Page 37 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

My cock pulses with every jet, locked deep inside her. Her cunt squeezes me through every contraction, drawing the climax out of my balls in slow, brutal waves. I shudder against her throat. My forehead drops to the curve of her shoulder. I bite the soft skin there—gentle, marking, claiming—riding the slow descent down from the peak with my mouth open against her pulse.

The sheer force of the climax leaves me shaking. The aggression slowly bleeds out of my muscles, replaced by a suffocating possessiveness.

I don’t pull out.

I refuse to break the connection. I stay buried deep inside her tight, pulsing pussy. My thick cock remains hard, wedged deep in her wet heat.

I drop my upper body forward. I rest my sweaty forehead against the crook of her neck. My broad chest crushes against her bare breasts. Our skin is slick with sweat, sticking together in the cold air of the empty shop.

Wendy’s arms come up, wrapping tightly around my wide back. Her fingers trace the muscles of my shoulders, her touch grounding me to the reality of the present moment. Her chest heaves against mine. The ragged, exhausted sound of her breathing is the most beautiful noise I’ve ever heard.

I drag one hand up her bare back. My palm tracks the slick line of sweat from her hipbone to her shoulder blades. My other hand stays locked at her hip, holding her flush against me, keeping our bodies sealed together. The cold air of the empty shop pebbles her skin. I shift my chest closer, sharing the heat. She makes a small, ruined sound against my neck. I press my mouth to her temple. The clean salt of her sweat coats my lips.

The turntable continues to spin behind the counter. The needle continues to scratch the empty runout groove. Tch-tch. Tch-tch.

The shop is officially dead. The legacy is in the cardboard boxes stacked by the door. The physical trap of Crimson Hollow is broken.

I press my lips against the rapid pulse beating in the side of her neck. The sweet musk of her sweat fills my lungs. The deep-cover operative belongs to the club. The ghost named Tom belongs to the dust of this decaying town.

But the man standing in the dark, buried deep in his fated mate, belongs to her.

"Mine," I whisper roughly against her skin, making the final vow. "Forever."

Epilogue

WENDY

Sparks spit and crack against the black night sky, rising in swirling orange columns toward the canopy of pine branches. The heat radiating from the bonfire blisters the freezing mountain air. The Broken Halos clubhouse territory is a fortress masquerading as a woodland lodge. Ten-foot iron gates enclose the perimeter. Razor wire glints maliciously under the halogen security lights mounted to the sprawling garage bays. The scent of burning cedar, stale beer, and raw gun oil hangs thick in the oxygen, overwriting the dusty decay of Crimson Hollow.

My leather boots crunch over the rutted gravel. I stand at the outer edge of the firelight, gripping a square cardboard sleeve to my chest. The noise is deafening. Men who look capable of eating raw meat for breakfast and dismantling cars with their bare hands laugh and shove at each other around the flames. The sheer, violent mass of this club is staggering. For years, I stood behind an oak counter in a dying town, alone. I guarded a sinking ship. I paid a man in a sharp suit three hundred dollars a week just to keep my windows from being smashed. I carried the suffocating weight of my mother’s legacy on my shoulders until my spine nearly snapped.

Now, I’m surrounded by a private army.

Three hours ago, a convoy of rusted trucks and battered sedans driven by these tattooed men pulled up to the Vinyl Vault. They didn’t knock. They didn’t ask permission. They simply marched inside, boxed up fifty years of vintage records, loaded my life into the beds of their trucks, and drove me across the county line. The trap is empty. The physical building belongs to the dust and the Syndicate now, but the soul of the shop is sitting in a fortified, climate-controlled storage bay behind the clubhouse.

Valerie commands a wooden prep table near the kitchen entrance. The woman is a force of nature. She slaps a metal pair of tongs against the side of an industrial grill, her voice cutting through the roar of the fire. "Move back, you animals! The meat isn't done! Step away before I start burning fingers!"

Bikers wearing leather cuts step back, grumbling but obedient. The dynamic is fascinating. These men rule the eastern ridge with blood and iron, but they cower before a woman wielding barbecue tongs.

Valerie catches my eye through the smoke. She points the metal tongs at me. "You. Wendy. Come here. You look too thin to survive a mountain winter. Eat this."

She shoves a paper plate loaded with charred brisket and smoked sausage into my hands. The savory scent of caramelized fat and hickory smoke makes my mouth water.

"I'm not starving, Valerie," I say, though I accept the plate immediately. My sassy tone is defensive. "I eat."

"You eat diner eggs and anxiety," Valerie shoots back, wiping her hands on a stained apron. "Not anymore. You belong to the club now. We don't do fragile. Eat the brisket."

I take a bite. The flavor is incredible. A low chuckle sounds next to me. Susan stands a few feet away, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans. She wears a leather cut, the bottom rocker reading 'WARDEN'. She wears it like a suit of armor.

"Don't fight her," Susan says, her voice quiet but grounded. "She's going to feed you until you pass out. It's how she handles the stress of managing a private militia."

"I'm learning that," I reply, chewing the brisket.

The transition from civilian isolation to MC integration is jarring. I’m not used to people caring if I eat. I’m not used to women offering quiet solidarity without asking for anything in return. I’m not used to being safe.

An orange tabby threads between scuffed combat boots near the woodpile, sound asleep on a folded leather cut someone tossed by the fire—Cage's cat, Sam, indifferent to the noise.

My grip tightens on the square cardboard sleeve tucked under my arm. The edges of the record are frayed and worn white from decades of friction. The cover art of Rumours is faded. Across the top right corner, in smeared, thirty-year-old blue Sharpie ink, is a jagged signature. Keep the music playing, love Mom.