Naked for the Knuckleheads (erotic MC club motorcycle romance) Read online

  Naked for the Knuckleheads

  By Simone Scarlet

  Copyright © 2014 Simone Scarlet

  The right of Simone Scarlet to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which in it published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  Prologue

  This was not how the weekend had supposed to be going.

  When Sara had planned her getaway to Las Vegas, with best-friend Melissa in tow, the worst thing she’d expected to get up to was losing a few too many hands of blackjack. Maybe (and this was a big maybe) sticking some singles into the waistband of some greasy male stripper’s thong.

  But somewhere along the line, those plans had got derailed.

  And now Sara found herself where she’d never expected to be – straddling the back of a roaring Harley Davidson as it purred down the strip at 5:30am.

  Everything about this situation was out of her comfort zone.

  The bike itself might not have been such a stretch (hell, her own brother grew up riding Harleys.) But when she’d ridden with him it had been in jeans and boots.

  Tonight? The short little dress Sara was wearing was totally inappropriate for riding on a bike. Her bare ass was pressed against the warm leather of the Harley’s seat, and she could feel every vibration of the rumbling bike against her naked skin. It was incredibly distracting; like riding a vibrator.

  And to make matters more distracting? Sara’s arms were wrapped around the muscular bulk of a tattooed biker as she rode, and her head was pressed against the leather of his waistcoat.

  Every time she breathed in, her nostrils were filled with the scent of cologne, leather and man-musk. She clung like a limpet to the big, handsome man guiding the bike down the road – and man who was making her think wildly inappropriate things.

  She couldn’t believe she was doing this. She was happily married. The mother of two small kids. She had a whole suburban life and family, waiting for her back home in New Jersey.

  But somehow, events had spiraled out of control – and now she was on her own.

  Except for Melissa, of course.

  As the traffic lights ahead turned red, the bike she was riding on the back of purred to a halt, and another menacing Harley pulled up alongside it.

  On the back of that one – in a similarly inappropriate dress, and desperately clutching her purse, was Melissa – Sara’s best friend.

  Her long, blond hair was a windswept mess, and she had to pull it from her eyes to look across towards Sara.

  “A-are you okay?” Sara cried over the ‘dug-dug-dug’ of the rumbling engines.

  “I’m fine,” Melissa purred, her cheeks pink and her eyes dilated from a night filled with cocktails. She squeezed the bulk of the man driving the bike she was riding. “I-I’ve only got one problem,” she admitted.

  “What’s that?” Sara cried.

  Melissa winked: “If this bike keeps vibrating like this,” she slurred, still slightly drunk, “I’m going to leave a wet patch on the seat.”

  And then the lights turned green, and the Harley roared off down the strip.

  The man piloting Sara’s Harley did the same, and soon the wind was making Sara’s luxurious black hair flap around her face.

  She tightened her grip on the shoulders of the man in front of her, and buried her face into his back.

  She had to admit, Melissa wasn’t alone with her problem.

  Feeling this powerful, throbbing machine between her bare thighs?

  If she wasn’t careful, she was going to cum before they hit the next lot of traffic lights.

  Chapter One

  So how did a loyal, loving housewife and mother like Sara end up on the back of a stranger’s Harley, being driven down the Las Vegas strip at sun-up?

  Well, years later, when she looked back and analyzed every stage of that evening, Sara would come to accept that it had been the martinis that had fucked things up.

  * * *

  It was a Friday evening in Las Vegas.

  Sara Bucconi and her best friend, Melissa Turner, had checked into their room at the Tropicana, and were both getting dressed up for dinner.

  “This,” said Melissa, spritzing herself with Lolita Tempika, “is going to be epic.”

  And she would know. She and Sara had shared more than a few ‘epic’ nights way back when; from when they’d both been wild party girls living on Long Island.

  Ten years earlier, they might have been spending their Friday night doing something similar – getting ready to go out clubbing together; something which had normally resulted in Melissa bringing home some strange guy and banging him in their hotel room.

  But that was ten years and 2,000 miles away.

  Tonight? Sara and Melissa were hoping for a massage, a mani and maybe ten hours of sleep without somebody crying out for “Mamma!” in the middle of it.

  But as they flustered around in their hotel room – wearing bra and panties, and with suitcases open on the beds – Sara felt a sudden burst of nostalgia that inspired her to try and recapture the magic of the old days.

  “Hey, do you want to maybe hit the casino after dinner?”

  Melissa turned to her and put her hands on her not-insubstantial hips.

  Melissa was a tall, full-figured blonde; with shoulder-length hair and a curvy body that carried a few extra pounds of baby fat on it. Her breasts and big, round ass were practically bursting out of the Victoria’s Secret panties and bra she was wearing.

  “I could go for that. Just for old time’s sake.”

  Sara smiled at the thought. In comparison to the tall and voluptuous Melissa, she was a curvy, compact little Italian girl; with a body that had ripened from having kids, but showed all the reinvestment she’d put into it afterwards in the weight-room and on the treadmill.

