Chrome Buccaneer: A Trinity Wilde Firm Hand Love Story, #1

By Ambrosia Panniq

Why did Jake Nova, the leader of a fading motorcycle club, stir me so? I knew better than to get involved with a client, especially when the stakes were this high. Jake was legally disbanding the gang, and he wanted me to pose as an attorney.

These were dangerous men, reluctant to give up the only lifestyles they'd ever known.

Jake wasn't like them. He was educated, sophisticated... but I sensed the urban pirate within him, the man who wanted to ride with Nova's Posse, who wanted to dominate me.

Could I resist him long enough to finish the job? Or... would I give in to my chrome buccaneer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trinity Wilde
• Release date: Sep 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386103462

Book preview

Chapter 1

The first thing Jake Nova did was speed up my heart rate and send a slick thrill through my body.

He did it merely by riding up on his motorcycle—though merely doesn’t do justice to the dynamic outlaw figure he cut on top of that growling bike as it rolled down the street to where I stood waiting on the corner.

Jake Nova’s strapping arms were bare, and even from half a block away I could see they were corded with muscle. He wore black boots, a pair of blue jeans, and—the piece de resistance—a red and yellow denim vest which was obviously the colors of his motorcycle club.

Instincts as old as time caused me to straighten my top, to pat my hair to see that it was in place.

The bike’s motor wasn’t obnoxiously loud but it had a powerful guttural sound to it. As it approached, its vibrations plucked at my body, somehow intensifying my excitement.

Jake wore a helmet with a dark visor, so I couldn’t see his face. Shoulder-length dark blond hair spilled out from beneath. I suddenly longed to see that face, to find out if it matched his rugged physique.

Knock it off, Mira!

That was the cautioning voice in my head, the one that spoke for Hired Hands Trusted Temporaries, the agency I worked for. Hired Hands helped people in a wide variety of ways. This was the gig economy. One day I might be organizing somebody’s computer data, another day walking someone’s dog.

But what I hadn’t been hired for by Jake Nova was to ogle him like a cockstruck schoolgirl enthralled by the Bad Boy on his bitchin’ motorbike.

Nonetheless, my gaze was fixed intently on him as he pulled up behind my compact Chevrolet and turned off his ignition. The cycle gave a couple extra growls before cutting out, like a wolf settling down after a bout of howling.

He put down the kickstand and swung his leg over the chrome-shiny gas tank, planting both booted feet on the asphalt. His body, though muscular, had an athlete’s flexibility.

As he reached up for his helmet, I couldn’t help but hold my breath. Maybe he’d have a craggy face, unshaven and wind-burned, perhaps even marked by a few fight scars.

But when he pulled the helmet off and shook out his hair, a cleanly shaved, strong-jawed handsome face was revealed. He had amber eyes, with an unmistakably intellectual cast to them. I figured him for twenty-eight, just two years older than me.

I realized that a beat of silence had just passed, during which I surely should have introduced myself to my new client. Instead I was looking at him (though hopefully not ogling!) in wordless appreciation of his hardy masculine demeanor.

Ms. Belrose, is it? he asked. Not a gruff voice, not a brawler’s snarl. Rather his tone had all the lilt of someone educated and mannered.

I gave myself a mental swat to get my voice back. Yes. I’m Mira Belrose. How do you do, Mr. Nova?

He barked a laugh and said, Oh, that’s not going to cut it. My father hated being called `Mr. Nova,’ and I’ve inherited that much at least from him.

So...? I said, prompting him to say what I hoped he would say.

So, he said, stepping up onto the sidewalk with me, call me Jake.

I did: Jake. I confess I savored saying his name, even if it was the flimsiest of intimacies.

Jake Nova stood half a head taller than me, though some of that was due to his motorcycle boots. Even so, he fairly blotted out the overcast sunlight. It was once again 55° in San Francisco, virtually the median year-round temperature of my home city.

