by Naima Simone
And from the way those blunt fingertips pressed into her flesh, exerting delicious pressure that sent a bolt of liquid heat straight for her core, she could pretend he might even enjoy touching her.
“Even the owner can take a fifteen-minute break,” he said in her ear, belatedly answering her question.
“To dance with a customer?” she shot back. “Are you usually this inappropriate with all your customers? Or did I just win the Get in My Business Lottery?”
“I’m making an exception.”
“Really?” Skepticism dripped from her tone. “And what makes me so special?”
He studied her, blue eyes so bright, so intense, so seeing, that she dipped her gaze to the strong column of his throat.
“If someone hasn’t told you on a daily basis—several times a day—why you’re special, then you need new friends, Cherrie.”
She closed her eyes, tried to block out his voice...tried to block out the yawning, empty hole that had opened up in her chest and threatened to swallow her whole. She felt, rather than saw, his head lower. Cool, silken strands of hair grazed the corner of her mouth, her cheek.
“Should I tell you?” he asked, his breath stirring her curls, whispering over her skin. Not waiting for her answer, he continued, “I’ve just met you tonight, and already I can tell you’re creative as hell, gifted. You’re kind, even loving. Because Daryl and Belinda wouldn’t put up with you if you weren’t, much less invite you to an event as important as their daughter’s engagement party. They wanted you here with them as the person they love most starts a new phase in her life. I know you take no shit, which is a wonderful thing, because someone would have to be willing to take their lives—or their balls—in their hands if they dared disrespect you.”
She snickered, and his low rumble of a laugh vibrated through her.
“You’re stunning,” he said softly, after their laughter ebbed. “Not beautiful or lovely. Those words are too anemic to describe the fire that damn near burns off you. They can’t capture the soulfulness of your eyes, the haughtiness of those cheekbones or the sin of that mouth. Those gorgeous tattoos tell me you’re bold, not afraid to push a limit. And these curves...” He huffed out a gust of air, his hold on her momentarily tightening, and she sucked in a breath. A beat passed between them filled by the wail of the guitar and croon of the lead singer’s voice and the abraded rhythm of his breath.
Her? She’d stopped breathing when he’d commented on her soulful eyes.
“These curves threaten to make a grown man weep in gratefulness that you’re not one of those women who commit the unforgivable act of covering them up. And that tells me you’re confident, that you own who you are. And that, Cherrie Moore, is sexy as hell.”
Damn.
At some point during his listing of her attributes, she’d lifted her head, stared at him. Her thunderous heartbeat filled her ears, echoing like waves crashing against a shore. Desire lit his eyes, and the sight of it threw kindling on already snapping flames. How long had it been since she’d experienced true, uncomplicated need?
Too long.
There’s nothing uncomplicated or simple about this man.
Cherrie hushed the pushy, know-it-all voice that dared to interfere. As bold as he’d called her, that might be true in one area of her life—her art, whether it was the silver she designed, or the pieces inked on her body. But when it came to her relationships... She’d always been safe.
No.
Scared.
She loved her parents—God, she loved them. But Terrel and Gladys Moore shared a special connection that had always made Cherrie feel like a third wheel on a date. Her father was one of those lucky people who’d found love twice in this lifetime. He’d worshipped Cherrie’s mother, and when she died just before Cherrie turned ten, he’d been a ghost, a shade of the laughing, robust man he’d been. Until Gladys came along. She’d breathed life into him again.
Growing up and witnessing that kind of love had ignited a hunger for something that essential. But it’d also instilled in her a bone-deep fear of it. The thought of loving someone to that degree terrified her, because what happened when they left?
And in Cherrie’s experience, they always left.
Her gaze roamed Maddox’s face, dropping to the sensual lure of his mouth. But this time, she was doing the leaving. In two weeks. That’s how long she had here in Rose Bend before she returned to Chicago. Why shouldn’t she take, indulge? This vacation was about freedom for her. Freedom to ride. Freedom to be herself without condemnation.
