by Ann Jensen
Phoebe turned towards him with a glazed look in her eyes as she took in his naked body. That he could distract her so easily soothed his ego, but he didn’t like that she looked ready to bolt out the door.
“I have to shower and get over to the Clubhouse if I’m going to get the cleaning done and breakfast ready before your Brothers wake up.” She bit her lip as her gaze caught the sight of his cock, already stirring again at the sight of her standing there naked, her arousal still glistening as it dripped down her thighs.
He walked over and ran his thumb along her lower lip. “Who told you to clean up the Clubhouse?” His Brothers definitely appreciated it, but he would beat the crap out of any man trying to turn her into their personal maid.
“No one. I like to clean and cook. It seemed like so little for everything you all have done.” Her body melted against his, leaning in as if drawn to him. He loved that around him she didn’t seem the frightened mouse she was around his Brothers. With the exception of his fuck up last night, her complete trust and lack of fear floored him.
“You don’t have to do anything. My Brothers protect you because you are mine.” Sharp felt his words resound with the absolute truth. Never before had any woman triggered such possessiveness in him. So many women had warmed his bed and fed his needs, but none of them had ever made him think beyond the moment. Phoebe in a few hours meant more to him than all of them combined. If he didn’t destroy her with his darkness, this little pixie could be his for life.
“But–” He brushed his lips over hers, quieting her protests.
“You want to cook or clean that’s fine, but not because you think you have to. But when you’re with me, you don’t worry about anyone but us.”
His lips covered hers in a claiming kiss that had both of them panting. Sharp nipped at her skin enjoying the salty taste. He was going to make sure she thought of nothing but him for a good long time.
Chapter 11
Sometimes even the littlest of pricks are the biggest assholes.
Sharp was happy to be back in his garage rather than out on the road. Dark Customs Garage was more to him than just a business, it was his passion. Located about a half hour from both Denver and the Clubhouse, it had become famous for custom Harley work and had a waiting list two years long. Every single man who worked at the garage was a Dark Son Brother handpicked by Sharp for their skill. The success of the business meant being able to pick and choose work and offered the flexibility needed to a Brother. That fact meant they could still go on runs or rides whenever they wanted.
Rebuilding and customizing bikes gave Sharp a sense of satisfaction. The side jobs he did for the Club were essential, but here he could relax and do something he loved with some of his Brothers. Gears and Crash were already elbow-deep in their projects, and Rooster and Smoke would be in the office mainlining coffee before they were ready to work.
“Sharp! You’re in later than usual,” Crash teased him from across the bays.
It was well past eight and Sharp was usually in by seven to try and get the paperwork done before getting his hands dirty. “I ate breakfast at the compound.”
The week he had been gone on Club business meant there would be a mess overflowing his desk. Sharp trusted each one of these guys with his life and any bike, but none of them would do an invoice or order parts without the threat of death being involved, and since they were all ex-special forces the danger had to be dire and immediate.
“I heard the new girl is an amazing cook,” Crash laughed. “Is that little bit of fluff really your woman?”
Gears sat up from the Harley he was working on, wiping his hands on a rag. “He saved her from some dickhead over at HKs. Sharp is her knight in shining armor.”
Sharp flipped off Gears, both of his Brothers teasing him with good-natured laughs.
“She know the shine on your armor is actually blood?”
“Fuck off.” He headed to the office, worrying himself. Watching Pixie bustle around like Suzie homemaker this morning cooking eggs and other breakfast foods like it was the highlight of her day was kinda hot, but it made him wonder if she would ever enjoy the things he fantasized about doing to her.
He was a violent man who liked fucking whether it was alone or in front of a crowd. Making a woman scream and beg him to fuck her raw just plain did it for him. He didn’t want to break that light in her, and he was afraid that’s what he would do. The idea of Virgin Mary turning into Mary Magdalene was the hottest of images, but could any woman be both?
Around lunchtime Puck showed up with a box full of sandwiches.
