Safe Rider (A Lost Saxons Novel Book 2)

by Jessica Ames

  I can’t help it; I grin. And then I climb onto the back of the motorcycle. I’m already becoming an expert at getting on and off this thing now, so I cock my leg over the back like a frigging pro, my hands resting on Dean’s shoulders to steady myself. His muscles bunch beneath my palms, his shoulders tensing slightly as I put my weight against him.

  Carefully, I sit, but I’m pressed close to him no matter what I do. This is the only downside of the bike. It is an intimate ride, one that plasters my body against his back.

  I move my hands to his waist to hold on when he starts the engine. The bike roars to life, the Harley growl I’m coming to recognise as soothing when it rumbles beneath me.

  He revs the gas twice, giving the bike the power to tick over, then we’re off. He rides down the cul-de-sac slowly, dodging the parked cars, and stops for a beat at the end of the road to check for oncoming traffic before he lets the throttle out fully.

  The wind whips at us, the air stinging my cheeks. I duck my head behind Dean’s back, tightening my hold on his waist as I seek relief from the air. He weaves through the traffic with confidence, opening up the throttle on the emptier roads and navigating the cars on the more congested ones. The ride is exhilarating; it always is. There’s something about being on a bike that makes me feel, for the first time in my life, free. Not the kind of free I get from being away from Simon or living on my own. This is a different kind of free. It’s the freedom from thought, from feeling, from everything.

  Dean turns onto a small retail park on the outskirts of the main shopping area in Kingsley. It’s busy, but this is hardly surprising. It’s one of the main places to go in Kingsley. There’s a cinema, bowling alley, and a few different restaurants scattered between the department stores.

  Guiding the bike down towards an Italian restaurant at the end of the park, he pulls into a space, and I notice people stop to watch. I wonder if this happens all the time.

  He glances over his shoulder—an indication I need to get off the bike. Careful to avoid the hot pipes, I hoist myself off the back and start to undo my chin strap while Dean sorts the motorcycle. By the time he’s climbing off, I’ve got my helmet off and am smoothing my hair back down.

  He removes his own helmet and runs his fingers through his hair.

  His hand suddenly appears in front of me. “Come on, darlin’.”

  His outstretched palm is an olive branch, it’s the promise of something good, something better. Taking it, I know on some level, will tip things on their head, and while I should be scared of that, I’m not. So I take Dean’s hand, feeling the warmth and roughness of his skin, and I let him gently tug me towards him, tucking me against his side.

  We cross the car park to the restaurant, Dean’s arm around my shoulders. My heart is thrumming so hard I feel light-headed. All my attention is focused on Dean’s touch and how much I like it.

  He stops me at the end of the walkway and I can tell he’s a little nervous. “We can go somewhere else if you’re not feeling this.”

  “It’s perfect,” I tell him, rolling onto my toes to kiss his cheek.

  And it is.

  The restaurant is charming, with little Italian flag bunting lining the roof fascia and an old-style swing sign outside. There are rows of miniature conifers lining the walkway, and the smell of the foliage is thick in the air. I haven’t been here before, probably because it looks expensive.

  When we reach the restaurant’s door, Dean pulls it open with his free hand, keeping his other arm draped around my shoulders. As we step into the darkened foyer, I blink, trying to adjust to the change in light and let him guide me towards where the hostess is waiting.

  She’s in her early twenties—mid at most—with a thick layering of make-up and blonde hair scraped back into a high ponytail. Her eyes rove over Dean as if he is a specimen in a zoo, but he barely gives her a second glance.

  “Table for Lawler,” he says, his eyes coming back to me and warmth floods me at the heated look he gives me.

  “This way,” she says a little breathlessly, and I don’t blame her. Dean is good looking but he either doesn’t know it or chooses not to flaunt it.

  He doesn’t release his hold on me as we weave around the tables, following the hostess. She stops at a small table in the window. Finally, he lets me go but I can sense his reluctance.

  “Someone will be with you to take your order shortly,” the hostess says.

  “Thanks,” Dean says, giving her what I recognise as a forced smile before bringing his attention back to me. There’s nothing forced about the look he directs at me.

  He helps me out of my jacket before shrugging out of his own and draping it over the back of his chair.

  “Does that happen a lot?” I ask when the hostess finally retreats back to the entrance.

