A Risky Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 2)

by Elizabeth Barone

  I hope he wins, because I know he'll let me off the hook. Probably. I can't get a read on him, whether he wants to be friends or rivals.

  "How about a hundred?"

  More hands disappear. Both Trish's and Abraham's stay up.

  "One-fifty?"

  Still more hands go down, but nowhere near enough. As much as I want to raise a lot of money, I want to get this over with. I want to go home to my empty apartment and numb myself to sleep with Netflix.

  Maybe I should get a cat.

  Of course, the thought of a cat makes me think of Olivia and Dio.

  "One-seventy-five?"

  I scan the room, looking for dropping hands. They all stay up.

  "Two hundred," Mark announces. "Any takers for two hundred?" He nudges me.

  "Now that's a fair price," I deadpan, feeling like an improv student.

  The bid keeps going up. I'm impressed. Shannon has got to be thrilled. I tell myself that by the time I go on this date, I'll be in a much better mood. I'll get enough sleep or whatever I need to do to make sure I show the winner a good time.

  "Three hundred," Mark crows.

  He could've been a WWE announcer.

  Half the hands fall. Both Trish and Abraham still have their hands up.

  "How do you still have blood flow?" I tease her.

  She preens at the attention. "I know something else that's gonna have blood flow."

  I shake my head. Should've known better. "Oh, you," I kid weakly.

  "Me," she agrees.

  When Mark hits four hundred dollars, only Trish and Abraham have their hands in the air. "Do I hear five?" he asks them.

  They glance at each other. Trish blushes. She shakes her hand, but keeps it up. Abraham shoots me an apologetic look, then puts his arm down.

  "My fucking arm is numb," he complains to no one in particular.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," Mark bellows, "we have a winner! One night with Cliff goes to our very own Trish."

  "Wait," she says, shaking her arm out. "I think . . . I think I've been outbid."

  Mark swivels his head from side to side. "By who? You're the last woman standing." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Aren't you?"

  She blushes again, shaking her head. Blonde strands of hair escape from her topknot, secured with a teal bandana. "Cliff," she says, putting one hand on my arm. With the other, she points toward the double doors leading to the restrooms and actual bar.

  "You better go," Mark urges.

  Glancing from Trish to Mark, I frown. "Okay," I say, drawing out the word. I stride toward the bar, hands in my pockets. As far as I know, there isn't even anyone in there right now—maybe a couple veterans enjoying a beer with each other, watching whatever's on TV when football isn't on.

  Fall can't come soon enough. I've missed twenty years of games.

  I push through the swinging door. For a moment, the change in atmosphere nearly blinds me. I go from a brightly lit room pumping with music and energy to a dim room lit only by sparse light coming in through the windows. Sunlight slants in one direction, spotlighting the woman sitting at the bar. She sits with her fingers splayed on its top, two shots of clear liquid in front of her.

  Olivia.

  I glance around, but there isn't another soul in the room. Running a hand over my beard, I step forward.

  She lifts her head as I approach. She sits with her legs crossed, one foot bouncing in the air. She exhales, blowing curls out of her face.

  I stop at the stool next to her. "Had enough of the party?" I nod at the shots.

  She shakes her head. "I paid a thousand dollars for these. It isn't even Cuervo."

  My eyebrows shoot up. "A thousand dollars?"

  "Well, okay. Lucy chipped in five." Her teeth sink into her lower lip, eyelashes fluttering.

  "Lucy?" I check the bar again. "Why the hell would Lucy drink thousand dollar tequila with you?"

  She tilts her head to the side, giving me a look. "They're for us," she says. "For the auction."

  I sit. "You bid on me?"

  "Mmn-hmn." She pushes a shot toward me. "Figured we'd have a drink."

  I lift the tiny glass with two fingers. "Don't forget what happened the last time we had tequila," I say, but don't smile. The glass shakes in my grip. I don't dare hope. I'd be a fool to let myself.

  She lifts her shoulders and spreads her hands. "Anything can happen." Then she picks up her own shot. Her lips part, but she says nothing, eyes dropping from my face. Her foot continues its spring, back and forth.

  She's nervous.

  "And here I thought Trish had it in the bag," I say, my attempt at lightening the mood.