Freedom to lose herself in the temporary pleasure of this man’s eyes, mouth and body.
“Cherrie?”
She watched his lips form her name. Absorbed the impact of it as it trembled through her.
Lifting her gaze to his, she whispered, “We’re going to have sex, aren’t we?”
“No.”
Shock and humiliation jolted through her, and she stiffened, heat pouring into her face. This was what she got when she took a chance. And this was exactly why she didn’t.
“Sorry, I misread the signs,” she said, stepping back and away from him.
Or she tried to. His hands slid to her waist, tightening, holding her in place. And that only sparked the anger kindling inside her.
“Cherrie, look at me.” He didn’t wait for her to comply, but pinched her chin and tilted her head back. She should’ve been irritated at that, too, but then his thumb brushed her bottom lip, pressing into her flesh. As if testing its buoyancy. The words charging onto her tongue skidded to a halt, and she stared at him. Just as he’d requested. Or ordered. “You didn’t misread anything. And you’re too beautiful a woman to not be able to tell when a man wants you. Yes, we’re going to have sex. From the moment you walked through the door of my bar, all I’ve been able to think about is touching you, discovering what secrets this lovely body hides. But...” He nudged her chin higher, and the pressure on her lip eased into a light caress. If she didn’t know they were talking about a vacation fling, she might’ve even called the touch...reverent. “But I want to know you, Cherrie. Not just what makes you shake in pleasure, but you. So yes, we’re going to have sex, but not tonight.”
Need, panic and confusion swirled in her head. No-strings sex for a two-week Berkshires fling. That’s what she wanted; that’s what she could handle. Getting to know him meant strings as deceptively delicate and titanium-strong as a spider’s web. She’d just untangled herself from an unhealthy relationship that she’d let linger too long. And Maddox Holt, he was temptation wrapped in golden, inked skin, honeyed words and secret desires.
No, she didn’t want to get to know him.
Because she suspected that would make leaving him all the more difficult.
“Let me go,” she softly ordered him. Immediately, his hands dropped away from her. “I don’t want that. I’m sorry.”
Regret pulsed hot and bright in her veins, but she took one step back. Then another. And another until she’d crossed the room, made her excuses to Daryl and Belinda, then exited the bar.
She’d come to Rose Bend to sell jewelry and enjoy the motorcycle rally as she did every year. Not for an ill-conceived fling. It was a good thing that any thought of being with Maddox Holt had come to a screaming halt. Nothing but trouble would’ve probably come of that.
Yes, she’d dodged a giant, redheaded bullet.
And if a kernel of emptiness lodged just under her rib cage at the thought, well, so be it. Rather an empty heart now than a broken one later.
CHAPTER TWO
HARLEYS. DUCATIS. BUSAS. YAMAHAS.
Maddox rolled to a stop behind the fifty or so motorcycles of all makes and models filling Main Street, creating quite a spectacle for the first ride of the rally. The number of riders would swell to double this size by tomorrow, and even more in the coming week. The whole town of Rose Bend opene
d its proverbial doors for bikers from all over the country for the rally. The beautification committee decked out the buildings in banners, motorcycle-themed bows and white lights. On the Glen, a huge field at the end of Main, several volunteers hosted barbecues and picnics, while more volunteers set up sponsored events and games for the annual visitors and their families. All the proceeds from the rally benefited the This Is Home Foundation, an organization that ran the youth home for foster children in town.
This Saturday morning, even at a little before eight o’clock, a good crowd of Rose Bend’s citizens gathered on the sidewalks. Chatter and children’s excited squeals filled the air that still held the coolness of a Berkshires night. In another two hours, the temperature would rise to about eighty-five degrees. Perfect for the ride around gorgeous Mount Everett.
