Three Times MORE Lucky-Six sexy tales of ménage and more by the publisher of Three Times Lucky
A crash landing leads to three hearts united. ~ Triad by Kim Carmichael
Sometimes the one that got away comes back… ~ Love Squared by Christina Ashworth
Four men and one woman discover the power of Worshiping the Goddess in a hot time travel to the ancient Celts. ~ Solera Winters
In the dark forests of the heart, love is waiting… ~ Snow by Erzabet Bishop
They may have succeeded in having a ménage by Monday, but on Tuesday, everything had gone to hell. ~ Threesome by Tuesday by Louisa Bacio
Come ride the road hard… ~ Road to Seduction by Sascha Illyvich
My excerpt from Road to Seduction –
How the fuck could she possibly have pissed off a biker gang?
Let alone one full of…
Wait for it.
After what seemed like an eternity, the red light turned green.
In twenty-nine years alive, she had never processed such an idea and couldn’t make her lips form the words.
Then, Cynthia gunned the engine on her bike and the rumble drowned out the impossible thought. She headed through a quiet neighborhood onto a major highway and let the steady hum of the cruiser’s engine attempt to settle her nerves.
Seriously? She’d done one very common thing that nobody was supposed to have seen. Her sex drive had been bothering her and she hadn’t had a man in at least six months, maybe more. What was the big deal? So, Mother Blair O’Hennessey didn’t knock on the door when she entered, and stumbled in to find Cynthia spread eagle, curved steel wand between her legs, moaning the Lord’s name.
Definitely in pleasure, but not in worship.
The fury in Mother Blair’s green eyes had been enough to melt steel and iron. Without a word, she closed the door and waited outside.
Cynthia knew Mother O’Hennessey hung around because she was quite loud when she slumped heavily against the door. She wasn’t nearly as loud as Cynthia’s moans and distracted mind.
The wind blew her hair past her while cutting across her skin. Fucking Minnesota winters. The rumble of the engine would normally have aroused her, but she kept thinking about the ridiculousness of her fear.
Outlaw biker nuns.
If they hadn’t brandished large crosses and chased her out of the sanctuary and away from that very scrumptious blond virgin with long legs, lean muscles, a youthful, yet mischievous expression and an impressive cock; if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she’d never believe such a thing could have happened.
The road swerved and took a downward slope, making her stomach jump into her throat. Cynthia downshifted, lay off the throttle and let the curve of the road take her where she wanted. Wherever it was, she had no clue. It sure as hell beat whatever the nuns had in mind for punishment, though.
Seeing the straightaway, she kicked the bike into high gear and leaned into the next curve, gripping the handlebars tight while bending forward, eyes focused on the road ahead. It didn’t matter where she ended up, as long as it was far away from the nuns’ territory.
Slowing the bike for a huge S-curve, Cynthia let the memories fade away while focusing on the drive before her. She needed to get out of Minnesota. Maybe New Mexico held promise. She had family there, didn’t she?
A distant relative. Hopefully she could stay with said relative while she regrouped over a few days and figured out a new plan. She was so not going back home to pick up her old life and her boring, dead-end job.
At least the weather wouldn’t be as cold and frigid as it was now. Wrapped in her leather jacket, hip hugging blue jeans and mid-calf level boots with two layers of socks, she kept warm, save the stinging wind in her face.
She was just about to thank the goddess for no cars on this stretch of highway when she spotted tail lights ahead.
Then the fog around her set in.
Wait, it wasn’t fog. Light rain. Damnit. Thank the gods she’d worn leather to protect her from the elements, and her helmet would provide some cover to keep her glasses dry.
Having sped down the 25, she’d left Cheyenne in a hurry to get to Colorado.
She checked her rearview mirror, then looked over her shoulder. So far, she’d lost her pursuers. Getting more distance between them would make her life easier and probably be better for her poor heart. Taking the trip for an adventurous life was one thing, but seriously? Those nuns were lunatics. Whoever heard of good Catholics being members of a biker club, let alone one that–how were they outlaws again?
Oh right. They couldn’t tell her. They were bound by some ancient text allegedly passed down by some saint as the word of—what was it?
She shook her head, no longer caring about minor details.
Moving quickly through that state would get her far enough from those crazy bitches and give her space to think about her next move.