  “How about down at the Monte Carlo? I’d like to take a walk down the strip, and it’s not too far. We can throw, like, a hundred bucks into the slot machines for old time’s sake.”

  “Sounds good,” Melissa nodded – and she hauled out of her suitcase a sparkly mini-dress she seemed to have packed just for the occasion. “Something inspired me to pack this. I guess it was a premonition!”

  It was covered in sequins and would barely cover her round bottom; but it would have been just the thing she and Sara would have squeezed themselves into ten years earlier.

  From her own bag, Sara pulled the closest thing she had – a versatile Little Black Dress that she could barely squeeze her womanly figure into. Like Melissa’s dress, it was perhaps a little shorter than most people thought women their age should be wearing – but after they both squeezed their curvy bodies into the dresses, both Sara and Melissa had to admit that they looked good.

  “You know what would really set this night off right?” Sara mused, as she sprayed on her own Floris perfume. “Some martinis.”

  Melissa’s eyes lit up and she started reaching for the phone to call room service.

  And that’s where it all went wrong.

  Chapter Two

  One martini became
two – and that meant they’d practically staggered down the strip to dinner at Smith & Wollensky’s, just outside the Monte Carlo.

  Bouyed up by liquor, they’d kicked off their steak dinner with two dirty martinis. Pair that with the bottle of Shiraz they’d split between them over their sirloins and mash, and it was no surprise that Sara and Melissa were more than a little tipsy by the time they started tottering in their high heels towards the entrance to the Monte Carlo.

  Not that anybody seemed to care. Hell, this was Vegas after all.

  “Hey! Looking good Mami!” A couple of Spanish guys whistled at Sara and Melissa as they tottered past in their slinky dresses and high heels. Normally Sara would have been annoyed by the attention – but tonight it was kind of validating.

  “Yeah,” she thought to herself, as she and Melissa pushed open the heavy doors to the Monte Carlo and felt the cold embrace of the air conditioning. “I do look good.”

  The casino was deafening with the sound of slot machines and raucous talking; but Sara immediately dug the atmosphere. She’s grown up with a lucky streak when it came to gambling; and back in the Indian casinos of upstate New York, and down in Atlantic City when she could make it there, Sara had normally consistently walked away a little up at the end of every evening.

  “So where do you want to start?” She asked Melissa, fumbling inside her clutch for her hundred dollar bill of “mad money.” “Slots? Blackjack?”

  Melissa – pretty nonplussed about gambling – already had her answer. She hijacked two colorful fruit cocktails from a passing waitress.

  “I’ll gamble on these complimentary drinks,” she grinned, slurping one of them through the straw, “and let you lead the way.”

  Sara knew that Melissa’s main vices were alcohol and men – normally in combination. She’d have to watch her friend’s drinking; in case she decided to embrace some margarita-fuelled foolishness that Melissa’s husband would not approve of.

  That had been one of the deals they’d made with their prospective spouses, to get them to agree to letting their wives fly off to Las Vegas for the weekend.

  “You keep her out of trouble,” Melissa’s husband had warned her. Sara’s own husband had apparently set the same rules with Melissa.

  But husbands and kids were thousands of miles and a lifetime away, so for the next couple of hours, Sara poured quarters into slot machines – and with her usual edge, managed to leave about fifty dollars up.

  “Still got it, baby.”

  Those winnings inspired her to try the blackjack tables as well – but when Melissa and Sara perched onto the stools and started making bets, their winnings disappeared faster than the fruit drinks the passing staff kept handing them.

  “You know, it’s late,” Sara shook her head, the buzz of winning being replaced by the far greater disappointment of losing. “Perhaps we should call it a night. I’m down to my last twenty bucks.”

  Melissa, who was two drinks ahead of Sara, nodded as she drained her fourth or fifth drink. “I’m getting kinda bored myself.”

  Sliding off the stools, they started making their wobbly way through the rows of slot machines back to the front door.

  And that was when it happened.

  Just twenty yards from the door – back into the oppressive heat of Las Vegas strip – Sara found a secret stash of quarters rattling around inside her handbag.

  “Hang on,” she told Melissa. “Let me just play this last machine. For shits and giggles.”

  Melissa patiently waited for Sara to clamber onto the stool and feed her quarters into the machine – but this time, something different happened.

  The reels span around as usual – but instead of stopping randomly, first one, and then the other, and finally the third all dug in on the same symbol.

  A light on the top of the machine started spinning. Klaxons rang overhead. Change started pouring out of the bottom of the machine.

  “Holy shit, I just hit the jackpot!” Sara was too shocked to move – her mouth opening and closing like a fish. Fortunately, Melissa was more on the case; and she swept down onto her knees and wrenched open her handbag to collect the deluge of coins.

  Even as Sara and Melissa tried to process this incredible stroke of luck, hotel staff came running over – including one man with a microphone, closely followed by another with a video camera.

