Page 26

“Neither did I,” he admits gruffly with a faint flush on his cheeks. He adjusts his jeans, then cups my face with both hands and steals one last slow, deep kiss—softer this time, almost tender. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine for a beat. “Get some rest. Prospect duties start at dawn. And Tatum?”

“Yeah?” My voice is soft, still recovering from the orgasm.

“No more secrets. Not from me.” By his tone, I can tell this is an order, not an ask. I nod, knowing that I’m still hiding something.

Would he still touch me like this when he finds out I am Lennox’s little sister?

My legs are shaky as I slide off the table. I quickly button my jeans and head for the door. Before I slip out, I glance back. He’s watching me with that intense stare, arms crossed, body still humming with tension.

Holy shit.

The confrontation with the club drained me, but that moment with Corbin lit me on fire. I head upstairs on autopilot, mind spinning. Nicholas is still out there. The club knows the worst of me. And Corbin…Corbin just made me come on his fingers while he lost control in his pants like a teenager.

I strip and step into the shower, letting the hot water beat down on my body. My mind replays every second—his hand around my throat, fingers inside me, the way he groaned when he came just from getting me off, and that last kiss. I’m in so much deeper than I thought. Drying off, I pull on an oversized tee and crawl into bed. Then my phone buzzes.

Lennox:

Are you okay? Need me to come check on you?

Me:

I’m good, just tired. Switch said I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow.

Sleep comes slow. Filled with green eyes, rumbling bikes, and the ghost of Corbin’s touch. Tomorrow, I prospect and prove I belong. And tomorrow, I’ll face him again, knowing exactly how badly I want him to corner me like that every single day.

CORBIN

I’m at her door at 5:45 sharp, knuckles rapping against the wood. The hallway is quiet, the clubhouse still sleeping off last night’s haze. If she thinks she’s slipping out anywhere without an escort after yesterday, she’s dead wrong. The lies I can handle. The way I completely lost control from just her hand through my jeans? That shit is still burning a hole in my pride. I’m supposed to be the one in charge here, not some horny prospect who can’t keep his shit together. Embarrassment sits in my gut, mixed with the memory of her moans and the way she clenched around my fingers. I shove it down. I can’t let a lapse in judgment sit at the edge of my mind.

The door cracks open. Tatum stands there, hair still damp from the shower. Black leggings hug her legs. The cropped long sleeve reveals a strip of toned stomach and the edge of those fading bruises. She gives me that half-smirk that’s quickly becoming my favorite problem. “You really meant the ass-crack-of-dawn thing, huh?” Even in the morning, she has snark to spare.

“Morning, Prospect,” I say, keeping my tone flat even though my eyes betray me. “Every damn day. Let’s go.”

We walk out to the garage in silence. Neither of us acknowledges the kiss from last night. Or what happened after. Probably for the best. I don’t fully trust her yet, but fuck if I don’t want to pin her against the nearest wall and finish what we started.

The lineup of club bikes sits in the bays like sleeping beasts waiting to be worked on. I assign her the worst of the bunch—an old Softail that’s been neglected for months, covered in grime and half-seized parts. I expect a smart-ass remark or at least a complaint, but I get nothing. She drops it on the stand without being told, grabs the right tools like she was born with them in her hands, and gets to work. I position myself in the next bay, pretending to check a chain while really watching her every move. The way her arms flex as she torques bolts. The focused crease between her brows. The quiet competence that makes my chest tight and my mind race with questions I shouldn’t be asking.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

She catches me staring. “Something wrong with my form, sir?” The word sir does dangerous things again, sending heat straight south. I step closer, crouching down beside her as she drains the old oil.

“You’re too good at this.”

Her jaw tightens for a second, but she doesn’t stop working. She wipes her hands on a rag and meets my eyes. “Maybe you could learn a thing or two if you watch me closely enough. Or are you still scared I’ll bring bullshit to your door? Or maybe, you just don’t think women can do this, and you’re waiting for me to fuck something up.” I can hear the anger starting to bleed through her voice.

For the next two hours, I watch her every move like it’s my job—which it is, but that’s not the only reason. She anticipates problems before they happen, adjusting the chain slack perfectly, bleeding the brakes like a seasoned mechanic. Efficient. Graceful, even covered in grease and sweat. By the time she finishes, the Softail looks better than it has in months. Part of me is impressed. The other part is pissed that she fits so well here, like she was always meant to. “Good work, Spitfire.” I grunt, hating how proud I sound.

She flashes me a real smile—small, tired, but genuine—and something low in my gut clenches. Obsession. That’s what this is turning into. I already know her schedule better than my own. I’ve already cataloged the way she scans every room she enters like she’s four steps ahead of everyone there. The way she tasted. The broken sound she made when she came. The sticky mess I left in my own pants because of her. I need to get a grip or get laid somewhere else. Maybe that would solve this growing problem.

We do another group ride after a grueling morning in the garage. All the prospects were practically crawling out of their skin to get out of there for a little bit. Tatum leads on her crotch rocket, it makes her stick out too much while I sweep the rear like always. Even with the tight formation of prospects and some members between us, I can’t help but to watch her. It’s like poetry watching her carve the corners and curves. Some of the other prospects struggle to keep pace while being on bigger bikes, but it doesn’t matter to her. She rides as if she owns the roads. When we pull over at the overlook again, I find myself walking straight to her instead of checking on the others. “You trying to make the rest of them look bad?” I ask, voice rougher than intended.

She pulls her helmet off, shaking out her hair from where it sticks to the marks I left on her neck yesterday. Sweat glistens on her collarbone, right above the knife scar, the perfect spot to sink my teeth into. “Just riding, Switch. You told me to show what I’ve got.” Her voice cuts through my thoughts.

I step closer than I should, crowding her space against her bike. “I’m watching you, Tatum. Every fucking mile.”

Her eyes darken as she looks up at me through her lashes. “Good. I like being watched by you.” The flirt hits me square in the chest. I should shut it down. Instead, I brush a stray strand of hair off her cheek with my thumb, letting myself linger too long. Her skin is warm. Soft.

“Careful, Spitfire. I’m not one of these prospects you can just bat your pretty little eyes at and toy with.”