White Wolves MC: A BWWM Interracial Romance by Ella Douglas Read Free Book Online

profile—probably to reduce drag. The fenders over the front and black tires were painted white with flames on them, while the fuselage had the same design, along with black writing in Arabic.
     
    “What does that say?” I asked, jerking my finger at the writing. Viper tossed me a helmet, which I caught unsteadily.
     
    “Salaam. It means ‘peace.’”
     
    “That’s an odd motto for a biker gang.”
     
    “It’s not our motto. It’s mine. That’s what I’m looking for,” Viper said, not making eye contact with me.
     
    “Aren’t you wearing a helmet?” I said, changing the subject as Doug waved at us before getting into his old BMW.
     
    “I don’t like helmets. And I only have one.”
     
    “Helmets are safe.”
     
    “Motorcycle clubs don’t ride safe,” he said, obviously getting tired of answering my questions.
     
    He climbed onto the bike and I followed him, sitting behind him, my legs splayed open on the tiny back seat of the machine. I wrapped my arms uncertainly around his waist while my legs gripped the sides of the bike. I was wearing jeans and I suddenly wondered if they were be torn about by the fierce, powerful wheels of this finely tuned machine.
     
    And then suddenly, it roared to life. I leaned in close, pressing my face to Viper’s back, inhaling his scent—a potent combination of sweat, cigarette smoke, gasoline, and the leather of his jacket. It was…
     
    Intoxicating. Goddamn it.
     
    Off we went. I let out a little shriek that was totally uncharacteristic of me and I felt myself flush for having cried out, hoping against hope that maybe the helmet would have muffled the noise and Viper wouldn’t have noticed. But I felt him snort and I knew he had.
     
    We were going fast. I’m sure if I had been in a car, I wouldn’t have felt so terrified but being so exposed to the air rushing past me was an incredible thrill and one that I would have to get used to. As Viper weaved effortlessly in and out of traffic on the way to the highway, I found myself squeezing him tight, feeling his strong body encased in his leather jacket, his patches and pins rubbing against my forearms.
     
    We pulled onto the highway and up the entry ramp, racing faster and faster as we merged with traffic, the dull orange lights gleaming and glittering by overhead as we soared down the road. I let out another little shriek as Viper pulled around a huge truck, hugging it tight, as tightly as I was hugging him, and then cut in front of it.
     
    “Don’t go so fast!” I squealed into his ear.
     
    “This is how fast I always go!” he roared back over the rushing of the wind cutting past us. And then, as if to emphasize that, as if to demonstrate that he could go even faster, he sped up.
     
    I must have been about to break his ribs but I didn’t much care—if he insisted on driving like a maniac, then I was going to crush his diaphragm like a maniac. The bike careened from one end of the road to the other as we hit one of those patches of traffic that mysteriously crops up around Miami sometimes in the late evening.
     
    The traffic didn’t slow us down one bit though, or if it did, it was so minor that you couldn’t even notice it. We simply slid in and out of lanes, cutting in front of cars and then in front of others, drifting and flying, practically gliding, until we were in front of the traffic and could see the cause—a single lane, brought on by an accident.
     
    An accident caused by a motorcycle, it seemed, as we darted by.
     
    I wanted to ask Viper what he thought about that but I knew it would just piss him off. Instead, I hugged him closer, laying my head on his shoulder and trying my best to relax as we roared into our new life together—a life that we would share for the next few months, at least.
     
    Another ten minutes and we got off the highway, sliding down a ramp as effortlessly as we had merged originally. We were in a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. A poor neighborhood,