Tasting Delia- Ebook

Desperate to stay free of her abusive husband, Delia Volkov auditions as a dancer at the Pink Haze strip club. Even though she knows that the club is owned by the Black Shamrocks MC, her need to feed her baby girl and keep a roof over both their heads supersedes her gut intuition to stay far away from them. After growing up around biker clubs, she’s certain she can handle anything the Shamrocks throw her way.

Except she doesn’t account for her instant attraction to the man holding the auditions.

Toker slips beneath her shields with barely any effort, leading them both down the path to ruin.

Their one-night stand is supposed to be just that, a one-off.

But again, Delia hasn’t factored in Toker.

He’s tasted her, and his sweet tooth demands more.

So she runs…

Straight into the arms of her estranged husband, Wolf.

And this time, he’s not letting her escape without a fight.

• BDSM elements (consensual non-consent and domination)
• Mental health struggles
• Mentions of violence against women

Delia

Aged: Twenty

The bass is a living thing, rumbling through the floor and straight into my chest. Each pulse acts as a frantic counterpoint to the fear that claws at my throat like a scream that’s desperate to escape. Ineptitude stalks me. Angry strobes of light make me scowl every time they escape around the edges of the graffitied door that separates me from where I stand now and the final fall from grace that ensues once I enter the club. My ears ring. My stomach churns. A mishmash of dread and burgeoning hope tangle in my chest after I swallow down the bitter truth of my predicament and accept the idea that the taunts of the listless of ghosts of my old dreams are not going to stop me from going through with this plan. Because it doesn’t matter if my dying ego remains caught between heaven and hell. My hatred of the heavy cloak of failure that clings to me, enveloping me with its accurate portrayal of my current situation, is irrelevant. 

Only one thing matters right now. 

My baby girl. 

Later on, I’ll face the full extent of my ruin.  

Tonight is about survival at any cost. 

One foot forward, Delia... 

I repeat the mantra in my head like a prayer, over and over, while I stick my backside out and strain forward with all my strength to push open the heavy, scarred door of Pink Haze. The stale air inside the club hits me like a physical blow. It’s a suffocating cocktail of cheap, cloying perfume that barely masks the sour tang of spilled beer and the metallic scent of desperation—a cocktail I know far too well, a scent I’ve been trying to escape.

The neon sign above the bar flickers erratically, casting sickly green and purple shadows that dance across the grimy walls. My stride is shaky when I step over the threshold. My eyes widen as I take in the debauchery on display. 

G-strings and high heels. 

An assortment of breasts of all sizes. 

Denim, leather, and masculine scrutiny. 

It’s like stepping into a nightmare; into a place where dreams come to die.

When I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall opposite the hostess’ stand, I do a double take. My visage is that of a stranger. A ghost of the put-together woman I once prided myself on being. The unforgiving light exposes the dark roots showing beneath the cheap, brassy blonde dye I picked to hide my natural brunette. I look cheap, a stark reminder of my dwindling resources. Before I left the motel, I applied a thick layer of concealer. It doesn’t quite hide the dark circles etched under my eyes. Fine lines fan out from the corners, mapping the sleepless nights I’ve endured and showcasing my constant worry for all to see. 

If I was joking with one of the old ladies from my husband’s club, I’d say that having a fussy baby will do that to a woman. We’d laugh and commiserate, but we’d know I was lying. While my daughter is my everything, the reason I breathe, and the spark of life that keeps me going, the strain showing on my face is from something a lot darker than motherhood. 

I’m a hunted woman. 

Daughter of an exiled president and a mentally broken mother. 

Wife to my father’s abusive replacement. 

A mother who wants to keep her daughter safe. 

A mother who will do anything to keep her safe.

Anything...

The sign-up sheet for the auditions that lured me to Pink Haze is tacked to a water-stained bulletin board beside a faded poster of a woman with gravity-defying breasts and a come-hither stare that feels like a personal insult. The air around it vibrates with a low hum of electricity. My stomach churns even harder, the bitter bile rising once more in my throat. Professional dancer, my resume boasts. A label from a lifetime ago. A world away from the current me. A relic from before I was reduced to this—just another desperate woman hoping to land a decently paying gig shaking her ass for a bunch of horny blokes, a commodity to be ogled and used. 

My skin crawls at the thought.

"Help you, love?" A gravelly voice, rough as sandpaper, cuts through my spinning thoughts. I flinch, jumping slightly, and turn to see a woman with enough tattoos to ink a small country leaning against the wall next to the sign-up sheet. Her eyes, dark and hard as obsidian, are fixed on me. She’s clinical in her examination, stripping me bare and assessing my body with a glance that feels vaguely degrading. Lifting her vape to her lips, its fruity scent sharp and acrid in the already heady air when the tattooed woman blows a stream of smoke in my direction as she drawls, “State your business before ya pass out, girlie.”

