Reapers MC 1 - Reaper's Property.pdf

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Reaper’s Property
Joanna Wylde
Marie doesn’t need a complication like Horse. The massive, tattooed, badass biker
who shows up at her brother’s house one afternoon doesn’t agree. He wants Marie on his
bike and in his bed. Now.
But Marie just left her abusive jerk of an ex-husband and she’s not looking for a new
man. Especially one like Horse—she doesn’t know his real name or where he lives, she’s
ninety percent certain he’s a criminal and that the “business” he talks with her brother
isn’t website design. She needs him out of her life, which would be a snap if he’d just
stop giving her mind-blowing orgasms.
Horse is part of the Reapers Motorcycle Club, and when he wants something, he takes
it. What he wants is Marie, but she’s not interested in becoming “property of”.
Then her brother steals from the club. Marie can save him by giving Horse what he
wants—at home, in public, on his bike… If she’s a very, very good girl, she’ll get lots
more of those orgasms only he can offer, and he’ll let her brother live.
Maybe.
A Romantica®
contemporary erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave
R
EAPER'S
P
ROPERTY
Joanna Wylde
Dedication
I want to express my appreciation to Raelene Gorlinsky, the editor and publisher who
wouldn’t give up on me, and my test readers, Mary and Alicia. Thanks also to my
husband who is endlessly supportive of all my creative efforts. Finally, a special thanks to
my first editor, Martha Punches, who has continually encouraged me to keep writing
even though I took so many years off. Martha, you were right about past progressive
tense verbs, and I was wrong…
Chapter One
Eastern Washington, Yakima Valley
Sept. 17—Present Day
Marie
Crap, there were bikes outside the trailer.
Three Harleys and a big maroon truck I didn’t recognize.
Good thing I’d stopped by the grocery store on the way home. It had already been a
long day and the last thing I wanted to do was to run out and buy even more food, but
the guys always wanted to eat. Jeff hadn’t given me any extra beer money and I didn’t
want to ask him—not with his money troubles. It wasn’t like I paid rent. For a guy whose
entire mission in life was to smoke pot and play video games, my brother Jeff had done a
lot for me over the past three months. I owed him and I knew it.
I’d already grabbed some beer and ground beef that’d been on sale. I’d planned on
burgers, buns and chips for the two of us, but I always made extra, for leftovers. Gabby
had given me a watermelon she’d picked up in Hermiston that weekend. I even had a big
potato salad all made up for the potluck after work tomorrow. I’d have to stay up late
making another one but I could handle that.
I smiled, thankful something in my life was going right. Less than a minute to plan
and I’d figured out a meal—might not be gourmet, but it wouldn’t embarrass Jeff either.
I pulled up next to the bikes, careful to leave them plenty of room. I’d been terrified of
the Reapers the first time they’d come over. Anyone would be. They looked like
criminals, all tattooed and wearing black leather vests covered in patches. They cussed
and drank and could be rude and demanding, but they’d never stolen or broken
anything. Jeff had warned me about them lots of times but he also considered them
friends. I’d decided he was exaggerating about the danger, for the most part. I mean
Horse was dangerous enough, but not because of any criminal activity…
Anyway, I think Jeff did some web design for them or something. Some kind of
business. Why a motorcycle club needed a website I had no idea, and the one time I’d
asked him about it he told me not to ask.
Then he’d scuttled off to the casino for two days.
I got out of the car and went around back to grab the groceries, almost scared to see
whether Horse’s bike was in the lineup. I wanted to see him so bad it hurt but wasn’t
sure what I’d say if I did. It’s not like he’d answered my text messages. But I couldn’t
help myself, I had to check for him, so I grabbed my groceries and walked over to the
bikes to scope them out before going inside.
I don’t know much about bikes, but I knew enough to recognize his. It’s big and sleek
and black. Not all bright and decorated the way you sometimes see bikes on the freeway.
Just big and fast, with giant, fat tailpipes off the back and more testosterone than should
be legal.
The motorcycle was almost as beautiful as the man who rode it. Almost.

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