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As usual, our block is quiet in the evening. My steps on the porch seem to echo in an evening already fading to black. My heart thumps loudly until I set eyes on Gray through the damn hedges and then it arrests completely.
This is the man I told myself firmly to stop loving, but that’s not a thing that one can command, and I’ve failed in every way. This is the man that I’ve wanted since the dawn of time. As long as I’ve been self-aware, he’s been it for me. It’s the same every single time I lay eyes on him for that first moment. The thrill of it hits me like a fork of lightning.
I wasn’t fair the other day about how he’s changed. He could never be ugly and no matter what he’s done, I want to find whoever marred his face and carve them with the same knife. He’s a beast of a man, raw and dark, but it only makes him more thrilling. He’s got his hair tied back, low to fit under his brain bucket. I laughed so hard the first time I ever heard Raiden call a helmet that. A few strands pulled loose from the wind flutter around his face.
My knees go annoyingly weak, and I have to take one halting step forward so I can clutch the porch railing. This is ground zero of making my peace with this man.
His wild green eyes bite through me, promising dark things, nailing me to the porch with their intensity.
I can almost feel his strong hands on my skin, tracing a line to the back of my neck. I have never wanted to be someone’s property, and I’m strangely disappointed when he turns, leaving me hot and prickling under my clothes, anxiety and anticipation, disgust, reproach and excitement sparking through me in equal measure.
Gray produces a second helmet, plain matte black, just like his. He holds it out into the air, a challenge and a peace offering. Nothing this man does can be simple.
Half of me wants to dash back into the house, to hide and keep hiding from him forever, but I know it’s not possible. I might be trembling, but I hold my chin up high as I walk through the yard and snatch the helmet from his hands. I slam it down on my head and tighten the chinstrap.
He gets on the bike, balancing it easily with his massive, muscled body. Every single bit of him is outlined by his clothing, just like the other day. Black t-shirt, leather vest with his patches on the front and the huge Satan’s Angels MC bowed angel logo on the back.
Watch over all of us fallen sinners and keep us from harm.
I’ve ridden on Raiden’s bike so many times. I know how to mount one and I do it with practiced ease. The beast is all power, chrome and leather, just like the one who watches me with a twinkle in his eyes. I want to snap at him that I don’t belong here, that this is a one-off, but I shut my mouth. My words will only be used against me. Gray is far too clever by half.
He turns and starts the bike. The rumble blasts through the silent neighborhood, probably rattling windows and pissing off all the neighbors. Not that they’ll ever do a single thing about it. They’re either connected to the club in some way, or they fear them too much to ever open their mouths.
The seams of my jeans dig into my oversensitive skin as I brace with my legs, straddling the massive iron horse. The vibrations roll through me, gathering straight between my thighs. I can feel the dampness there.
I’d rather die than put my arms around Gray, but it’s either that or probably die for real. I’ve held him so many times, hugged him, touched him in so many ways. Piggybacks, wrestling, play fights. That night, when he swept me bridal style off the hood of his car and into his house. He was lithe like an athlete, all quilted muscle, but he’s all man now and I can barely wrap my arms around him. I’m thankful for my leather jacket, so my bare skin doesn’t brush against his. I still shiver violently as I wrap my arms around him and turn my face to the side, my cheek only an inch from his broad back.
He smells like fresh air, leather, motors, and laundry. The garage, the compound, the open road, himself. I fill my lungs with him, and I know what’s coming is inevitable. This was my path, however far I tried to deviate, however fast I ran. I don’t believe in fate, I believe in choice, but every choice I’ve made has led me to this bike and back to Gray. I was made for him, shaped for him, my own personal demon.
Hepossessedme long ago.
Chapter 9
Tyrant
Any biker would agree that nothing could ever top the feeling of being out on the road, the low roar of your bike and the rush of wind in your ears, all that horsepower contained and rumbling between your legs. Bikers don’t just join clubs because they want to be thugs on the wrong side of the law. Sure, some might like the perks, but a true love of the road is mandatory.
I’ve always thought of my bike like my child.
Now, I might have one.
There’s nothing normal about this. I’ve never had Lark on the back of my bike before. If my brain wasn’t so scrambled with preparing for the conversation we’re going to have, I’d be entirely focused on her. I put this image through the paces in my head for five fucking years and now I can’t even feel it. I’ve numbed out. The only sensation I register is her thin arms banded around my chest, but I feel nothing except a crashing dip in my stomach and a burn lower down, because as numb as the rest of me might be, my dick registers the warmth at my back.
A few times I take corners too fast and even though she tries to keep her body from touching mine, her chest rams up against my back and I can feel her tits smash up against my spine and ribs before she throws herself back and refuses to rely on me for balance again. My dick is fully hard because of the way she smells, like fresh earth, lilacs, and a little bit like salt from sweating in the hot summer sun.
After taking the long way around Hart, which I’m sure Lark noticed and is probably fuming about, I pull up at Patterson’s.
The place used to be a ramshackle bar on the outskirts of town. It’s right along the highway that takes most people to Seattle, so it sees a lot of traffic. Patti Patterson inherited the place when her dad died. Her parents had been separated for a long time and her mom wasn’t going to come back to run the old bar. She’s been working the place, bartending and doing books, orders and staffing and everything else, since she was far too young to be legally doing any of it. She’s a platinum blonde in her early thirties with two boys. The only mistake she ever made was getting knocked up by a piece of shit who ran up debts and ran out on her.
Last year, when it was clear she was going to lose the bar to pay his debts, she came to us for a loan. Instead of giving her money to fix the place up and pay off the loan sharks her snake ex used in Seattle, we bought into the place. We’re now half owners, though we like to keep that quiet. Patti is a good woman, and her lips are sealed. If anyone ever asked where she got the money to turn the place from a shithole into something she could be proud of, she’d just smile and shake her head and divert the attention with some wild tale or another.
Lark scrambles off the bike the second I have it parked. She shoves off the helmet, her hair a mussed up dark tornado knotted all around the top of her head and smooths down her clothes.
She narrows her eyes, takes in the parking lot, which is huge, all new asphalt, and wraps around all sides of the building, and snorts. “You brought me to a bar to have the conversation that we’re going to have? Not just any bar, but the rowdiest onein Hart?” She shakes her head, rakes her fingers through the snarls from the helmet, and grimaces. “Never mind, of course you brought me here. Everyone knows this place is a biker bar and if they don’t want their teeth kicked in by some club thug, they don’t come here. No one wants to worry about saying the wrong thing and pissing off the Angels.”
I take in the mass of bikes lined up neatly on the other side of the lot, but for every bike, there’s a vehicle that doesn’t belong to the club here.
I hop off the bike with ease, throwing my helmet and Lark’s on the handlebars to hang until we need them again. Her eyes rake over me as I move.