  She scoffs. "Only because I told her to."

  "Yeah?" I clink my shot against hers. I realize there aren't even any limes. Tipping our heads back, we drink, then slam the shot glasses down. The cheap tequila burns all the way to my stomach. I grimace.

  "Jesus Christ." Olivia sticks out her tongue. "This is not going as planned."

  I catch her hands in mine. "What exactly is the plan, here?"

  Her eyes meet mine. She rubs her lips together, the shine of lip balm on them. "To get you drunk," she says in a soft voice, "and then take you home."

  "Are you trying to take advantage of me?" I say, matching her hushed tone.

  "Only if you want to." Her eyes widen, growing more vulnerable the longer I look into them. Her hands squeeze mine. "I can't move in with you," she says quickly. "And I'm not ready to love you. But I'm ready to let you love me." Her lips tug to the side. "If you still do," she whispers.

  I run a thumb across her cheek. "You asked me to bear with you," I say, heart pounding a frantic hopeful rhythm against my ribs. "I'm still here, Olivia. I'm always here."

  "I know," she says, her small hand cupping my face. "That's why I can't let you go." Her eyes search mine, swimming with uncertainty. "Do you?" she asks. "Still love me?"

  60

  Olivia

  My lips tremble as soon as the question is floating between us.

  He peers into my eyes, his own hooded and smoldering with devotion. "I do. I don't want to let you go. And I won't ask for more than you can give me," he says, placing his warm hand over mine. His deep voice reverberates in his chest, vibrating through his bones and into mine, soothing me. "Just give me whatever you've got," he whispers, repeating some of my first words to him.

  I lean into him, and his forehead meets mine. I lick my lips. "I want to be with you." My voice catches on the words, my lips still trembling. "I never knew I could be so afraid to lose someone. My whole life, I've just let people go. It's always been easy. With you, it's never easy."

  "If it makes you feel better, you don't make it easy for me, either." His mouth twitches. "Half the time, I don't even know what to do with how I feel about you, Liv. There aren't any words in any language to capture it."

  "You don't have to say it," I tell him, "because I can feel it." I place my other hand over his heart. It thumps beneath my palm. "I feel you, every second of every day."

  He lays a hand on my heart. "I feel you, too."

  I close my eyes. After a few moments, our hearts sync up, beat for beat. "Do you feel that?" I whisper.

  "I do." He clears his throat. "I'm yours, Olivia. I'm not going anywhere."

  "I'm yours, too," I reply.

  "Can I hold you?" he asks.

  In response, I crawl from my stool into his lap. Wrapping my legs around his hips, I curl my arms around his neck. A moment later, his arms wind around me. I rest my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes again, letting myself fade into his embrace, this moment. Our hearts thrum against each other, separated by bone and blood but tied by something bigger. His hands rest against my back, palms radiating warmth into me. We don't speak. For once, we just listen.

  His hand strokes my back, his other hand cupping the back of my head. I nuzzle into him, inhaling him.

  "I missed you," I breathe against his skin.

  "I missed you, too." He buri
es his nose in the curls at the nape of my neck. His breath sends delicious tingles through the muscles of my head, the curve of my spine.

  I lift my head. Lifting a thumb, I run it across his lips. He presses a kiss to the pad. I touch the corner of his mouth, trace the short beard he's grown, taking in all the subtle ways he's changed since I last touched him. Where I'm catching up, he's soaking me in, drawing a finger along the ridge of my ear, rubbing my lobe between two fingers. I arch into the motion, my eyelids fluttering.

  "I missed you," he says again, eyes on my lips.

  "Do you want to kiss me?" I hold my breath in like a prayer.

  "I really, really do."

  "Please."

  He cradles my face in both hands, his thumbs stroking my earlobes, his exhalations warming my face, intoxicating me the way no tequila ever could. "I don't know how I survived twenty years without you."

  "Me either," I joke, cheeks warming.

  There are still seventeen years between us. Someday, he might not want to wait anymore, and I might never be ready to move to the levels he wants to reach. In the face of that, reclaiming him isn't entirely fair. I swallow.

  "I know what you're thinking," he murmurs. His eyes meet mine. "I don't need all that. I just need you."