"Au-ditions?" I stammer. My voice is barely a whisper, sounding fragile and timid in the cacophony of noise. My heart hammers against my ribs as I lick my lips, then work to clear my throat before jutting my chin to state, “I’m here to audition.” 

My second attempt is stronger, dimming the contempt in her expression. She quirks her lips and nods toward a makeshift stage bathed in red. I follow her gaze, squinting in the lurid light that stains everything it touches while somehow turning normal flesh into something strangely carnal. 

"Toker's runnin’ ‘em tonight. Don't piss him off." Her lips peel back into a humourless smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "He bites."

Toker. 

The name sends a jolt of ice down my spine, a sudden, sharp bolt of wariness. 

I’ve heard whispers—tales of the Black Shamrocks MC, their ruthless leader, their brutality. They’re a closed book, a dangerous secret whispered about in hushed tones. A-typical men. Devoid of humanity. Anarchists with zero scruples. 

Bikers. 

The word makes my mouth flood with another dose of the bitter poison that’s threatened to choke me for the past few weeks. My soon-to-be-ex-husband, that walking pile of filthy immorality, wayward fists, and feckless excuses is one of them. A biker. Only he’s a member of the Bishops of Bloodshed MC. 

Like the Black Shamrocks MC, the name isn’t only a curse, it’s a brand seared into my skin. Literally. Thinking about my ex, his club, and the situation they’ve put me in, makes me spitting mad. I clench my fists so tight that my nails make my palms bleed. It’s takes every ounce of mental strength I possess to push down the memories, the images of his violence, the taste of his rage. This isn't about him. This is about Elodie, my baby girl who deserve a life free from his cruelty, a life where she doesn’t have to cower in fear every time a Harley roars down the street or she sees a man in a leather vest. 

“Sign your life away, love, then you can head over—” The tattooed woman gestures toward the darkest side of the stage and I squint in the direction she’s pointing. “—there. Toker’s about done with the other dancers, so ya should be struttin’ ya stuff in no time.” 

My normally precise penmanship is a mess of squiggles and loops when I hurriedly fill out my details. The name I give is my middle, not my first, the birth date is aged up by five years, and the address is temporary. I am on the run until I find a way to financially support myself so I can track down my dad to ask for his help. As a president, my father was ruthless, but fair. As my daddy, he worked to protect me from the harsh realities of our way of life to the point where he allowed to me to walk headfirst into Wolf’s clutches. 

Anton Volkov. 

Just thinking his name makes goosebumps. 

The disturbing kind, not the kind that make your stomach flood with need. 

One foot forward, Delia...

With my mantra in my head, I give myself a shake, then draw in a deep breath. My gait is slightly unsteady as walk towards the stage. Each step is a battle against the rising tide of panic. The closer I get, the heavier the air becomes, thick with anticipation and dread. 

I can do this. 

I have to. 

My baby girl is depending on me.

A figure emerges from the shadows, a silhouette of raw power, a dark angel rising from the depths of hell. Even in the dim, blood-red light, I can see the gleam of metal on his cut, the clean lines of his jeans, the coiled tension in his stance that telegraphs barely restrained violence. The scent of leather and motor oil clings to him, a primal aroma that both repels and attracts. He's got something stuck in his mouth, a small splash of colour in the darkness. A lollipop? Or a cigarette? A joint?

The name on his leather tells me he’s the man I’m looking for. 

Toker.

His eyes rake over me, slow and deliberate, like a predator assessing its prey. The gaze feels like a physical touch, burning against my skin, stripping away my defences. Suddenly, I'm not just scared, I'm… aware. Every nerve ending in my body is on high alert, buzzing with a dangerous energy. My skin prickles with the goosebumps I kind that threatens to lead me astray. My pulse quickens when he sucks the lollipop and tips his head to the side to scale the length of my legs with a lingering look. A forbidden heat flares in my belly, a traitorous response to this man and his obviously talented tongue, this biker, this enemy. 

No. I can't afford to feel anything. Not here. Not now.

"You Delia?" His voice is low, a rumble of thunder that vibrates through my bones, a sound that promises both pleasure and pain. It sends a shiver racing down my spine, awakening something deep inside me that I thought was long dead. When I nod, he says, “You’ve got the right look... despite the bad dye job.”

I nod a second time, my throat too tight to rebuke his rude comment. 

My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. 

The air in my lungs feels thin, inadequate. 

Toker smirks, a flash of sharp, white teeth in the darkness, a predator’s grin. "Show me what you got, darlin'."

Wiping my sweaty palms down my thighs, I climb the steps onto the stage. 

He watches me go, his close-cropped blond hair shining like a halo beneath the strobe. 

In that moment, standing under the harsh, unforgiving glare of the stage lights, the pounding music echoing in my ears, the scent of cheap perfume and stale beer swirling around me, Toker staring at me with a hungry look, I know that my carefully constructed plan is ruined. My fragile hope for a better future has been blown to hell. The world as I know it will never be the same. 

This man will eat me alive. 

And not leave a crumb.