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His taste—sweet whiskey and cloves….
Her body heated, her skin pulling taut over her bones, her pussy growing wet and achy at the memory of his mouth on hers, devouring her.
Patriot kissed her.
Patriot, the badass, walking sex and danger…had kissed her.
Her!
Cilla St. James.
But why?
At that question, the ache in her pussy died, the heat in her flesh cooled, and the burning behind her eyes began.
…disgusted….
…claiming Jaime….
Those club women were right, weren’t they?
But if so….why had Patriot kissed her? He had Jaime, he was going to claim her, right? So why was he even coming around her? She gave him space, left him alone, didn’t force herself into his life—he was supposed to be relieved! He was supposed to be happy that she wasn’t there to annoy and frustrate him.
Maybe he needed her to actually tell him that his duties as Horde’s wingman were done, that he didn’t need to keep her “company” so Horde and Stephie could have some time together. It wasn’t like Cilla ever planned to go back to the MC clubhouse, so Patriot would never have to act like he wanted to be around her as some sort of martyr for the brotherhood.
Swiping at the traitorous tears spilling from her eyes, Cilla stood up on shaky legs and headed toward her bedroom. It was almost midnight, and she had errands to run tomorrow.
Climbing into her bed, Cilla viciously pushed all memories of Patriot’s kiss to the Do Not Touch bin in her mind. Yes, he kissed her, but it wasn’t because he’d actually wanted to. It could never be that, not when he had Jaime—and even if he didn’t, she was Cilla.
Fat.
Ugly.
Unwanted.
No, Patriot kissed her because he was still being the loyal MC brother—no matter how messed up that was. How far would he go to show allegiance to the Unchained? Would he fuck her, too, thinking about Jaime and other women he’d banged while banging her? Would he do her from behind so he wouldn’t have to see her face, so he could imagine it was some other woman? He’d have to, right? Hell, he’d have to imagine someone else just to get it up in the first place.
What about that “hello” in his pants? You didn’t imagine that erection….
She turned over onto her side and ignored the way her body tingled, remembering the press of his hard, thick dick into the jiggliness of her belly.
So what, he had an erection. The man was a sexual beast, his body was fine-tuned to equate kissing with the potential for screwing. He kissed her, his body assumed he was readying for intercourse, and then obeyed natural physiological cues.
There was nothing he did tonight that meant anything.
And she had to remember that.
First thing in the morning, she was calling Stephie to tell her to tell her man that he could stand down. That would get Patriot to back off and stop playing like he gave a shit about her. And then she could go about her life without him.
She wanted to be happy about that…so why did it feel like she was going to jump head-first into a deep, dark, lonely pit?
This was not how he wanted his day to start, but he couldn’t just ignore the frantic call from his best friend’s little sister.
After his confrontation—and that fucking kiss—with Cilla, he’d headed to the clubhouse to grab a few beers with Horde and Red. Horde—the pussy-whipped fucker—talked about Stephie, and Red—the unrepentant perv—talked about whatever the fuck a daisy chain was. And as the night progressed, those few beers turned into five shots, and he’d ended up crashing—still fully dressed—into his bed around 3 AM. Blissfully, he’d been too drunk to dream of Cilla. Painfully, he’d woken up with the hangover from hell and a mouth full of cotton wool.
The shrill ring of his cell hadn’t helped matters, and neither had the name on the screen.
When he’d answered, Jaime had been frantic. She’s said that someone had left a note on her door, and she’d found it that morning when she was leaving for work.