The car’s lights seemed to creep closer. Rusty gray, paint chipping in places, she spotted the out-of-state license plate and figured that the bastard didn’t know the area, which was why it was going so damned slow. Cynthia held her breath, slowed down until she was right behind the offending vehicle. Unable to yell at the moron, she glanced past the dumpy Ford and saw nothing in the opposite lane. She slowed more to put distance between her and the car. When she felt comfortable enough, she gunned the engine, swerved to the left, passed the car and cracked a grin at the offending slow-poke moron.
Turning her head just in time to hear the blare of a semi’s horn, she cut the piece of fuck Ford off, only to hear another loud horn blast before increasing her speed. The sound of tires screeching startled her and made her grip the bike tighter.
Now, adrenaline coursed through her veins at maximum speed. Cynthia wasn’t a biker, far from it, but the rush of riding the open roads felt freeing, made her realize she’d been living a lie the past five years. Her plain, well-paying office job bored her. The same commute to work, day in and day out, had begun to drive her mad. Cynthia needed to get out and see the world; she wanted to travel and have adventures.
Of course, nearly getting smashed by a speeding eighteen-wheeler had her heart pounding fast enough that she thought for a second it might burst through her chest.
As if that’d happen.
She’d get hit by the shit-ass Ford, first.
Cynthia shook her head, pulled herself back to the reality of the road. Concentration was paramount now that the sky had darkened to a shade of gray. She spotted a sign for a rest area up ahead and decided a few minutes rest would let her gather her wits to calm down from the near death experience.
Cynthia pulled the bike off the freeway, found a parking spot near the restroom and covered area, then turned off the engine. Removing her helmet, she shook out her hair, dismounted from the bike, set the helmet on the seat, and strolled toward the covering, annoyed at the falling mist.
The building façade was stone and hopefully provided a clean restroom.
Nothing would compare to the spotlessness of the Sanctuary. Then again, nothing would compare to being chased by outlaw biker nuns, either.
Striding into the tourism building, she flung open the glass door, looked down the hall to her left, and saw nothing but a rack with a bunch of brochures for Wyoming. Why anyone would visit this state in December was beyond her. It was downright frigid.
Luckily, it hadn’t started snowing yet.
She spotted a sign to her right, indicating the restrooms.
Tired, and with a hitch in her step, her legs sore from sitting for the past three hours, Cynthia made her way into the restroom, leaned over the sink and looked into the mirror. Lifting up her glasses revealed just how tired she was. She turned the tap on. A quick blast of water to her face woke her up.
This morning’s escape had sapped her energy. She’ had to run out quickly, taking only what she could shove in the knapsack of the bike she stole.
Oh yeah, she forgot about the fact that she’d stolen Mother Blair’s bike.
The big hog would need to be returned.
On the one hand, her driving skills were unmatched. But on a bike, the feel was different, the closeness of the road below her, the tires gripping the asphalt gave her a different sensation when she rode; one she hadn’t acclimated to yet.
So, it was by luck that she ditched the main freeway and lost the nuns only hours ago.
The last two hours, she kept checking over her shoulder and in her rearview mirror to see if they had picked up her trail.
The door behind her opened, Cynthia felt a chill and her stomach clench in fear. Two large women, both wearing leather and smelling of stale tobacco and whiskey walked into the restroom, boots clicking against the tile floor.
Cynthia ducked her head, splashed water on her face once more and dried her hands quickly, then slid her glasses back on before making her way to the door.
She didn’t bother to turn around, but she stopped, hand on the handle of the door. Her pulse quickened, breath hitched. “Yeah?”
“You look like someone we’re searching for. Know anything about that bike out there? We ain’t seen Mother Blair ‘round heah.”
The Southern drawl threw Cynthia off. She hadn’t expected to find anyone from the South this far west, but then again, these women didn’t look like they were from around this area. The shorter, heavier one had her brunette hair pulled back tight into a long ponytail. Her cut said biker, but Cynthia didn’t recognize the name. Blue jeans and thigh length black boots only added to the image and scent of danger around this woman. The scowl on her face didn’t help, either.
“I don’t know anything about that.” She choked the words out, coughing and making sure to keep her face hidden. Yanking the door open, she took one step through the exit before being stopped by a large hand clapping her on the shoulder.
“Good. If you see her, tell her Mad Dog and Fish were looking for her.”