Pride expanded inside Maddox until it threatened to burst through his chest. He might be a transplant here, but this small, quaint town in the shadows of Monument Mountain and Mount Everett was home. For a person who hadn’t been able to label any place that—a home—for twenty-three of his thirty-one years, it was a minor miracle. It’d been fate and a random road trip that had brought him here eight years ago, and a case of love at first sight that had kept him here. As a child of a musician mother who’d called a tour bus home for most of her decades-long career, Maddox had seen a ton of this country, and a good amount of countries abroad. But none of those places had resounded in his soul, crying out to the part of him that longed for stability, for a place where he could stay long enough to receive junk mail. A home.
Rose Bend was more than a place where he’d bought a house and a dive bar.
It was a haven for a boy-turned-adult who’d been afraid to make friends because he knew that he would only be leaving them behind. But now... He glanced around, soaking in Main Street with its charming brick buildings, colorful awnings, leafy trees and inviting benches. Now he not only had friends. He had friends he considered family.
Speaking of...
His gaze narrowed on Daryl and Belinda Barnes. The couple had been one of the first he’d met when he’d arrived in town, and they been good friends since. The woman with them, sitting astride a burgundy-and-black Suzuki Hayabusa 1300, though—nothing about her inspired “friendly.”
He stared at Cherrie Moore. Unabashedly and unapologetically stared.
Jesus, how was it possible the woman could get any more beautiful in the space of eight hours? Last night, in a torso-hugging leather vest and tight jeans that showed off beautiful tattooed brown skin, toned arms, a heart palpitation–inducing pair of breasts, a cock-hardening ass and incredibly long, thick legs, she’d been a walking wet dream. Today, straddling the high-powered, bulky sports bike most people considered a man’s machine, and encased in a leather jacket, equally tight jeans and motorcycle boots, she was pure, unadulterated fantasy.
Swinging his leg over his Ducati, he skirted the other riders and approached the trio, his focus concentrated solely on the statuesque beauty with the solemn brown eyes and lush mouth. Her features created a fascinating, striking face that had branded itself into his mind. In his dreams. As did her walking away from him.
Last night, he’d fucked up. Being on the road or being shuffled from one relative’s house to another most of his life hadn’t instilled in him the greatest of social skills. Which meant tact was often a foreign concept, and his aptitude for flirtation could be compared to that of a rampaging bear. Didn’t mean anything he’d said hadn’t been true. Or that he had any intention of giving up on Cherrie Moore so easily.
She’d walked. And he had no problem with following.
As if sensing his presence, she glanced up, and an emotion that veered too close to panic flared in her eyes, causing him to hesitate. But only for a moment. Curiosity and determination streamed through him. Why, he didn’t pause to analyze, just as he hadn’t the night before. For the first time in, well...ever, he acted on instinct. On impulse. And every instinct demanded he not let this woman escape him.
“Morning,” he greeted.
Belinda and Daryl turned, smiling, as they returned his greeting with a hug from her and a back slap from him.
“Hey, you,” Belinda said. “I was wondering if we were going to see you here this morning.”
“I told her you wouldn’t let anything like closing up at 3:00 a.m. keep you from going on a ride.” Daryl squeezed his shoulder. “And thanks again for last night. We really appreciate you opening your place to us.”
“Always,” Maddox replied, then shifted his attention from his friends to the silent woman with the fire-dipped dark curls. “Morning, Cherrie. Good to see you again.”
“Maddox.” She dipped her chin in recognition.
“’Scuse us. My husband is going to treat me to a cup of coffee from Mimi’s before the ride starts. If he knows what’s good for him,” Belinda drawled.
A wry grin tugged at Daryl’s mouth. “And he does.”
Maddox watched the couple walk off toward the popular and no doubt crowded café, shaking his head. “There goes a very intelligent and possibly scared man. I don’t know whether to admire him or rescue him.”
Cherrie snorted. “If he wants to be rescued.”
Maddox turned back to her, arching an eyebrow. “I think we just described marriage.” Her bark of laughter surprised him, and from the slight widening of her eyes, her as well. Taking advantage of the chink in her armor, he shifted closer and brushed his fingertips across the Busa’s gleaming side panel. “Nice ride.”