“Sharp’s lady sent over food,” he shouted, over the noise of the equipment. Sharp was still straightening out the mess that was his inventory. He needed to put a parts order in by the end of the day.
By the time he got out to the garage, everyone was gathered around the box pulling out chips and sandwiches on thick crusty bread. Sharp grabbed one that was roast beef wrapped in butcher paper and took a bite. The bread was a fantastic wheat that melted like butter but crisp around the edges. Pepper Jack cheese, lettuce, tomato and a spicy mayo were in perfect harmony with the thick cuts of beef.
“Damn. I’ll fucking marry the bitch if she makes me sandwiches like this every day,” Rooster moaned around a mouthful of food.
“Call my woman a bitch, and you won’t have to worry about eating ever again.” Sharp was surprised by the violent fury that had come over him at the words of his Brother.
“Nothing but respect man, I swear.” Rooster held his hands up in a surrender pose.
Sharp took another bite of the amazing sandwich, choosing to ignore the irrational feelings he was having. The paperwork was slow going because his mind kept drifting to the tiny Pixie back at home. The idea of her small hands on his body sparked fantasies that weren’t conducive to work. One particular image of her all sweet and innocent until he lifted that proper little dress to find her soaking wet had replayed several times. He would pin her to the kitchen counter and fuck her until everyone heard her screams of pleasure.
“You expecting someone?” Puck nodded up at the monitor that showed the front parking lot of the garage. Brothers and regular customers knew to come around back, so the two blacked-out SUVs were obviously neither.
Four large and very Italian men stepped out, scanning the parking lot apparently looking for trouble. Sharp got the feeling he wasn’t going to enjoy the next fifteen minutes.
“No.” Sharp’s voice was a growl as he recognized the next man who stepped out. Anthony Caravaggio, exiled nephew of the Minetti family. His oiled back, brown hair and European style suit were out of place in Colorado. City girls probably drooled all over him not knowing the man had no soul behind his dark eyes.
His woman’s trouble had found them. Checking his gun, Sharp watched as the slick dick Mitchel started to get out behind the mobster but was sent back into the car with what looked like angry threats. It was a shame there wasn’t any sound because it would have been interesting to know what Caravaggio said to earn the homicidal stare.
Without any prompting, Puck, Smoke and Gears headed up the ladders on either side of the garage that led to sniper perches in the rafters. Rooster and Crash checked their weapons before holstering them, taking their lead from Sharp. It was tempting to rush out guns blazing. Scum like these men didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as other people.
But a long time in the military had taught Sharp patience, so they waited for the enemy to come to them. When the group of men entered, each was sized up for weaknesses by the bikers. Four of the men were obviously new muscle; they had shoulder holsters but didn’t carry themselves like they’d had any training. Good for intimidation; that kind of bulk would cower lesser men. Caravaggio was fit, but it was that soft physique that came from working out for the sole purpose of looking good. His perfectly tailored suit and the hundred-dollar haircut were designed to strengthen that impression.
Sharp had only seen the man once before in passing.
The Dark Sons had taken on a job to protect a shipment for the Minetti family. The exiled, spoiled prince had shown up in another designer suit and strutted around like he owned the place. He had been there to make sure ‘everything was in order’. Of course he left before any real work had to be done. Caravaggio believed he was a king in a backwater pond and deserved to be treated as such. The problem was everyone knew the reason the little prick was forced to live in the Midwest rather than on the East Coast with the rest of the Minetti Family: his dates tended to wind up dead.
His sick and often lethal tastes in the bedroom couldn’t be covered up when the Feds were watching him closely. So, he had been exiled to live in a mansion far away from the watchful eye of the government and was forced to get his fix by buying girls no one would miss. He was barely smart enough not to get caught even with all those restrictions. Sharp had to take a deep breath and control the rage fueled by the idea of his sweet Phoebe ending up with this monster.
