I scooched to the edge of the bed, holding the sheet to my chest, and kept scooching, and reaching, as I extended out a leg as far as I could stretch, toes pointed, to drag his T-shirt my way.
I managed this, leaned over, grabbed it and pulled it over my head.
Only then did I get up.
I was tall. He was taller but I was tall. He had very broad shoulders, so the shirt bagged at mine and down my chest, but it barely covered my rump.
That wasn’t the only reason I bent and nabbed my panties.
I slid them on, surreptitiously looking out the windows only to see Johnny had moved, but only to be in the act of lifting his coffee mug to his lips. His eyes were still trained to the distance, his back partially twisted toward me.
Thus I took in the room, which was one big room (huge actually) with kitchen, dining area, lounging area, a reading area, and bed. But there was a mouth to a hall to the right of the kitchen.
I headed that way seeing three doors down the hall, two to the right, one to the left.
The first to the right was open. I glanced in and saw a big long room that had a lot of stuff. This stuff was a furnace, water heater and a Wi-Fi setup, but also a bunch of man things. Jackets and fleeces on hooks. Boots and running shoes in an untidy pile on the floor. A gun rack with four places for rifles, only two of them taken. What appeared to be a bound up tent and some folded camp chairs in the corner. A camp stove. Camp lanterns. Fishing nets. Fishing poles. A big backpack.
I walked a couple of steps down the hall and looked into the room at the left.
The bathroom.
I entered and was astonished.
The front room I hadn’t fully taken in. The ceilings, however, were wood. The walls, stone. It was a room you would expect in this building made of cream, tan and brown stone that had a water wheel.
The bathroom had been completely redone, and even to my inexpert eye I could see it was recently.
And it didn’t look like it belonged in this building.
All white.
Everything.
Shiny white, subway tile walls. A large shower (actually mammoth, with five sprays, two slanted in at the top sides, one at the ceiling, and two more coming from the walls). A white with gray veins marble-topped double sink with illuminated mirror. A toilet behind a half partition that hid it mostly from view. And a big (actually huge) corner tub with a narrow platform built around it where it met the wall, where a woman would put candles, plants, decorative jars with bath salts.
The last I knew because there was that there. The only thing on that narrow platform. A decorative glass jar with a handsome chrome top half-filled with blue bath salts.
This was not Johnny’s.
This was someone else’s.
Right just then I didn’t want to think of the possibility of “someone else.”
I looked away from the bath salts and the fabulousness of this huge, clean, gleaming, gorgeous bathroom that was any woman’s fantasy and so incongruous to the furnace/water heater room that was a mess of men stuff and outdoor gear, and I used the facilities. I washed my hands. I opened Johnny’s drawers until I found some toothpaste and used my finger as a brush. I rinsed and stared at the mirror into eyes that really needed the makeup removed, and in a further quick and as noninvasive as I could make it perusal, I searched for facial care products that might go with the bath salts.
There were none.
There was, however, some mouthwash so I used that.
I wanted to leave the bathroom, but after seeing it in all its glory, curiosity overwhelmed me, taking me to the door at the back between the tub and shower. A door that was closed.
But I couldn’t do it.
Johnny Gamble had bought me four margaritas. He’d brought me to his home. He’d then given me four orgasms and held me in his arms while I fell asleep (this didn’t take long, then again, I’d had four margaritas and four orgasms).
I owed him privacy.
If he offered me a tour of his home, I’d take it.
But those bath salts notwithstanding, there was no indication from him or anything else that I needed to pry just in case he was hiding something.
He might have a woman who was off on a girl’s weekend or away for work and he felt safe to go on the prowl and in doing so, being as he was, looking like he did, knowing he’d get lucky, he’d hidden the evidence and forgot the bath salts.
But if he had a woman who used bath salts, there’d be a lot of evidence to hide and there wasn’t even an extra toothbrush, much less a stray tube of mascara he missed. Not in my as-non-invasive-as-I-could-make-it perusal that I’d seen.