“For a woman?”
His eyebrow hiked higher as he studied her for a long moment. Observed the faint firming of those sensual lips. “Is it just me who gets your back up, or are you this defensive with everyone?”
She stared at him, then her mouth twisted into a rueful half smile. “It’s just you.”
He chuckled. “Thank you for your honesty. Although I’m not sure if me annoying you is a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Not annoying,” she muttered under her breath, but since every bit of him was tuned into her like a homing signal, he caught it. “And it’s bad. Very, very bad.” Before he could question her about that cryptic admission—and hell yes, he planned to question her on it—she said, “And thank you.” She stroked a hand over one of the grips. “I’ve had her for two years now. I travel a lot for my career, but whenever I’m home, we’re out on the road together.”
“Where’s home?” he asked, hungry for any information he could gather. Yeah, he didn’t analyze that need, either.
“Chicago.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Well, it’s where I land most when I’m not on the road. Since I can’t tow a motorcycle with me everywhere, I don’t get to ride as much as I’d love to. Just one reason I look forward to this rally. Yes, I sell my jewelry here, but it’s also two straight weeks of me, my Busa and open road. Doesn’t get much better than that.”
“Ride with me.” The invitation burst out of him with no time for his brain to check the wisdom of it. But he didn’t rescind it. Instead, he moved closer to her and lifted his hand, giving her enough time to avoid him. When she lifted her gaze to his and didn’t move, he threaded his fingers through her dark, tight spirals, savoring the rough silk texture of them. Imagined gripping the strands tight as he used them to hold her close and take her mouth. “I want to ride this road next to you.”
He didn’t admit that the only thing he wanted more was for her to straddle and ride him with the same sexy confidence and control she rode that bike with. Yet for some reason, her next to him, sharing the experience of this ride together, seemed just as...intimate. And that’s what he hungered for with her. Intimacy. Damn, this craving for a woman he barely knew, and who, for all intents and purposes, rejected him, should’ve shot up a neon red flag of caution in his brain. And maybe it did.
Maybe he just didn’t care.
He didn’t flinch
under Cherrie’s narrow-eyed perusal. No, he welcomed it. Welcomed any part of her touching him, even if it was only her gaze. And as she roamed from his face, to his leather jacket and down his body to his jeans and boots, his fingers curled into fists. A necessary prevention to keep from reaching out, circling her wrist and dragging her hand to stroke all the places her eyes had brushed over.
“Fine,” she murmured, swinging off the bike and avoiding looking at him. But it was too late. Before she’d turned away, he’d caught the flicker of desire in her almond eyes. Satisfaction burned inside him, and he clenched his jaw to contain the grin that would most likely appear feral. “Let me check my levels, gauge and the gas, and then I’ll come find you.”
Nodding, he slowly turned, indulging in one last lingering sweep over her curves, before he strode back to his Ducati. Excitement sped through his veins. Excitement and something sharper, brighter. And imperative.
Again, not analyzing it.
CHAPTER THREE
“THIS IS ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL.”
Maddox released his chin strap and slid off his matte black helmet. He glanced from the view to Cherrie as she also removed her helmet. His fingers tingled with the need to fluff her curls, spread them out in a gorgeous dark brown and red halo. But she beat him to it, and he didn’t deny his disappointment.
Determined to resist temptation, he tore his gaze away from her and fixed it on the vista spread out before them, removing his leather jacket. Peace settled in his chest like a guest walking in and making himself at home. He’d debated whether or not to bring her here. But at their last stop, to gas up, he’d asked her to follow him here instead of returning to town with everyone else. And witnessing her reaction, he didn’t regret his spontaneous decision.
Dragging his fingers through his hair, he shoved the strands away from his face and walked over to stand next to her. Together they silently drank in the view of Rose Bend from the top of a grassy knoll beneath huge trees that provided a canopy of cool shade.