  He seals his words by fastening his lips to mine.

  My eyes flutter closed, my hands going to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair. I part my lips for him, letting him in. His mouth crooks against mine in a lopsided, delighted grin. He sweeps his tongue across my lips, hesitant. I flick my tongue out, opening my lips wider for him, letting him probe his way in.

  He caresses me with his lips, the kiss fierce and gentle. I sigh against him, my body longing to shed these clothes, to rest my skin against his. To feel his pulse against every point in me.

  I dip my head, withdrawing enough to speak. "Is the invitation to check out your new place still open?"

  "God, yes." He sweeps me into his arms, cradling me against his chest.

  I curl into him, savoring the way I fit into his big frame, how protectively he carries me. "Should we say goodbye?"

  "Nah," he rumbles, bringing me to the door and nudging it open with his hip. He hurries into the parking lot, stealing along the building like a thief.

  My thief, who stole into my veins and stowed away in my heart.

  "I've got to ask," he says as he lowers me onto his bike. He swings on and I wrap my arms around him, resting my head against his back. "Was everyone in on this?"

  "Pretty much," I murmur into his colors, the Sludge Specter scratching against my cheek, leather creaking.

  He starts the Screamin' Eagle with one kick, and we roll out.

  He takes me to Trowbridge Apartments on Highland Avenue. Not once did I ever think to ask where he's living. I just knew he got his own place, and left it at that. Anything more was too painful.

  He pulls into his unit's spot, killing the engine once the kickstand is in place. Dismounting, he holds out a hand to me. I never need help getting off a bike, but the gesture is sweet. I take his hand and swing down.

  "So," he says, gesturing toward the building. He scuffs his boot against the pavement. "I've gotta warn you, it's not much."

  "It's great," I tell him, meaning it. I stand on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. His lips spread into a smile. Taking his hand, I tug him toward the front door.

  Inside, we take the stairs. I sense his eyes on my ass the entire time I climb, and I swing my hips just a little wider. At the top, he palms my ass, drawing me into him. Turning, I reach up and kiss him.

  "Will you give me a tour?"

  "It'll last about twenty seconds." He wraps an arm around me and leads me down the hall. We pass several units before stopping. He nods at a door. "This is me." Taking out a set of keys, he fits them into the top then bottom locks, then pushes the door open, holding it for me.

  I step inside and find myself in a narrow hall.

  He flips on a light. "This is the hall," he deadpans.

  I scoff. "Come on. It's not just a hall. This is the mudroom." I kick off my shoes and shove them to the side.

  He points to my left. "Bathroom's in there."

  "The powder room, you mean." I turn right, entering the kitchen. He turns on more lights. "And this is the chef's galley and dining room. It's an open floor plan," I explain.

  "You're ridiculous." He bends down and kisses my temple. "As you can so clearly see, there's no table here."

  "It's a work in progress." I wrap my arms around his neck. "Everything is." I tip my head back and look into his eyes, so full of adoration.

  He lifts me into his arms then. I laugh, feet flailing in the air. "This," he says, stepping into the next room, "is the living room."

  "The sitting room," I correct in my snootiest voice.

  "Nowhere to sit." He shrugs.

  "Your place looks like mine when Esther moved out." I laugh, covering up for how lonely I was. "Good thing Lucy has her shit together—a couch and an actual loveseat."

  "It's all right," he says, carrying me to a door standing open. "I spend most of my time in the bedroom."

  I try to think of a fancy name for a bedroom, but come up empty.

  "The bedchamber," he intones, flipping on the light.

  "Good one." I swallow, heart thudding. Biting my lip, I lift my eyes to meet his. There's nothing for me to hide behind anymore: not wild lust, not silly jokes.

  "I'm nervous, too," he admits.

  Here I'd usually drop some quip to break the tension, maybe something like "Who said we were having sex?" He'd drop me onto the bed and I'd say something about coming over just for a nap.

  Instead, I lay a hand against his cheek, lashes lowering as I move in for a kiss. He meets me halfway, lips folding over mine, then pursing, resting against them. He takes in a deep breath through his nose.

  "I know," I tell him. "I feel you."

