Down & Dirty: Diesel
Dirty Angels MC, Book 4
By Jeanne St. James
Add to your TBR pile on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36986399-down-dirty
Welcome to Shadow Valley where the Dirty Angels MC rules. Get ready to get Down & Dirty because this is Diesel’s story…
She calls him “The Beast.”
Diesel, the MC’s Sergeant at Arms and enforcer, is tasked with not only keeping the club’s property and its members safe, but also taking care of “business” when needed. His motto, “live free, die free,” means he sees most women as nags and clingers and he wants none of that. The last thing he needs is to have one sitting on the back of his bike and trying to dictate his life.
Unlike the other DAMC women, Jewel wants to be an ol’ lady. Being born and raised within the club, her goal is to earn her place on back of a brother’s bike. But not just anyone’s. No, she had to pick the biggest, most pig-headed and quick-tempered of the bunch. The one she nicknamed “The Beast,” because that’s how he acts both in and out of bed. She’s wanted Diesel for so long she’s not about to give up the fight to become his. She’s bound and determined to win this battle one way or another.
Diesel fights his desire for Jewel until a rival MC threatens what he realizes is his, and no one gets away with that. No one.
Note: This book can be read as a standalone. It includes lots of steamy scenes, biker slang, cursing, some violence and, of course, an HEA. If you like alpha males who like to take charge, this book is for you.
Diesel groaned and rolled to the left, hitting a soft, naked body. The woman dropped to the floor with a squeal.
He rolled to the right and hit another soft, naked body. That one fell to the floor with a yelp.
He kept rolling and knocked the third one out of his bed, too.
Jesus fuckin’ Christ.
His bed at church was way too small for four people. What the fuck had he been thinking?
Fuck him, he hadn’t.
A rustle of bodies in the dark, groans, grumblings and typical female bitching rose up.
“One of you bitches hit the light.”
The room stilled and got quiet.
“Now!” he barked.
He heard scrambling, cursing and squeals from stubbed toes. Then the bare bulb in the broken light fixture over his bed blinded him.
A few seconds later, he sat up in the middle of his mattress while his gaze bounced from one of Dawg’s new girls to the next. Three in total stood at the end of his bed blinking back at him like a bunch of brainless twats.
“Don’t fuckin’ just stand there, get dressed an’ get gone.”
“No lip. Go.”
The women quickly sorted through the piles of clothes and shoes on the floor, picking up pieces and handing them to their rightful owner. Occasionally they would sneak a peek at him and he’d growl back at them.
“Faster,” he urged in a tone that encouraged no back talk.
Finally, when they were at least partially dressed, he pushed himself out of bed with a grunt, went to the door, opened it, and yelled, “Out!”
One by one they filed past him, still zipping, pulling and wiggling parts into place.
“It was fun.”
Fuck that. He slammed the door shut.
He fucked up royally by bringing them up to his room. He rarely did that. And he never fell asleep with anyone in his bed, either. Ever.
They got ideas if you did.
They were always looking for a way to dig their claws into you and drag your ass down. He’d never let that happen.
“Live free. Die free,” was his motto right behind the club’s “Down & Dirty ‘til Dead.”
He lumbered into his bathroom, scratching his balls. He took a piss, which luckily didn’t burn, then checked for crabs.
He was the first one of the brothers to fuck those bitches, that’s why he picked them. He wouldn’t touch them again. Too risky.
He left the small bathroom and stepped over his own clothes, which were strewn all over the floor, to grab his cell phone from the nightstand. He pushed the power button to see the time.
Fuck, no wonder church sounded as quiet as a real church. The party was over. Everyone was passed out, asleep, had died or just simply left.
He picked up the box of condoms off the top of the scarred nightstand and peered inside.
He glanced at the floor.
He needed to get one of the sweet butts up there to pick up all the used condoms and discarded wrappers. She could do his laundry while she was at it. Because he’d let that go a little too long. He had more dirty clothes on the floor than he did clean shit in his dresser.
He was proud of himself, though. At almost thirty-three years old, he could still bang three women and last for hours. His endurance was legendary.
Yeah, in his own mind. He grunted.
Even so, he still had it. But he was getting too old for this shit.
About the Author:
JEANNE ST. JAMES is a USA Today bestselling erotic romance author who loves an alpha male (or two). She was only thirteen when she started writing. Her first paid published piece was an erotic story in Playgirl magazine. Her first erotic romance novel, Banged Up, was published in 2009. She is happily owned by farting French bulldogs. She writes M/F, M/M, and M/M/F ménages. Want to read a sample of her work? Download a sampler book here: BookHip.com/MTQQKK
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