Maybe he was a man who liked baths or he took them after a massage, when everyone knew you threw in some Epsom salts to help leech out the toxins.
Perhaps he liked to smell good.
He embodied and defied the name “Johnny.” He was a man who knew precisely what he wanted in bed, so he took it, and if he had to drag it, position it, stretch it, flex it, brace it, he did.
He could take as many scented baths as he wanted.
I walked out and saw him still at the railing at his balcony. He was standing straight now, but braced into a hand on the railing, holding the coffee mug aloft, close to his mouth, but not sipping, eyes still contemplating the view.
Quickly, I took in his space.
Mid-century furniture everywhere. Not stuff he’d inherited when he moved in. It was new. Handsome. Clean lines. Boxy. No nonsense. In tweeds and leathers and light wood. Everything, including the bed, the copious bookshelves (filled with copious books) and the easy chair in the corner was sparse and sleek, like Johnny had hit an auction of the dressings of the Mad Men sets and furnished his home with his buys.
It was unbelievably cool.
The kitchen he’d worked with as it was. It had nothing trendy. No cement, granite or marble countertops. No fancy swoosh-closed cabinets. There were butcher-block countertops that were so old, they were smooth everywhere, warped in places, wavy in oft-used spots. Stark-fronted cabinets and open shelves.
Though he’d replaced the appliances with a stainless-steel dishwasher, fridge and stove that were high quality and expensive, if not top of the line.
I spied the coffee. I saw the white coffee mugs on an open shelf above the coffeemaker and a bottle of creamer out on the counter.
I went there and made myself a cup.
As I moved toward the balcony, I saw Johnny was no longer in peaceful contemplation of the verdant surroundings of his water wheel, brilliantly furnished with bathroom-to-die-for home.
He must have noted my movement, maybe even noticed I was out of bed and had gone to the bathroom. But regardless, his regard was now aimed through the wall of windows.
At me.
I opened the glass door and walked out, shutting it behind me and looking back to Johnny, only to stop because he was looking at his T-shirt on my body.
Perhaps the intimacy of that, and me helping myself to coffee (and bathroom, toothpaste and mouthwash) wasn’t welcome.
I’d never hooked up. Not in my life. I dated. I had a firm five-date rule before even groping (this mostly due to shyness, but also my prudishness, which I had reason to believe I held on to because it assisted in me being so shy), so I obviously hadn’t slept with a man hours after meeting him.
I didn’t know the protocol when you woke up in a mostly strange man’s bed, no matter how handsome, gentlemanly or what a good listener he was.
“Although I appreciate the unadulterated view of those legs, not to mention that hair, I’d prefer you get your ass over here, Izzy.”
This amused command jolted me out of my apprehension and I slowly moved on my bare feet through the cool early summer Sunday morning toward Johnny Gamble.
He hadn’t taken his hand from the railing but he did put his coffee cup to it so he could have a free hand to curve around my waist.
This he did, pulling me up tight to his side and dipping his chin into his n
eck to look down at me.
I liked that. Being tall, I didn’t get that often, a man looking down at me, having to go to such lengths to do it as to shift his chin into his neck.
This had to put Johnny at six-two, maybe even six-three.
Yes, I liked that a lot.
I also liked the warmth of his body. I’d noticed just how warm it was in bed last night and it helped things (that his talents really didn’t need help with, but still), and it helped them in nice ways.
And last, I liked the solidness of him and this didn’t come just from him being built. It came from him looking right into my eyes, taking hold of me right away, making me feel welcome there, like he was glad I used his toothpaste, his mouthwash (even though he didn’t know that . . . yet), helped myself to a cup of coffee, woke up naked in his bed.
He wasn’t going to load me up in his truck and take me back to my car in town and be done with me, not looking back.
This was something else.
This was . . .
It was the beginning of something.
I relaxed in his hold.
“Hey,” I whispered.
His mouth hitched.
“Hey.” He slid his hand down my side to my hip as he asked, “Sleep good?”
