Dom's Baby: A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance: Broken Spires MC, #1

By Nicole Fox

Dom's Baby is book 1 of the Broken Spires MC trilogy. Books 2 and 3, Pleasing Dom and The Dom and Her are available everywhere now!

I HAD A TASTE OF HER. NOW, I'M COMING FOR THE REST.

One more heist, and then I'll be done with this life for good.
In and out. I'd done it a million times. This will be no different.
At least, that's what I thought…
Then Erica showed up.

She was too delicious to pass up.
A pretty city girl in a world far removed from the one she knows.

In other words, easy prey.

Down here, we do things different.
When a man like me wants a woman like her, he doesn't stop to ask questions.
He just takes.
And takes.
And takes.
Until his hunger is sated.

And that's exactly what I did.
The stupid girl was about to get stabbed, but I had a different kind of penetration in mind.
I scooped her up, threw her across my bike, and took her home.

The rest was bare flesh and broken moans.

I wish it had ended there.
But you can't always get what you want.
And this little angel is trying her damndest to drag me back into the underworld I'm desperately trying to escape.

Cut it out, princess.
You don't give the orders around here – I do.
Now get on your knees.
I'm not going to ask twice.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: MBK Hanson Inc.
• Release date: May 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386405085

Nicole Fox

Nicole Fox writes smart, sexy mafia romance novels. She is a crazy cat lady in her late 30s with a coffee addiction, an overactive imagination, and a husband who somehow puts up with her impulsive need to keep buying new plants for their house. Sign up for her mailing list at http://bit.ly/NicoleFoxMailingList. 

Book preview

Dom’s Baby: A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance (Broken Spires MC) (Book 1)

By Nicole Fox

I HAD A TASTE OF HER. NOW, I’M COMING FOR THE REST.

ONE MORE HEIST, AND then I’ll be done with this life for good.

In and out. I’d done it a million times. This will be no different.

At least, that’s what I thought...

Then Erica showed up.

She was too delicious to pass up.

A pretty city girl in a world far removed from the one she knows.

In other words, easy prey.

Down here, we do things different.

When a man like me wants a woman like her, he doesn’t stop to ask questions.

He just takes.

And takes.

And takes.

Until his hunger is sated.

And that’s exactly what I did.

The stupid girl was about to get stabbed, but I had a different kind of penetration in mind.

I scooped her up, threw her across my bike, and took her home.

The rest was bare flesh and broken moans.

I wish it had ended there.

But you can’t always get what you want.

And this little angel is trying her damndest to drag me back into the underworld I’m desperately trying to escape.

Cut it out, princess.

You don’t give the orders around here – I do.

Now get on your knees.

I’m not going to ask twice.

Chapter One

Dominic

T he beaches, man, the beaches! I insisted for the thousandth time. That’s where I should be heading.

I know, Dom. I know, my oldest friend and partner in crime, Dorian, sighed. But you gotta do it. It’s in the rules. Then, after that, you’ll be done.

"Done..." I murmured, letting the word slip out of me with a long line of cigarette smoke. I closed my eyes and let the cool mountain air touch my skin. Let the feel of the earth beneath me, and the knowledge of the view before me, lull me into a state of comfort.

It did not work.

It used to. This spot, with Dorian at my side, my bike idling between my thighs, used to make me feel at peace. Well, as at peace as one can feel in the sad, sorry state of the world.

But now, I longed for tropics. The only vistas I wanted before me should be oceans. The only smell of chemicals from a drink in my hand. The only blaze from the campfire by my feet.

I’m too recognizable, I continued complaining. Someone in the bar will recognize me.

Dorian did not bother to ask if I was afraid. He knew better than anyone that nothing––certainly not death––frightened Dominic Molina. I was worried for my gang, the Broken Spires. It was my duty as their president to protect them.

So what if you’re recognized? countered Dorian, flicking his own cigarette into the wind. You can handle any of those scumbags.

I frowned sourly, much too experienced to let paltry praise flatter me. I gazed down at my hands: killer’s hands they were, as riddled with scars as a fisherman’s, with tattoos from the knuckles up the wrists. Though no one could see it, I also had a line of skulls towering up my spine. Thirty-two of them. One for every man I have killed in this biker’s war.

Dorian, I don’t want to make it thirty-three.

He did not have to ask what I meant.

I closed my eyes again, envisioning myself not on a roadside mountaintop, but on white sands. Aruba. The Caribbean. Somewhere like that. A place where my tattoos could be art, and not a sign of violent status. Maybe grab a woman or four. Spend some time fucking. Drinking. Relaxing.

I was sure some of my biking peers believed this dream of mine meant I’d gone soft, but that wasn’t it at all. My job as president was just that––a job. I reveled in the strategy, and the planning, but never the outright violence. Now, it was time for me––at the lofty age of thirty-two––to retire.

It’ll be fine, Dom, said Dorian, patting me on the shoulder. Just go in, do a little recon, and out. I’ll be nearby if things get hairy. Alright?

I sighed. I really didn’t have a choice. The Broken Spires depended on me. I would never let them down.

In silence, we finished the remainder of our cigarettes. Then we ignited the engines of our bikes.

The roar of them echoed through the mountains like the cry of a savage animal, and suddenly, I felt it all come back to me: the thrill of violence, of bloodlust, of outsmarting the opponent. I might have been ready to leave it, but that did not mean I had entirely forgotten why I had once loved it.

Together, we plowed our way down the mountain, into town.

FROM THE OUTSIDE, THE goal of my mission––a biker’s bar called the Bear’s Cave––seemed like any other local bar: full of floozies, and overweight, middle-aged men trying to relive the glory days.

That is what the ignorant would perceive.

Those accustomed to motorcycle culture, however, would see much more: the badges, sewn into the leather jackets of the customers, whose hidden meaning indicated rank and violence. The secret compartments on the flanks of motorcycles shaped quite conveniently for a handgun or a pistol. Similar bulges in men’s blue jeans, hidden from the naïve but clear as day to those accustomed to concealed weaponry. There was also a certain silence, a watchfulness, in the bartender as I entered. He gave me a look that lingered a little too long, but did not say anything. I was permitted to sit down and order a drink.

Some bikers refused to drink on the job. They thought it would soften their reflexes. Others preferred to get uproariously drunk, thinking it made them braver. I, however, preferred the middle ground: not ordering a drink aroused suspicion, ordering too many aroused stupidity.

I settled for a whiskey, alone in the glass. As I sipped it, I took a look around.

This bar, the Bear’s Cave, was enemy territory. In preparation for this mission, I had let the stubble on my cheeks and jaw grow out. Hide my strong chin, which I’d once used to break the nose of the ex-president of the Crooked Jaws, the bike club that laid claim to this bar. Hide the long scar that ran from my temple to my jawline; the one that the current Jaws president, Marco La Gancho Herrera, gave me in a knife fight long ago.

Do not worry. He was, by far, worse off after that battle.

Still, it was a weak disguise, so I did my best to keep my face low over my drink, creating an appearance of silent nervousness––the expression most newbies wear when realizing that they are way in over their heads. By appearing nonthreatening, yet big enough not to be easy prey, I hoped whatever Crooked Jaws were in here would leave me