The bastard strode into the open bay, his goons trailing behind him like an over-muscled flock of geese. “I’m looking for Sharp.”
Sharp stepped forward, the comfortable weight of his gun at the small of his back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Puck and Gears at their posts, guns trained on Caravaggio and his goons. “That’s me.”
“Good. I’m Anthony Caravaggio.” He smirked as if he expected his name alone to strike fear.
“I know who you are.” Sharp tried to keep his answers short in the hopes his absolute disdain wouldn’t be too obvious. But instinct told him this whole meeting was bound to go sideways.
“Good, that should make this easy. You have something that belongs to me. I want it returned.”
It. Not her. The urge to shoot Caravaggio and rid the world of one more asshole was too tempting. This son of a bitch thought he could stride into Dark Sons territory and make demands.
“We have nothing that belongs, or that will ever belong, to you.”
The Mafia wannabe’s face reddened with anger. “I spoke with Mr. Thomas. He said you stole the package he was supposed to deliver to me.”
Sharp smiled, but it wasn’t pleasant. Now he had Mitchel’s last name, which would make it so much easier to track him down. Sharp found it fascinating that a man this twisted guarded his words as if he were being recorded by the cops.
“If you mean Mitchel, the man you have stashed in the back of your car, then we didn’t steal shit from him. He had a very nice girl with him who wanted to come home with me.” Sharp smirked as he took in the anger flashing in the psycho’s eyes. “Who was I to say no? If your friend was supposed to secure a package for you and lost it, I think you should be talking to him. If you want, I will happily talk to him myself.” Sharp hoped he would get another chance to have words with the abusive asshole.
“Look, you little fuck, I paid top dollar for that package. You will return it to me.”
The men behind Sharp growled at the insult. It was time to drop the nice guy act. “You pumped up prick. How dare you come onto Dark Sons territory making demands? The only reason you’re even breathing is because we respect the Minettis. But that respect only goes so far.”
Caravaggio’s eyes narrowed and he made a gesture that had his men pulling their guns. Sharp didn’t let anything show on his face, knowing his Brothers had done the same.
“You’re out numbered, Sharp,” the idiot said and smirked, and Sharp knew he thought his four men were enough to kill the three men he could see. “Kill them.”
Four guns fired simultaneously, the sound echoing in the garage bay, followed by soft thumps as all four of Caravaggio’s men dropped dead. Small holes provided evidence of where bullets had entered the center of their foreheads. Sharp strode forward until he was nose-to-nose with the now confused Italian. He knocked Caravaggio to the ground with a single right hook.
“Dark Sons are never alone and we sure as fuck aren’t at a disadvantage when facing off against entitled little pussies who only play at combat.” He squatted down using one hand gripped around Anthony’s throat to keep him pinned to the ground. “Listen very closely. Phoebe belongs to the Dark Sons now. She is my woman. Anyone who tries to take her is going to discover themselves begging for death long before it comes for them.”
“Fifty-thousand dollars.”
The number startled and frustrated Sharp. It was a ridiculously high amount. If this scumbag was willing to shell out that much cash, he wasn’t going to give Pixie up without a fight. He should kill the fucker, but the Minettis were a powerful family, and as VP he at least had to try to avoid war.
“We don’t sell people. There is no price. Do you understand me?”
“I will destroy you.”
“Big words from a man on the ground. You only breathe because I respect your uncle. Now get the fuck out of my garage.” Sharp let him go before the urge to choke him became too strong.
With a nod, Rooster slipped out the door behind the mobster to make sure he didn’t try to make more problems, while Sharp dialed Hawk’s cell.
“Hey, Sharp. Pixie is making chicken pot pie from freaking scratch.”
Sharp pushed away the image of Phoebe in a frilly white apron. He couldn’t let his growing cock interfere with Club business. Not now. “I need Clean here with his crew ASAP.”
Hawk’s tone lost its lightness. “What happened?”
