testing my resolve without giving me what I want. The sharp sting of almost-but-not-really-there contact takes me close to the edge. Close, but not close enough.

  “Please,” I whisper through the ache.

  Tate jerks my head back slightly, still holding a thick handful of my hair in his fist. “That sounds like strike two.”

  I’m so close. One thrust of his cock into me will probably send me over the edge. Which the bastard knows already. Tate releases my hair and slaps my ass cheek again—harder than the last time. And again. And again. I’m beside myself and no longer know up from down. My need flares from the sweet, painful heat that has me gasping for air and so fucking close.

  “Say it…” his coaxing makes me groan. Still, no words come out of my lips. “I can make it worse for you.”

  He can. Of that, I’m sure.

  Chapter 1

  Tate

  Fifteen Years Ago

  I crane my neck and look up into the big man’s eyes. My dusty fists are raised, and my legs are shoulder width apart, knees bent. My eyes squint on their own, fighting to block out the blinding Nevada sun. I need to be ready.

  This brawl wasn’t part of my plan. A face-off with the President of the Satan Saints Motorcycle Club was not my intention. I only know he’s Pres because of the patch sewn into the breast of his leather vest. And I know which club he belongs to because I’ve seen them all roll into town enough times before.

  Shit. This beast of a man is sure to leave me bruised and maybe even unconscious for days, but I have no choice.

  I have to fight.

  My fate was sealed five minutes ago. I was sitting cross-legged on the dingy sidewalk, my back pressed against a concrete wall of a convenience store that hadn’t opened yet. One of his men accidentally kicked and crushed the thing I hold most dear to me in this world. It’s a tiny, outdated laptop, protected only by a thin canvas bag I keep slung over my shoulder. My laptop is slow as fuck, but it’s mine. My everything. It’s my only treasure, a means to escape from living on the streets, a distraction in between fighting for scraps just to survive another day.

  Now it’s trashed. And the inconsiderate fuck who kicked it doesn’t even have the decency to apologize for what he did. Which is why I got to my feet and decided to take a stand, my shouting slurs and facing off with his Pres. This goon needs to take notice. I understand the game, and although I’m taking a huge risk, I’m ready to play.

  Fear and anger well up in me, but I push them down and wait for the douchebag’s Pres to make his move. Two things I’ve learned from years in foster care and several more on the streets are to have a level head when I start a fight and to assess my opponent before doling out the first strike. In this case, I might need more time than usual. The man’s huge, for starters. Strong as a fucking ox. He stands there, feet planted on the hot asphalt a few feet from his bike, anchored like a fucking tree that won’t budge. And me? I’m a scrawny, wiry, malnourished, homeless teen. Anywhere I hit him is gonna hurt me more when he responds in kind.

  But the time for me to back away and run is long gone. His biker goons surround me on all sides, waiting for their big boss to make a public example of me.

  I take a breath and make my move, charging toward him with everything I have. If I can just get him to the ground, I’ll have a chance. At a minimum, my point will be made.

  My point?

  Just because I’m literally a piece of human trash living on the streets with no one in my corner, doesn’t give his men any right to treat me or my shit that way. Not without a consequence. Even if I’ll likely feel those consequences way more than the big man ever will.

  But I find out real fast that I must be deluded about my slim chances. Somehow, he loops an arm under my elbow and spins me around, disabling me with brute strength when he locks my hand behind my body. I can’t move unless I hurt my arm or dislocate my shoulder to break free.

  He turns me just enough so I can see his face, and his broad, heavy hand lands on my shoulder.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, kid?” he asks in a big rumbling voice.

  I should be afraid for my life, but I’m not. “Taking a stand.”

  “Why?”

  “That asshole over there who works for you just broke my shit,” I shout.

  “It was an accident.”

  I jerk my body to one side and try to pull from his hold. “Then make him apologize. Make him fork out the cash so I can fix it.”

  “Stop fidgeting around, or you’ll break your own arm.”

  “Let me go, and that won’t happen.” I insist.

  He gives me a rough shake to quiet my movements, quickly showing me I’m not much more than a rag doll in his grasp, a weak puppet compared to the power he has over me right now. “What do I have to do with my guy breaking your shit?”

  “You’re his boss, Pres,” I say, eyeing the patch on his leather cut. “He has to do what you tell him.”

  “And how exactly do you know that?”

  “I know your kind,” I grumble. “You’re the head of the snake and all that crap. The only chance I have of getting justice is through you.”

  The sides of his eyes crease and his lips crack, exposing the slightest smile. But he’s not smiling with me. I’m entertainment for this big old bastard. “You call swinging those weak little arms of yours getting justice?”

  “It beats letting that asshole get away with it.”

  In my periphery, I notice the prick who damaged my laptop taking a step forward, but the President stops him with a glance and a shake of his head.

  “I don’t have time for this, but let me get this straight,” the Pres says. “My guy breaks your piece of shit toy, and you want to throw a fit with me? The man holding the power?”

  I shrink to make myself small and manage to shrug out of his grasp. But I don’t back away. Instead, I lift my laptop out of my bag. Two letter keys from the keyboard fall to the ground as I open the lid, and I swear under my breath. The screen is cracked, but it lights up when I press the power button to take the processor out of snooze mode.

  “This ain’t no toy,” I tell the Pres.

  “Looks like it to me.”

  “Yeah? Give me half an hour with a network connection or
a phone line. I’ll know everything there is to know about you from only your motorcycle plate number.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “You want to take that chance? The Meadows Library on West Boston is opening in fifteen minutes. I’ll show you what I can do with this toy right here. If your clumsy goon didn’t already break it beyond repair.”

  “How exactly do you get that kind of information?” he probes.

  “What do I look like? DeVry College? I’m not giving away trade secrets.”

  “I get it. You’re a hacker. What are you doing out here, anyway?”

  “Waiting for a library to open.”

  “No, I mean why are you out here, living on the streets like this? Like an animal? Where are your parents?”

  “I don’t got none,” I say, eyes dropping to the ground. “My mother’s dead. Never knew my old man.”

  “You don’t have to be out here. There are places—”

  “If you’re talking about group homes, youth shelters or foster care, then trust me, I’m much safer out here.” I don’t know why, but something in his eyes tells me I can trust him. But not just that, he has this look that makes me want to tell him everything I’ve been through. That’s never happened before. Before I realize what I’m doing, I stretch the neckline of my t-shirt and show him the cigarette burn tracks made by my last foster dad. “Unless you call taking shit like this safe.”