I grew up in the 60’s and 70’s with totally different ideas on what the hero was supposed to look and act like in both books and on TV. In westerns he always wore the white hat, in Regencies he was polished, and never touched the innocent maiden until marriage, in biker scenarios it was the guy who stood up to them, and in contemporary romance he wore suits and didn’t swear. They were the men who we all looked to, to protect us and right any wrongs, clean-cut, smooth-talking and on the side of the law.
It’s funny but in looking back I was always drawn to the bad boy, I just never thought of him as the hero. These days it seems that the roles have been reversed, and the bad boy has taken over. I do a lot of reading and in the biker books that I’ve recently become addicted to I’ve noticed that the once good guy like cops, lawyers and bankers are many times the culprits, while the bad-ass biker turns out to be the fierce protector and the one with morals.
These alphas are covered in tattoos and piercings, have filthy mouths, drink and smoke, pretty much take what they want and who they want, and live their lives on the border of illegal and legal activities. They don’t have to be particularly handsome, but they do need to be bigger than life, tougher than nails, and reek of mean-ass danger. Okay, who am I kidding? We also want them handsome!
These same guys, who start out as rotten to the core bad boys in the beginning, gradually turn into our heroes once they meet the one. Their perfect better half. We begin to look at them through different eyes. Suddenly we don’t care so much about their dirty mouths, and the kind of lives they lead, we overlook their rough and crude ways because when they’re with their women they are what we want a hero to be.
Protective, loyal, affectionate, and loving. He’ll fight till his last breath and put his life on the line for her. In the end I think that’s all we want. He can be any kind of man, good, bad, handsome, or ugly. It’s really how he treats the people he loves, and the woman he commits to. I prefer the bad boy. I’ve always thought a man with messed up hair, scruff on his face and a smirk on his mouth was sexy and appealing. Add faded jeans, biker boots and a cut, and well, that’s what toots my bell.
I’ll admit that I jumped on the bandwagon and have written my own biker books. Dark Menace MC is my second full length. If you read Wild Marauders MC then you’ve already met Stone, the hero in Dark Menace. Both books are stand alone erotic romances with happily ever after endings. You won’t get a cliffhanger from me.
Rachel offers herself to Stone, the president of an outlaw motorcycle club, as collateral for her family’s debt, and becomes the target of a rival club. Wildman, president of the Red Devils, wants her, but so does Stone–and he’ll do whatever it takes to protect her from the evil bastard who calls himself her step-father.
Other than a dozen or so motorcycles backed up at the front of the bar, all seemed quiet for an early Friday afternoon. Stone pulled in at an angle, backing into a spot close to the entrance. He cut the engine and held his hand back, to help me off, I assumed. Once I was standing I reached up to undo my helmet. He dismounted and swung my way, watching me. I tried not to let his silent scrutiny bother me, but that was hard to do when I was pretty sure that what I saw in his dark eyes was arousal. I finally got the strap undone and offered him the helmet, staring right back at him while ignoring the slow heat that was crawling up my neck and spreading to cheeks.
He took the helmet, set it on his seat, and then opened the saddle bag for my bag. As he did this the three men who’d been traveling with us walked up. I wasn’t afraid to meet their eyes, dealt with assholes like them every day, and I wasn’t about to let them intimidate me. They simply smirked at me, and one of them reached for the door.
“Pit Bull.” Mutt or Jeff, I couldn’t tell which, halted and turned back to us. Stone held my bag out to him. “Put this in my room.”
Pit Bull’s smirk turned into a full-fledged grin, and he winked at me, taking the bag from Stone. The bastard! I knew what he was thinking. I waited until he’d disappeared inside before returning my gaze to Stone. Like Pit Bull’s, I knew that the sexy smile on his face was at my expense. He knew what was going through my mind, and I could tell that he was waiting for me to react.
I slammed my hands on my hips. “Your room? And just where will you be sleeping?” I wanted to make it clear from the start that it wouldn’t be with me.
He leaned against his bike and crossed his arms. “I barely have enough rooms for my men, so we’ll be sharing, sweetheart.”
“Like hell we will! I’ll sleep on a couch somewhere.” There was no way that I was sharing a bed with him. Something told me that if I did, we wouldn’t be getting much sleep. I wasn’t stupid. When he’d kissed me back at Maddie’s it may have started in anger, but it had ended in full-blown passion, and there’d been no denying that he’d had a serious hard-on.
I could tell that Stone didn’t like me arguing with him. Well, that was just too damned bad! He could lean against his big-ass Harley with his bulging arms crossed over his massive chest and that smoldering look in his eyes till it snowed. I may want him, because he was hot as hell, but he didn’t have to know that. I wasn’t here to provide that kind of service.
Eyes the color of black coffee took a slow ride over my body, and I got the impression that Stone was sizing me up—not for a fight, but for something entirely different. It was sexual. I kept my hands on my hips in a silent challenge, even as my nipples peaked beneath his hard look. The traitors were actually tingling, and that sharp feeling of need zeroed right down to my sex, which was still buzzing from the bike ride there.
Holy shit, I should have never glanced down at the front of his pants, because now I was on fire. “No way are we sharing a bed,” I repeated, in a tone that was clearly a little weaker than before.
“Then you can share a room with one of my brothers, but you won’t be sleeping on any couch out in the open where any man can claim you.”
“What kind of choice is that?”
“The only one you’ll get here,” he snapped!”
Tory Richards is a fun-loving grandma who writes smut. Born in 1955 in the small town of Milo, Maine, she’s lived most of her life in Florida. Today she lives with her daughter and her family. She has her own woman-cave which she shares with four felines whose main goal in life is getting as much cat hair on everything that they can.
Penning stories by hand and then on manual typewriter at the age of thirteen, Tory was a closet writer until the encouragement of her family prompted her into submitting to a publisher. She’s been published since 2005, and has since retired from Disney to focus on family and writing.