BANE: A Devils' Due MC Romance Novel by Ora Wilde Page A

pain... years and years of pain... and he bore their marks with amazing strength and fortitude.  One scar, though, was prominent than the rest... a huge wound that striped his ribs... healed but blemished for life.
     
    “Mission fucking accomplished!  Those Rapid City sissies won’t be encroaching on our turf no more,” he said as he threw his shirt inside the cabinet.  I didn’t know if he was talking to me or if he was just thinking aloud.  “School was alright?” he asked, making me know that he was, indeed, conversing with me.
     
    “Y-Yes,” I muttered.
     
    “Good!  One day down and...” he paused to make a mental calculation which caused him some agony.  “Ah, bullshit!” he finally gave up after a few seconds.  “One day down and a few more months to go!”
     
    His pants dropped on the floor and he stepped out of them.  He was wearing gray-colored briefs that divulged his thick thighs, each of which was as big as a tree trunk.  I started to breathe rapidly as I saw the powerful bulges of his lower body, finely toned lumps that would take years for a sculptor to replicate. 
     
    I didn’t know his exact age, but Bane looked old... or at least older than the other patches I’ve seen... with the exception of my father, of course.  If I were to guess, I’d say he was between forty-five and fifty.  He looked more mature... wiser, even, though his manner of speaking didn’t reveal it... than the people he was with.  The contours on his face were guided by decades of toil and trouble, all of which he has seemed to endure with ease, considering how confident he always appeared to be. 
     
    Yeah, judging from how he looked, Bane was old.
     
    But his body...
     
    His body made a liar out of his face.  If he was indeed forty-five-ish, then guys more than half his age would really envy his fine, fine form.  He had muscles everywhere... and they weren’t the scary kind of muscles.  His sinewy torso and his stubby limbs were of the perfect proportions.  Looking at him like that, down to his underwear and all, and I was led to think... his body didn’t strike fear to anyone who’d see him... rather, his body was reassuring for the people he held dear, as it promised them protection which he was more than capable of providing.
     
    Then he pulled down his briefs.
     
    And I stopped breathing completely.
     
    A lump formed in my throat as I caught a good view of his well-chiseled buttocks.  I tried to clear it but there was no air in my lungs, and all that came out was a loud cough.
     
    He turned his head and before I could close my eyes or gaze the other way, he saw me... looking at him with my darn mouth wide open.
     
    “Hey! I told ‘ya to close ‘yer eyes!” he said with a bewildered smile, pondering, perhaps, why I was gaping at him like that.  He didn’t bother to dress up more speedily, though.  He took his time in finding a new pair of briefs before putting them on.
     
    “I... uhm... I... errr...” I didn’t know what to say.  I was desperate for a reply - any reply - just to inform him that I wasn’t leering at his naked physique.
     
    “‘Ya what?” he asked rather irritatedly.  He always struck me as an impatient man.  He didn’t like it when someone dithered and dallied for an answer he was demanding.
     
    “I... I was looking at your back,” I managed to speak, with a prayer that it was a good enough reason for me to peer at him like that.
     
    He grunted.
     
    “The scars scare ‘ya, kid?” he wanted to know as he gave me a vexed look over his massive shoulder.
     
    I shook my head, more vehemently than what was normal.
     
    “Wounds of war,” he casually replied as he put on a fresh pair of jeans. 
     
    “War?” I was confused.  By war , did he mean a war with another MC?  Or was he a soldier  - a real soldier - once?
     
    “Yeah, it was after the Gulf War,” he began to explain.  “Some insurgents in Kuwait didn’t really like Uncle Sam