  Sara froze, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

  “And who do we have here? It’s the Mystery Winner of this year’s televised Big Stakes Monte Carlo Poker Challenge.” The man with the microphone was speaking to Sara, but looking directly onto the camera. “What’s your name, Miss?”

  Sara’s mouth opened and shut, but no words came out.

  “A shy one, eh?” The cheesy announcer grinned. “Well, let me tell you what you’ve won! In addition to this payout, you’ve earned the hottest item in professional gambling right now - a complimentary ticket to tonight’s Big Stakes Pokergame; held right here in the Monte Carlo.”

  Sara looked back and forth - from between the cheesy guy with the microphone to the guy operating the camera.

  “I…I just what?”

  “Held tonight, up on the 32nd floor of this very building,” the microphone man explained, still into the camera. “The top poker players in the country; plus you of course.”

  Sara blinked.

  “Hey, that’s nice of you and all, but…”

  The microphone man ignored her, and kept explaining:

  “You’ll receive one hundred thousand dollars in chips – the entry fee for this “winner takes all” competition; plus, of course, complimentary bottle service and fine dining in our luxurious 32nd floor gaming room.”

  Sara and Melissa immediately exchanged glances. Free bottle service?

  And then the announcer sealed the deal:

  “Not to mention, the once-in-a-lifetime chance to walk away with the prize of a million dollars!”

  Maybe it was the martinis speaking, or perhaps it was just the dollar signs she was seeing, but Sara suddenly had a change of heart.

  “Okay, handsome,” she demanded. “Where do we sign up?”

  Chapter Three

  A few moments later – after Melissa had grabbed them both another round of the watered-down fruit drinks – hotel staff accompanied them to a private elevator.

  “Good evening,” said a man with manager’s badge. “I’m Ted Blundel, and I’m in charge of the poker game tonight.” He held up a clipboard. “If I could just get you to sign this, we can begin.”

  Sara was started to feel the effects of the alcohol at this point, and struggled to focus her eyes on the words in front of her.

  “What does it say?” She demanded.

  “That you abide by the rules of the poker competition, you agree for your likeness to be used in any subsequent promotional or marketing material, and the hundred thousand dollars of chips you are being awarded are only to be used in tonight’s poker game, and unless you win the tournament any and all remaining chips will be forfeited.”

  Sara tried to process that. In the end, she shrugged and just thought: “What the hell?”

  Grabbing the clipboard, she signed.

  “Alright then,” Ted beamed. “Follow me.”

  He used his keycard to activate the elevator, and the doors opened with a ‘ding.’ They clambered inside.

  “So are you much of a poker player, Miss?” Ted asked.

  “Missus,” Sara corrected, “and I’ve let a Stud or two Hold ‘Em in my day.”

  Ted laughed: “Well, you’re in good company.” He pressed the button for the 32nd floor. The only button, Sara and Melissa noted – meaning this must be an exclusive private elevator.

  “The other nine players in tonight’s tournament are professionals,” Ted explained, as the elevator whizzed upwards. After a second, it cleared the ground floor and started scaling the exterior of the Monte Carlo – giving Sara and Melissa a breathtaking view of the bright lights of Las
Vegas. “They’ve paid to be in this game.”

  “The buy-in is a hundred thousand dollars,” Ted continued. “Winner takes all. We’ve got three players from the professional circuit playing tonight, plus two locals and, of course, a couple of celebrities.”

  There was a ‘ding’ as the elevator arrived at its destination; and as the door slid open, Sara and Melissa immediately gasped for breath.

  The 32nd floor was a massive open-plan suite, overlooking the strip, and the twinkling lights of the rest of Las Vegas

  The center of the room was a sunken circle, with a poker table and ten chairs assembled around it. A fully stocked bar lined the opposite wall, and an open-plan kitchen manned by chefs was tucked into one side.

  But what was really impressive were the alcoves.

  Set in a circle around the poker table were stairs leading to separate alcoves – each one easily the size of Sara’s apartment. They were lined with couches, and big screen TVs, and all the accoutrements of a VIP clubroom including curtains that could be pulled across to give complete privacy.

  “Each player in the tournament gets their own alcove,” Ted explained, as he led them into the room. “This one is yours.”

  “Wow,” Melissa gasped, sipping her drink. “This is just for us?”

  The white leather couches, flashing flatscreens and ice-buckets with Verve Cliquot in them were like something she and Sara had only ever seen from behind the barrier of a red, velvet rope.

  But as impressive as this alcove was, it seemed incredibly sparse and empty just for the two of them – especially given the residents of the other nine, all circling the poker table.

  Sara and Melissa turned to look at the crowd they’d just become part of – and it was clear this poker tournament was a very social event.

  Opposite them were a bunch of Japanese business men, chattering away at each other in staccato bursts. Next to them were a crowd of good ‘ol boys, whose cowboy hats and snakeskin boots suggested they hailed from a little further south – maybe Arizona, or even Texas.