Forbidden (Devil's Sons Motorcycle Club Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: Kathryn Thomas
speakers, she put up her arms with a gleeful exclamation. The track looped a wailing soprano voice before seguing with the beat and an American crooner singing about exotic enticement.
Afia's hips swayed in a characteristic Persian dance. Her shoulders shifted up and down and her hands flourished with mesmerizing sweeps of her arms. She caught the rhythm of the music, undulated down to the floor, and then shimmied back up. Her torso moved sinuously, her cardigan sliding down off her shoulders and whispering to the floor as the crowd sent up a cheer for more, and Bionca helpfully snatched the sweater out of the way.
Afia realized she was getting scads of attention and grinned in amusement. She twirled around in a circle and continued to work her hips. Her hands told a story. They said, "Look at my face. Follow my feet. See my femininity."
She very subtly rolled her stomach, hips shifting right to left. Sam's eyes followed every movement. There was an understated sexiness to the dance that teased at his masculine awareness. He had seen his share of skilled strippers and rump shakers, but what Afia was doing with her body elevated seduction to an art form. His eyes begged for her to get less inhibited; yet, she held to the playfulness that had other men ogling her as closely as he was. He cleared his throat and shifted positions against the wall.
"Who is she?" Quentin asked. Sam looked to his burly black biker friend who had sidled up next to him while he was watching Afia. "She keeps lookin' over here at you."
"I noticed," Sam said with a half-smile.
Quentin drew his fingers over his short and kinky, auburn-tipped Afro and let out a whistle of appreciation at the hot chick working the dance floor. "She know you the leader of the roughest, toughest motorcycle club this side of the desert?"
"The Devil's Sons," Sam said with a sigh.
"Wholesome girl like that might wanna leave a wolf like you alone."
"You know me, Q. When I get a hankering, it ain't easy to call it quits."
"Yeah, I know. But, you're a good man, regardless of your bad boy act. You'll do the right thing. Leave her alone, bro. Come on. I got a bottle of Widow Jane with your name on it."
Quentin's chuckle rumbled deep in his wide chest. He stretched, showing off dark black skin etched with pictures, muscles bulging in the black t-shirt that clung to his monstrous body like second nature. The loose fitting black jeans and Timberland boots gave him an edgy look, especially combined with his height and size. He looked like he could rip a man from limb to limb, and he could. All of The Devil's Sons were forces to be reckoned with.
Besides Quentin, there was Kaleidoscope, the crimson-haired French national with an eye for beautiful bikes. She rode a modified vintage Indian Chief the same shade as her hair. Tokyo was a genius college kid who knew Japanese bikes better than he knew anything, and his brother Manga was antsy to join the gang, too. But, at eighteen, Sam still considered Manga too young. Then, there was Brick, the Southern Boy Wonder. He was a cornbread-fed redneck as big as the state of Texas who could end a fight by just stepping up, weighing in at close to three-hundred pounds of pure muscle and bad mood.
The crew had enemies, rival biker clubs, but for the most part they stuck to themselves. Sam had found the quickest way to make a name was to not make noise. He stared after Quentin who ambled back to their booth. He looked over to Afia who seemed like a misplaced light in the dimly lit biker bar. He was aware it was in her best interest for him to fade out of her life before he ever took a foothold. Chances were, he wouldn't fit into her world any more than she fit into his.
He sighed and forced one foot in front of the other as the song ended and she clung to Bionca, the both of them laughing like they were having a blast. He walked to them, thinking he'd just say it was nice meeting
Afia's hips swayed in a characteristic Persian dance. Her shoulders shifted up and down and her hands flourished with mesmerizing sweeps of her arms. She caught the rhythm of the music, undulated down to the floor, and then shimmied back up. Her torso moved sinuously, her cardigan sliding down off her shoulders and whispering to the floor as the crowd sent up a cheer for more, and Bionca helpfully snatched the sweater out of the way.
Afia realized she was getting scads of attention and grinned in amusement. She twirled around in a circle and continued to work her hips. Her hands told a story. They said, "Look at my face. Follow my feet. See my femininity."
She very subtly rolled her stomach, hips shifting right to left. Sam's eyes followed every movement. There was an understated sexiness to the dance that teased at his masculine awareness. He had seen his share of skilled strippers and rump shakers, but what Afia was doing with her body elevated seduction to an art form. His eyes begged for her to get less inhibited; yet, she held to the playfulness that had other men ogling her as closely as he was. He cleared his throat and shifted positions against the wall.
"Who is she?" Quentin asked. Sam looked to his burly black biker friend who had sidled up next to him while he was watching Afia. "She keeps lookin' over here at you."
"I noticed," Sam said with a half-smile.
Quentin drew his fingers over his short and kinky, auburn-tipped Afro and let out a whistle of appreciation at the hot chick working the dance floor. "She know you the leader of the roughest, toughest motorcycle club this side of the desert?"
"The Devil's Sons," Sam said with a sigh.
"Wholesome girl like that might wanna leave a wolf like you alone."
"You know me, Q. When I get a hankering, it ain't easy to call it quits."
"Yeah, I know. But, you're a good man, regardless of your bad boy act. You'll do the right thing. Leave her alone, bro. Come on. I got a bottle of Widow Jane with your name on it."
Quentin's chuckle rumbled deep in his wide chest. He stretched, showing off dark black skin etched with pictures, muscles bulging in the black t-shirt that clung to his monstrous body like second nature. The loose fitting black jeans and Timberland boots gave him an edgy look, especially combined with his height and size. He looked like he could rip a man from limb to limb, and he could. All of The Devil's Sons were forces to be reckoned with.
Besides Quentin, there was Kaleidoscope, the crimson-haired French national with an eye for beautiful bikes. She rode a modified vintage Indian Chief the same shade as her hair. Tokyo was a genius college kid who knew Japanese bikes better than he knew anything, and his brother Manga was antsy to join the gang, too. But, at eighteen, Sam still considered Manga too young. Then, there was Brick, the Southern Boy Wonder. He was a cornbread-fed redneck as big as the state of Texas who could end a fight by just stepping up, weighing in at close to three-hundred pounds of pure muscle and bad mood.
The crew had enemies, rival biker clubs, but for the most part they stuck to themselves. Sam had found the quickest way to make a name was to not make noise. He stared after Quentin who ambled back to their booth. He looked over to Afia who seemed like a misplaced light in the dimly lit biker bar. He was aware it was in her best interest for him to fade out of her life before he ever took a foothold. Chances were, he wouldn't fit into her world any more than she fit into his.
He sighed and forced one foot in front of the other as the song ended and she clung to Bionca, the both of them laughing like they were having a blast. He walked to them, thinking he'd just say it was nice meeting
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