Nixie (Lipstick and Leather MC #0) Read Online Adell Ryan

Categories Genre: Biker, MC, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Lipstick and Leather MC Series by Adell Ryan
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Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 74615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
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Love fiercely passionate female leads? Swoon over badass bikers? Ready to rally against gender roles?

Pop that kickstand, start your engines, and join us for an epic road tour to meet all the chapters across the nation that make up the Lipstick & Leather Motorcycle Club.
Nixie, club president of the Lipstick & Leather North Florida prospecting chapter, wants nothing more than to change the stigma surrounding gender roles in motorcycle clubs, but an unexpected fast and furious romance threatens to shatter that dream.

Each Lipstick & Leather chapter is a standalone, full-length, Contemporary Reverse Harem Romance set in a shared world where ladies ride hard and shatter glass ceilings.

FULL BOOK START HERE:

PROLOGUE

“Slow down.” Cyn pokes out her tongue, stretching her gum across the tip, then blows a big bubble. The bubble pops, and she jabs at the screen. “Right there. Rewind the footage again.”

Tori presses the playhead and slides it to the left, her eyes squinting and brows pinched in concentration. Frame by frame, the illuminated scene reflects in her glasses.

I vividly remember the exact moment: his fingers filling my pussy, knuckle-deep, while the enormous shipping container keeping us hidden amplified the surrounding gunfire and rumbling growls of dueling motorcycles and cars.

Taking down the Rolling Stones, our sponsoring club, in order to obtain the leverage needed to turn our coats — or colors, if you will — seemed to be going swimmingly. That is, until the leader of the car club Midnight Runners arrived.

The shootout wasn’t the only highlight of our sting, though. The real excitement started a couple minutes later when my sexy distraction added the swirl of his thumb into the mix, and the visceral euphoria sparking along my nerves gathered momentum.

Despite the fact that I was most definitely chanting, “Oh shit,” in my head, the recorded footage of me mouths, “Fuuuuck yes,” as he drives me to an epic orgasm.

“See how his fingers pinched together right there?” Cyn slants a toothy smirk in my direction, pink gum flattened between her teeth and a matching strand of her multicolored, pastel hair stuck to her lip. The gum flips to the other side of her mouth as she elaborates: “The ones beside your head, not the ones between your thighs.”

I roll my eyes and inhale deeply, chest hitching on a double breath at the peak.

“The Midnight Runners are playing us, Nixie. He hid something there, right under your nose. The question is, what?”

You might be wondering how I found myself in this situation. Rewind the footage a little further, shall we? As most toxic relationships tend to do, it all started with one hell of a first impression…

CHAPTER ONE

Three days earlier…

Nothing beats this. The lip of a pursuing wave mists my shoulders, daring me to slow down so it can gobble me up. Nestled in the curl, I squat lower, screw my feet into the board, and reach down to feel the tepid ocean. A rainbow sparkles in the white, bubbly spray spouting out behind my fingertips as they glide over its rutty surface.

Red flags fly; an orange glow from the rising sun illuminates one such flag flapping above an empty lifeguard stand in the distance. Everything is perfect: The bomb surf. Being out here on dawn patrol. How cool, yet balmy, the late autumn temperature is both in and out of the water. This fucking beautiful wave. Hell yes.

Unfortunately, good things always come to an end. A piercing whistle, loud enough to trill over the ripple and crash trailing me, bursts my bubble of joyful content. “Watch out!” a disembodied voice warns.

My ears buzz and gaze dances around, searching for any impending danger.

Just when I start feeling hopeful that the warning was meant for someone else, another surfer drops in on me, popping to his feet and powerfully turning into my perfect line.

Who does this idiot think he is? Clearly, a damn postseason tourist missing every last one of his commonsense brain cells.

While he steals the setup for my glorious fucking tube, I’m forced to swerve toward the bottom of the wave and race past or else risk colliding. I hope he gets locked in and the ocean eats him for breakfast.

Does he use his manners and take a spill for the sake of etiquette? No. Instead, he picks up speed, nipping at my tail, trying to force me out of the tube.

Why?

Hoping I bail?

Oh, hell no.

Now, I can take the high road and pull out, of course. But what is the fun in that? I would much rather make sure this guy knows to never drop in on anyone on my home turf again.

Riding high on anger-fueled adrenaline, pinned inside a barrel with this man who has at least a foot on me, if not more, I throw all caution to the wind; I stall a little into his surf line, dive off my board, and tackle him, feeding both of us to the roaring Atlantic.


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