Cynthia forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat. “Yes. If I knew who you were talking about, I’d surely pass along the message.” Her voice sounded meek to her ears. Good call, this adventure thing.
“If we find out someone stole her bike…there’ll be hell to pay.”
The one closest to Cynthia stepped forward, putting her fist to her chest. “You know what they say about a mad dog, don’t’cha?”
“No.” Cynthia shook her head.
“A mad dog always gets what it wants.”
Again, she let her words come out as more a whisper. “I’ll remember that.”
“You best. Now git.”
Cynthia ran out of the restroom, back into the cold. She frowned when she saw the first snowflakes hit the ground and begin to color the pavement. Shit.
How the fuck did bikers travel in the snow?
And how was she going to take off with those two lug-nuts hanging around?
Jingling the keys in her pocket, she waited a full minute before deciding that her best course of action was to just hop on the cruiser and take off, hoping those two were just as dumb as she wanted them to be.
In her fantasy adventure, this wasn’t part of the fun. This was scary.
Those two women loomed without even being close to her. Well, until Mad Dog cuffed her on the shoulder. Then she very much asserted her size and status.
Screw it. In a dramatic fashion, Cynthia fingered the keys, palmed them, then headed for the bike. She grabbed her helmet, slid it on, straddled the bike, checked her mirrors and plugged the keys in. Before she started the engine, she looked around, heart nearly in her throat. Back out, gun it and hit the highway? Or do something to slow the two butch bitches down, since at any moment, they could walk out and spot her on Mother O’Hennessey’s bike, and catch her in the obvious lie.
But the snow…
Cursing herself for her lack of preparation, Cynthia looked up at the sky and groaned. She hadn’t bothered to read the weather reports. Having been on the road for the last few months had taught her a lot of things, but Cynthia was lax in some of the more basic ideas, such as tuning in to the local weather channels to gauge riding conditions.
Zipping her leather coat up tight around her neck, she still felt her heart pounding in her throat.
Then she spotted the cause of her adrenaline spike. One booted foot stepped out of the tourist building, followed by a long, thickly muscled leg, followed by another. “Hey! That’s Mother O’Hennessey’s bike! You’re the bitch we’ve been looking for!”
Both women started running toward Cynthia.
She didn’t wait around. She revved the engine, gunned it and nearly lost her balance as she spun the bike out of the parking lot and zoomed across the stretch of road until she cut across gravel and grass onto the main highway.
Soon, two more bikes had hopped on her tail. Cynthia swallowed. Those two goons were a lot better on a motorcycle than she was, had been riding longer, probably. She cursed herself again for only having picked up this hobby when she decided to leave Minnesota and her old life behind. So, total?
Four months of riding experience.
Not wasting any time, Cynthia put the cruiser into high gear and kept her eyes on the road, rather than looking in her rearview mirror or checking nervously behind her. The mistake could cost her, she knew that much.
Of course, when gunshots went off, Cynthia remembered what she’d heard somewhere. Serpentine.
She began weaving in and out of the two-lane stretch of highway, her heart pounding in time with each bullet that ricocheted off the ground. Fuck! They were aiming for her tires!
“What the fuck kind of biker gang full of nuns carries weapons?”
She didn’t waste time finding out. Spotting a semi coming in the opposite direction, Cynthia forced her nerves to quiet. Maybe the large truck could provide some cover if she swerved around it.
Headlights flashed, a horn honked and Cynthia swerved off the road and onto the shoulder, the loud roar of the engine nearly deafening her. Wind bit into her cheeks from the speeding truck.
“Focus, Cynthia. Your life is on the line here!” She tore her gaze from the truck that zoomed past her and back to the road. Steering the bike back on the highway, she kept her eyes peeled for an exit ramp, hoping to lose these two chicks like she had the nuns earlier.
Bullets kept punching the pavement near her, but thankfully none had even come close to the tires. What kind of shots were these two broads, anyway?
Cynthia’s one good skill, the one her deadbeat ex taught her, was how to handle a firearm and never miss her target. But this wasn’t a home invasion or a range, and she didn’t have her gun on her.
Left it back at the Sanctuary.
The roaring of two motorcycles grew louder. Shit, they were catching up.
While she had always wanted to live on the edge, this wasn’t quite what she pictured.