I nodded because I had but also because the movement of his hand had so much of my attention I couldn’t speak.
It got more attention when his fingers met the hem of his shirt I was wearing and pulled it up.
Therefore, it came out kind of squeaky when I asked, “Did you? Sleep good, I mean.”
I also felt my cheeks getting warm and Johnny didn’t miss it. I knew this as his black eyes started twinkling even as the tips of his fingers found the waistband of my panties.
“I slept great,” he murmured, and then didn’t hesitate to go on, “Panties?”
“Sorry?” I asked, confused at his question perhaps because his fingers were trailing along the waistband of the item of clothing we were oddly discussing and it felt nice.
“Panties,” he repeated, not in a question this time.
“Yes, those are, uh . . . my panties,” I confirmed.
This got me the bright, white, beautiful smile. “Babe, why’d you put on your panties?”
I blinked up at him.
His fingers slid inside the waistband to lightly cup one cheek of my behind.
My lips parted.
“Sweet, shy Eliza,” he muttered like he was referencing me to someone else even if he was gazing right into my eyes. “Gonna have to break you of that.”
Yes.
Oh God, please let it be yes.
This was the beginning of something.
“You hungry?” he asked conversationally.
I nodded, not really knowing if I was or I wasn’t. Mostly knowing I liked the warmth and possessiveness of his hand down my pants.
“Wanna fuck before or after I feed you?” he inquired.
My legs wobbled.
He felt it, I knew because that got me another smile, this one less sweet and oh-so-much-more sexy.
“Both,” he whispered, his head coming toward mine. “Starting with before.”
“Johnny,” I whispered back, but I did it with my lips moving against his.
His eyes were open, they were close, because I’ll note again, his lips were against mine, when he answered, “Yeah?”
“My coffee,” I noted idiotically.
Sadly, his lips went away.
Then my coffee went away and was set on the railing by his.
Then his lips were back.
“I haven’t even taken a sip,” I announced, again looking in his eyes so close, I could count the (abundant) eyelashes.
“Make you three pots after I make you come,” he mumbled then moved infinitesimally closer.
“Johnny,” I said urgently, again waylaying the kiss for no reason at all.
He was a good kisser. The best. The best I’d ever had.
By far.
Still, I was me.
So I was nervous.
“Izzy,” he replied.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Shut up.”
I shut up.
And then, finally, he kissed me.
CLICK HERE TO ORDER
Too hot to handle . . .
Tabitha Allen grew up in the thick of Chaos-the Chaos Motorcycle Club, that is. Her father is Chaos' leader, and the club has always had her back. But one rider was different from the start. When Tabby was running wild, Shy Cage was there. When tragedy tore her life apart, he helped her piece it back together. And now, Tabby's thinking about much more than friendship . . .
Tabby is everything Shy's ever wanted, but everything he thinks he can't have. She's beautiful, smart, and as his friend's daughter, untouchable. Shy never expected more than friendship, so when Tabby indicates she wants more-much more-he feels like the luckiest man alive. But even lucky men can crash and burn . . .
Lanie Heron isn't looking for love-no surprise, considering her last serious relationship nearly got her killed. So when Lanie propositions Hop Kincaid, all she wants is one wild night with the hot-as-hell biker who patrols with the Chaos Motorcycle Club . . .
For Hop, Lanie has always been untouchable. She's too polished and too classy for his taste. But when she gives Hop the once-over with her bedroom eyes and offers him a night in paradise, he can't say no. And he doesn't regret it when he finds that Lanie is the best thing that's ever happened to him-in or out of bed. Now the trick will be to convince her of that.
The ride of her life . . .
Once upon a time, Carissa Teodoro believed in happy endings. Money, marriage, motherhood: everything came easy---until she woke up to the ugly truth about her Prince Charming. Now a struggling, single mom and stranded by a flat tire, Carissa's pondering her mistakes when a vaguely familiar knight rides to her rescue on a ton of horsepower.
Climb on and hold tight . . .