“Caravaggio showed with some friends. He’s on his way home, but we had to make a mess.”
“Right. I want details when you get back. I don’t want a war if we can avoid it.”
“Understood.”
Clean had had many nicknames throughout his career in the Rangers and then as a contractor for the Agency. He was a thin, utterly average guy whose face was so nondescript, if you described him you would be looking for words other than normal. He had joined the Dark Sons a few years ago after a few of the active-duty Brothers risked their lives pulling him out of a South American hellhole that he had been left to rot in for months.
He didn’t talk about his time in the Agency, but he had an exceptional talent for making anything disappear. The bodies were gone, and the floor power-washed with a chemical mix that was his secret alone in less than twenty minutes. The Brothers had barely finished rubbing the floors down with dirty rags, rolling in some dirt to the concrete, when Sharp’s cell rang.
Hawk’s voice was tinged with fury when he spoke. “Local PD is on their way over with dogs.”
“That fucker called the cops?”
“Anonymous tip said you had dead bodies on the property. Has Clean done his thing?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know if it will fool dogs.”
Clean grinned, grabbing his heart. “You wound me, man.” He then strode over to his bike taking a bag filled with red powder out of the saddlebag. Whistling, he began tossing a small amount of the powder between where the bodies had fallen and where the van had been.
“I stand corrected,” said Sharp with a grin into the phone. “Looks like he has dogs covered.”
“All right. The lawyer is about five minutes away. Tek already downloaded your security footage and performed a wipe. If they get a warrant, it will look like your system has been glitching for days. I want you here after they’re gone.” Hawk disconnected.
Clean dropped the bag back in his saddlebags. He glanced toward the road. “Your company is here. Guess I get to stay for the search.”
Sharp laughed. “Don’t ever say I don’t take you to the best parties.”
Chapter 12
That shit’s going to fester. Fly your freak flag loud and proud.
Phoebe was taking her frustrations out on the pie dough in front of her. Flour was flying, dusting her green sundress in speckles of white, and she didn’t care. Last night had been a disaster tainting what she had with Sharp. Stupid fear had fucked up everything. Her attempts at rekindling the fire this morning had barely worked.
Sharp had treated her like a porcelain doll. Sure, he had been attentiv
e, making sure she orgasmed, but they were tiny things in comparison to the heat he could deliver. If he wasn’t so big that he bruised her cervix, she doubted her stupid body would have come at all.
Why couldn’t she be normal and enjoy the sweet tenderness Sharp offered? Would he leave her if he realized what she wanted? A man that rough and gorgeous probably enjoyed a wild fuck, but if she couldn’t show him she was strong enough, would he even be willing to try? She wanted to tell him about her needs but feared he’d think she was broken. He might think she wanted pain because of her history. Would he try to fix her?
She needed a bit of pain with her pleasure, and he gave that to her whether he knew it or not. She feared that bit of bite wasn’t enough for her. If she asked for more would he toss her away to be stuck as a Club whore?
Her whole body trembled at the idea of letting any man but Sharp touch her in that way. She slammed the rolling pin into the dough biting back her scream.
“Slap my butt and call me Bessy. It smells like my momma’s kitchen in here.” Val’s southern twang was like a ray of sunshine. Phoebe ran and threw her arms around the woman. Val chuckled, squeezing Phoebe until she squeaked. “Dozer told me you were whipping up chicken pot pie, but I thought he was playin’ me a fool.”
Phoebe dusted her hands against each other. “Nope, I’ve almost done the crusts. The gravy is simmering. Potatoes are boiled, and the chicken will be done in a few minutes.”
“Well, I stopped by with some news and to drop off some of the cutest sundresses I ever have seen. But if you are makin’ chicken pot pie like my momma did, then pet me on the head and call me your kitchen bitch cause Dozer and I are joining y’all for dinner.”
“Thank you, Val. You always make the day brighter.”
“All right what do ya need?” Val pushed up her sleeves like she was ready for battle.