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Stop thinking about them—they got what they deserved. Forget out them.
“Because I am not a good man. I was a soldier for Uncle Sam and am now a VP in an MC, and I did and still do whatever I have to do to get the job done—no matter who I had to hurt or kill. In the desert…. That blood on my heads, those deaths on my soul…I could never hope to have someone as good and pure as you for my own.”
Before she could say anything, laughter exploded from out behind the house, reminding her that they weren’t somewhere they should be having such a heavy, emotional conversation.
He must have had the same thought because he walked to his bike, stowed the kutte in his saddle bags, and held his hand out for her.
“Come on, baby, let’s go home,” Patriot declared.
And she went, because there was nowhere else she wanted to be.
TWENTY-TWO
Never in his life had he felt something as right as having Cilla behind him on his bike, her arms wrapped around his waist, her juicy thighs cradling his ass, her lush breasts pressed against his back, and her cheek caressing that space just between his shoulder blades. She was the perfect fit. Perfect for him.
As he turned down the street toward his house, he both hated that their ride had come to an end, and was anxious that there was still so much that needed to be worked out between them. He’d told her he loved her, wanted a future with her, but she hadn’t indicated that’s what she wanted. She hadn’t said she loved him back, and though he was—as Cilla said—a badass MC VP, he was terrified that she didn’t feel the same.
Pulling up in front of his bungalow, he killed the engine and helped Cilla dismount before joining her.
She wobbled, laughing, and he reached out to steady her.
“Jelly legs,” she said, giggling. He chuckled, then leaned down and planted a kiss on her lips.
“First time on a bike, your legs can get a little shaky. No worries, though, you’ll get used to it.”
She grinned. “You gonna take me for rides?” She looked…hopeful.
He smirked, loving that she enjoyed riding with him. She made the perfect ol’ lady. “Fuck ya, baby. I want you on the back of my bike every chance I get. You belong there.”
She ducked her head, trying to hide her blush.
He cupped her chin in his hand and drew his thumb over her plump bottom lip.
“You’re the only woman who has ever been on my bike, and you will be the only one. I meant what I said, Cilla. I’ve loved you for a long time, and no other woman will ever mean as much to me as you do.”
She blinked away tears and smiled up at him through them.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Okay,” he replied, unable to stop the grin that split his face. Removing the kutte from the saddle bag, he grabbed Cilla’s hand, and lead her up the walkway, then the porch steps to his front door.
“This is your place? I thought you lived at the clubhouse.”
He unlocked the door and strode through, Cilla right behind him.
“I have a room there as the VP, but most of the time, I want my own space. Those fuckers are messy, loud, and intrusive. I like having my own place to crash without the noise.”
She nodded. “I get that. I like having my own place. I can get away and stay away—and I can be as messy as I want.” From what Patriot knew about her place, it was usually tidy, so he knew she was just teasing him.
He closed the door, then turned to regard his woman. The kutte was burning his hand, demanding to be where it was supposed to be, on Cilla’s back.
Her gaze dropped to it, and she sucked in a breath.
“I want it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
His heart stopped.
“You said you’ve loved me since you saw me…and…I…it was the same for me.”