In high school, Carson Steele was a bad boy loner who put Carissa on a pedestal where she stayed far beyond his reach. Today, he's the hard-bodied biker known only as Joker, and from the way Carissa's acting, it's clear she's falling fast. While catching her is irresistible, knowing what to do with her is a different story. A good girl like Carissa is the least likely fit with the Chaos Motorcycle Club. Too bad holding back is so damned hard. Now, as Joker's secrets are revealed and an outside threat endangers the club, Joker must decide whether to ride steady with Carissa---or ride away forever . . .
The flame never dies . . .
Millie Cross knows what it's like to burn for someone. She was young and wild and he was fierce and even wilder-a Chaos biker who made her heart pound. They fell in love at first sight and life was good, until she learned she couldn't be the woman he needed and made it so he had no choice but to walk away. Twenty years later, Millie's chance run-in with her old flame sparks a desire she just can't ignore. And this time, she won't let him ride off . . .
Bad boy Logan "High" Judd has seen his share of troubles with the law. Yet it was a beautiful woman who broke him. After ending a loveless marriage, High is shocked when his true love walks back into his life. Millie is still gorgeous, but she's just a ghost of her former self. High's intrigued at the change, but her betrayal cut him deep-and he doesn't want to get burned again. As High sinks into meting out vengeance for Millie's betrayal, he'll break all over again when he realizes just how Millie walked through fire for her man . . .
Rosalie Holloway put it all on the line for the Chaos Motorcycle Club.
Informing to Chaos on their rival club–her man’s club, Bounty–Rosalie knows the stakes. And she pays them when her man, who she was hoping to scare straight, finds out she’s betrayed him and he delivers her to his brothers to met out their brand of justice.
But really, Rosie has been denying that, as she drifted away from her Bounty, she’s been falling in love with Everett “Snapper” Kavanagh, a Chaos brother. Snap is the biker-boy-next door with the snowy blue
eyes, quiet confidence and sweet disposition who was supposed to keep her safe…and fell down on the job.
For Snapper, it’s always been Rosalie, from the first time he saw her at the Chaos Compound. He’s just been waiting for a clear shot. But he didn’t want to get it after his Rosie was left bleeding, beat down and broken by Bounty on a cement warehouse floor.
With Rosalie a casualty of an ongoing war, Snapper has to guide her to trust him, take a shot with him, build a them…
And fold his woman firmly in the family that is Chaos.
The brother known as Hound has a reputation. He’s all about cracking heads, having a good time, and when the Chaos Motorcycle Club needs someone to do the tough job, they call on him.
But Hound has a secret. He fell in love with a woman years ago. She’s untouchable. Unattainable. And even when her status changes, for Hound, it remains the same.
Keely Black had it all early and lost it all not long after. Thrown into an abyss of loss and grief, she’s faced a life of raising two sons alone and battling the rage at all that had been ripped from them.
And why.
Words spoken in anger open Hound’s and Keely’s eyes. For Hound, he sees he’s wasted his life loving the wrong woman. Keely sees she’s wasting her life not opening herself to the love of a good man..
Click here to order these and other titles by KRISTEN ASHLEY
KRISTEN ASHLEY IS the New York Times bestselling author of over sixty romance novels including the Rock Chick, Colorado Mountain, Dream Man, Chaos, Unfinished Heroes, The ’Burg, Magdalene, Fantasyland, The Three, Ghost and Reincarnation, Moonlight and Motor Oil and Honey series along with several standalone novels. She’s a hybrid author, publishing titles both independently and traditionally, her books have been translated in fourteen languages and she’s sold over three million books.
Kristen’s novel, Law Man, won the RT Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice Award for best Romantic Suspense. Her independently published title Hold On was nominated for RT Book Reviews best Independent Contemporary Romance and her traditionally published title Breathe was nominated for best Contemporary Romance. Kristen’s titles Motorcycle Man, The Will, Ride Steady (which won the Reader’s Choice award from Romance Reviews) and The Hookup all made the final rounds for Goodreads Choice Awards in the Romance category.
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