Damnit. Cynthia had an idea, but it was the new version of her speaking in her mind.
Spin around and charge them. They’ll split up and have to regroup. Then you can lose them.
That’s for you to figure out, genius. I’m just the new, adventurous you.
Letting out a sigh, Cynthia looked ahead; saw no cars in the opposite lane. It was worth a shot. She was dead if she didn’t try something, right?
Her bike seemed to be slowing down.
Looking at the gas tank, Cynthia cursed her luck one more time. Empty. She was surely dead now. Maybe she could talk her way out of this. She remembered Mad Dog telling her that she always got what she wanted.
The bike slowed and she heard the dreaded sound of two more motorcycles coming up behind her. Pulling off to the side of the road, Cynthia reached into her pocket, felt for her cigar torch and found it, sighing in relief when she wrapped her cold fingers around the metal case. She stopped, hopped off the bike, and slid her other hand in her pocket. She made sure to remove the lid from the gas tank.
The two brute women followed suit, each dismounting and pointing pistols at her. “You lied to us.” Mad Dog pointed at the bike. “You’re not only a thief, but you’re the one we was told to keep an eye out for. So, hand over the keys and we will kill you quickly.”
Cynthia shook her head, praying silently that she could escape unscarred and unharmed.
“What do you mean no? You dumb, bitch? Or do you have a death wish?”
False bravado had helped her out in the past. Maybe it would save her bacon again. “Neither. You’re not killing me.”
“What do you mean? I have a gun. Fish has a gun. Everybody but you, got a gun.” She started laughing. Fish, the taller, slightly leaner woman actually had two guns, both pointed at Cynthia.
Fear made her heart hammer against her ribcage, but she forced herself through the pain and made her mouth work. “If you come closer, I will spark this, and drop it into the gas tank, blowing us all to bits.” She smiled.
“You’re not that batshit. Ripping off La Familia is one thing, but you’re not an outlaw.” Mad Dog stepped closer, gun still pointed at Cynthia’s chest.
With a flick of her wrist, Cynthia popped the top off her zippo. “You know these are good for life, right?”
Fish took a step forward, her leather jacket creaking when she adjusted her aim. Her eyes narrowed. “I could drop you now and save us both the trouble.”
A chill raced through Cynthia from that angry stare, but she held her ground. “You probably want the bike back more than my life. Don’t you?”
Both women nodded.
“Put the guns down. I’ll return it. Just let me get out of here and get where I’m going.” She moved her thumb over the wheel of the zippo. “I will get the bike back to Mother O’Hennessey. I promise.”
Neither woman made a move.
“Are you deaf or just stupid? I’m not kidding!” Cynthia’s voice raised, her agitation increasing at the stupidity of these two airheads. She bent forward, sparked her lighter to show just how serious she was.
The two women backed up. “You’re going to get a lot more than just us on your ass if you do that.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to die today.” Cynthia held the lighter closer, mentally counting her stars and thanking whatever gods existed that the first sparks didn’t land anywhere near the tank. “I only want to get away. You two can ride another day.”
Mad Dog holstered her handgun. “Fine. But this isn’t over.”
Fish followed suit and both mounted their bikes. Engines revved, they peeled out and zoomed down the highway and out of sight.
Cynthia sank to her knees, the cold, wet ground beneath her soaking her jeans. She wanted to scream her thanks at the luck of her situation, but then the two idiots might come back and shoot her.
They didn’t have to know that her zippo was a cigar torch, not a soft flame lighter.
But now what? The bike was out of gas, town was gods only knew how far away, and the snowfall had increased. She had some money. Remembering her cellphone, she reached into her pocket to pull it out, only to sigh in frustration at the fact that she had no service.
Maybe, just maybe she could make it back to the tourist stop and call AAA.
Straddling the bike, she turned the engine and it clicked, but refused to start. She looked again at the gas gauge, aware that sometimes they were wrong as a preventative measure.
Nope. Completely empty.
She had one move. Wait a few minutes for Butch and the Sundance dyke to get far enough away so she could begin pushing this monstrosity back to the tourist shop, or walk and hope the bike didn’t get stolen.
Cynthia chose to push the bike back to the tourist spot. It couldn’t be more than a few miles.
The wind howled, and snow started pelting her eyes.
“Fuck my life.”