  He kisses me again, lowering me to the bed. I lie on my back, the scent of his clean black sheets and comforter engulfing me. They smell like Gain and the smoky leather scent that is all him. I wriggle back until my head touches a pillow.

  Standing at the foot of the bed, he watches me with heavy lids. There's nothing guarded about his gaze. It's as if he's drunk on just the sight of me. His knees touch the bed, the mattress creaking as he kneels. I lick my lips, heart thundering.

  If I fall, he will catch me, I think, and immediately know it to be true.

  He leans onto his hands and slides up the length of my body, pressing every inch of himself against me. I hold him, too, my hands catching his face, my lips capturing his. His hands roam the sides of my ribs, rubbing, squeezing. I knead my thighs together, veins scorching for him.

  "Do you feel me?" he asks, between kisses.

  "I do." I arch my breasts against him. Rising on his elbows, he palms them, one in each hand. His leather creaks against mine. Even through the layers of leather and cotton, and the lace of my bra, the heat of his hands brings my nipples to life. They tingle, a sacred warmth puckering them, round and ripe. I writhe beneath him, hoping to wake him, too.

  Cliff moans into my mouth, his kiss deepening. The air he breathes into me thrums into my core, swirling, pressure building.

  A storm is coming, a love born of darkness and tumult, its birth casting brilliant sparks throughout the black sky. I might not be ready, but I'm ready to want it.

  I rub up and down his length, coaxing him. He hardens against my thigh. Beneath him, I part my legs, my heat seeking his. The cotton of my panties clings to me. Raising my hips, I strain against him. He leaves my mouth, trailing kisses across my jawline, under my chin, down my neck. He laps my collarbone, drinking me in.

  Reaching a hand between us, I palm him. I move my hand up and down, pumping him through his jeans. He thrusts into my touch, one of his hands leaving my breasts, his thumb skimming my belly above my waistband.

  "Do you feel me?" he breathes across my neck.

  "I do," I reply
.

  His hand dips below my waistband, beneath my panties. He palms me, his hand slipping against my swollen flesh. "Olivia," he half rumbles, half moans.

  In answer, I bring my fingers to the button of his jeans. I pluck at the button, trying to pop it through its slit. But he's so thick and hard beneath his jeans, there isn't enough space for my fingers to get purchase.

  "Please help," I almost whine, grinding my hips, pressing tighter into his hand.

  His other hand leaves my breast, his thick fingers slipping between us and fiddling with the button. "Fuck," he growls. He pulls his other hand away, leaving me aching for his touch. Both of his hands fumble between us, finally popping the button.

  He springs between us, tenting his boxers but rising from the folds of his jeans, his crown proudly nestling against me, homing in. I put both hands on the sides of my skinny jeans and push them down. We each roll to one side and wriggle out, kicking clothing away.

  I rise onto my knees, Cliff mirroring me.

  My breasts heave against my cut. He puts a hand on my waist and pulls me into him, ours mouths crashing together. I grip the collar of his cut, pushing the sides down his biceps. He shrugs out of it and I fold it in half, setting it aside. He takes my breasts in his hands, palming the leather, rolling them. Then he removes my cut, folding it carefully in half and placing it on top of his.

  We face each other wearing only teal T-shirts, chests rising and falling almost in sync. I grip the hem of mine and pull it off over my head. He inhales deeply, an appreciative smile touching his lips.

  "You shine, Olivia," he whispers. "All the time. You're all I can see."

  I leap into his arms, wrapping my legs around his hips. Our mouths crash together, scorching each other in the sweetest heat. He lies me down again, and tugs off my panties. A moment later, he unhooks my bra and frees my breasts.

  I lie bare and open beneath him. Peeking up at him through my lashes, I let him see me—all of me. The rabbit Olivia and the biker, prey and predator, victim and survivor, the mistakes I've made and the ones I've yet to make. All of me.

  His eyes soften, his throat working. Without breaking eye contact, he runs a hand along my slit. His fingers pause at my swollen nub, skimming over the aching rise. He circles it, then slides back down. I press into him, back bowing. He works his way back up, circling the sensitive flesh, his rhythm quickening, the pads of his fingers tapping against it.