But I didn’t feel the mild chill. Dressed in neutral business wear, I was inescapably warmed by this man’s presence. He seemed to broadcast an aura, something you feel when someone is a natural leader. My libido was obviously responding to him, though I again chided myself to behave professionally.

Another silent beat had slipped past. Realizing what I should have said this time, I leaped in with, And please call me Mira. I only hoped I didn’t sound too breathless.

He nodded. Mira. Had he just spoken my name in a savoring tone too? Stop it, Mira!

Okay, he continued, today I’ve got to meet with some people. It’s going to be a big deal. I need somebody with me who’s fast on their feet. That would be you?

Confidently I said, That’d be me.

He gave another nod, but this time a smile accompanied it. It was a strong smile, assured and just a little aloof.

Clients knew what they were getting when they contracted with Hired Hands Trusted Temporaries. The company’s database was extensive, with an agent’s general abilities and special skills—if any—registered. Agents also received ratings after every job, so potential clients could get precisely what they wanted, right down to personality types if enough data had been compiled.

That meant, on one level, Jake must want me.

Hired Hands had sent me an official text informing me of this gig, designating where and when to meet my client. I’d noted the premium payment offered. I’d worked for HH for almost a year, and high-paying gigs came around now and again. They were usually jobs that required a little more finesse and effort than usual.

I would, of course, do anything to please my client, Jake Nova.

There on the sidewalk, as midday traffic moved past, he explained where we were going, why, and what I would be expected to do when we got there. It sounded like a peculiar gig, but I was eager to take it on.

After all, I was a Hired Hand. I took pride in being able to handle just about anything.

Very good, I said when he was done. I indicated my Chevy. This is my car. I’ll follow you—

No. The stony syllable caught me short. Jake Nova unhooked an extra helmet from the back of his bike, and held it out to me.

We ride in together, he said. You on the seat behind me. You’re not afraid of motorcycles, are you?

I probably should have answered with something polite and professional. Instead I felt my lips spreading in what felt dangerously close to a wicked grin, and I said, Hell no, I’m not afraid.

Chapter 2

Riding on the back of a motorcycle isn’t like being a passenger in a car, not by a long shot. There is an inherent intimacy about it, bordering on the sexual.

Of course it was sexual, at least from my point of view. I had to acknowledge that Jake Nova seriously turned me on. That was a natural response, considering the type of man I found hot—males who were rugged, brawny, a little forbidding.

But as a Hired Hand I could only behave as if this were a perfectly normal means of traveling about with a client.

So, there I was, on the leather seat immediately behind Jake. Actually, it was really just one long seat, with saddle-like hollows for each of us to occupy. That meant, with my feet on the little toe rests on either side of the bike, my inner thighs were pressed around his outer ones.

There was no bar behind for me to hold onto. Jake had told me to grab his waist. I was doing so.

Also—driving home the physical familiarity of these positions—his muscular ass was dangerously near my crotch. And as the motorcycle rumbled and swayed through the city streets, inevitable contact occurred with him rocking back on me or me pressing forward against him.

Each touch was as enticing as the initial graze of one of my favorite vibrators. I moved with him in automatic concert, leaning as he did, obeying the smooth motions of his machine.

I steamed up the interior of my borrowed helmet with my excited breath as we crossed a stretch of the city. We were headed for Hunters Point. At one time this had been a less than reputable section of the city, though it was being unavoidably gentrified like everything else.

Property was at a premium in San Francisco, and rents were sky-high. How did I survive? I had a rent-controlled apartment I held onto with tooth and nail, and I worked my job hard. I’d built a good profile with Hired Hands, and I took my gigs without wondering if they were beneath my dignity.

Laid out directly before me like a personal billboard was the back of Jake’s denim vest. The red and yellow pattern was simple. What was eye-catching was the stylized logo emblazoned across the back.

In sinister sewn-on letters, it said: nova’s posse. And below, like the inc. at