~ HOG WILD ~
Chapter 1
Lula Wolfendale Comes to Town
L ula had been doing 90 mph flat out down Route 178 when the motorcycle between her legs sputtered. She reached forward to open the petcock, and discovered the switch already flipped. No reserve. Damn pig! Riding around with half a tank of gas and the petcock open. How stupid can you get? Now probably all kinds of crap’s been sucked into the fuel line. She scanned the horizon where dawn was breaking over the desert sands, pink and peach reflected in the hovering clouds. She would have to make a detour.
Coasting, Lula pulled in the clutch and rode the slowing Kawasaki GPZ 550 down the middle of the deserted highway. Through the stillness she detected the faint stirrings of life in the distance. Great. I have to walk two miles because that piggy little biker didn’t know any better than to leave his reserve open. A smile flickered over her lips. Well, at least he got what he deserved.
She eased on the brake and put a foot out to steady herself. A flick of her left heel sent the kickstand down. Pausing a moment, she scanned the desert road for the miracle of an approaching car. Fat chance this time of day.
Lula sighed and dismounted. She unlaced her black skullcap, shook her hair free, and unstrapped her backpack. One more hopeful glance for traffic as she stuffed the helmet in, then she pushed the bike to the side of the road. There were no regrets in leaving the GPZ—headed to the biggest Harley-Davidson Rally on the west coast she’d have ditched it before she got there anyway, out of respect for the H.O.G. members.
She started a steady jog down the road. Have to change into my work clothes when I get closer to town . Thoughts turned to the blond biker she’d left in a hotel in Vegas. No pleasure there . Lula picked up the pace and the exhilaration of speed made her thoughts turn charitable. Maybe the pig couldn’t satisfy. But he was mighty…tasty.
* * * *
“Son of a bitch bastard.”
Flat on his back, Beau Hogue’s arm cramped with the strain of trying to tighten the bolts on his 1955 Harley-Davidson Panhead bobber—again. He swore colorfully every time he worked on his bike, which meant constantly.
Love at first sight, the Panhead had been a complete wreck when he rescued it from a friend’s barn where it gathered dust and rust for at least thirty years. Beau worked on the bike every day for the last year and a half and had fixed most of its countless problems. But he’d never managed to correct the trouble with the bolts. At least not for good. No matter how tight he ratcheted them, they managed to work themselves loose.
“Need some help?”
The sultry voice came out of nowhere. Beau shot upright as though bitten, conking his head on the exhaust header.
“Shit!” He put a hand out to steady his bike and peered at the woman with annoyance that changed abruptly to appreciation. His appraising stare began at her high-heeled black leather boots that ended mid-thigh, then traveled up three inches of perfectly tanned skin before the edge of the tiniest black leather mini-skirt came into view. The soft, dark material covered the bare essentials only, hugging her hips before smooth skin reappeared. A twinkle of metal at her navel captivated him. The jeweled ring glinting in the early morning sunlight sent a Morse Code message straight to his cock—Sex On Site. His grin broadened as his flesh stretched.
Her bandeau top barely confined perfectly round breasts. The sight stopped Beau’s upward trek as he tried to convince himself he could see dark nipples through the white cloth. He licked his lips and forced his eyes to her face.
Had he died and gone to hog heaven? What he wouldn’t give to—
“Do you want some?”
Beau’s mouth dropped open. Fuck! She can read my fucking mind . Wild, erotic images—of his cock buried deep in her glorious snatch, of her red mouth wrapped tightly around his dick—danced before
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