  “Does what happen a lot?” He reaches for the menu, handing me one before opening his own in front of him.

  “The looks people give you. It’s fucking rude.” He’s not even wearing his kutte or anything that identifies him as Club, but Kingsley is a small town and people know him.

  His eyes come up to me, the menu forgotten. “People fear what they don’t understand. And people don’t understand our way of life. To me, the Club is family, nothing more. To outsiders it’s something else—something dangerous.”

  “And is it? Dangerous, I mean.”

  I hold my breath as he considers his answer. I know the Club is involved in illegal stuff, and it is just one of the many things that makes me hesitant to go there with Dean—at least this is what my head thinks; my heart is another matter.

  “We try to keep the danger and excitement to a minimum,” is all he says.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means it doesn’t touch anyone in the Club who it doesn’t need to.”

  I nod slowly, and he sighs.

  “I’m not going to pretend I’m squeaky clean, Liv, because I’m not, but the people in this game understand and accept the risks—just as I understand and accept the risks.”

  His words should frighten me but they don’t. He doesn’t. Everything about Dean is reassuring and I don’t understand that at all because given who he is, what he does, he shouldn’t be.

  “Are you at risk?”

  His tongue runs over his bottom lip. “No, because I have my brothers to watch my back.”

  I flip open my menu, ignoring how intently he’s watching for my reaction.

  “Shall we order?”

  “Liv…”

  I raise my eyes to meet his. “I don’t care what you’re a part of, Dean. I mean, I care that you might be in danger, but I can’t stop that so I’m not going to worry about it. What I do care about is who you are as a person, and so far everything you’ve shown me has been good and… well, the actions of a man I want to know.” I return my attention back to the menu. “I think I might go for the ravioli.”

  Silence follows, then he mutters, “Jesus fucking Christ.” My head snaps up as he laughs under his breath and turns his attention to his own menu. “Yeah, darlin’, you’re exactly the kind of person I want to know too.”

  I can’t help it, I grin into my menu.

  We order food and chat about everything from the weather to politics. Dean tells me about his love of bikes and he talks about the Club. He doesn’t tell me much about the inner workings, just skirts around the details, but it’s enough to tell me how much his family means to him. He talks about the Harlows and Jack—who I met outside the clubhouse before self-defence. I get the impression Jack has been like a father to him in the absence of his own. I also learn Jack is Beth’s father—the woman who Dean considers his sister.

  Dean steers clear of any talk about my family, and I’m grateful for that. Dredging up my past is not pretty.

  “I’m so full,” I groan, leaning back in my seat, looking at the remains of the food we demolished.

  Dean grins as he grabs his drink and takes a sip. “You don’t want dessert then?”


  I shoot him a look. “Definitely not. I will be sick.”

  He laughs and flags a passing waitress. “Can I have the bill?”

  She blushes furiously at being addressed and scurries off. Dean ignores this, even though I frown at the girl, craning my neck to peer after her.

  “I had a good time tonight,” Dean says, drawing my attention back to him.

  “Me too, thank you.”

  He reaches across the table and his large tattooed hand covers mine. My eyes flare and raise to his. His touch feels good, natural, and it makes my stomach flutter.

  We sit like that, in a comfortable silence until the waitress returns with the bill. She slides the tray with the receipt and a couple of mints onto the table before scampering off.

  I reach for my handbag. “How much is it each?”

  His eyes snap up to my face and I can tell my question has surprised him—something I didn’t think was possible with Dean.

  “What?”

  “What’s my share?” I ask as I get fingers to my purse and pull it out.

  “You don’t have a share.”

  I stop my ministrations and glance up at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Liv, you aren’t paying for shit.”

  “But… we split the bill.”

  That’s how it’s done, right? When friends eat out they split the costs. Him paying is what a partner would do, and that… that’s not what we are, right?

  He guffaws. “No, darlin’, we don’t split the bill. I pay the bill and you spend your money on you.”

  My eyes narrow on him. “But I ate half the food.”

  “I’m aware of that. I watched you eat it.”

  The way he says this implies he enjoyed watching it too. I can’t think about that right now, so I ignore it and come back to the pressing issue: he’s not paying for my food.

  “Just tell me what the bill was.”

  “I asked you to dinner. You’re not paying.”

  He tosses a pile of cash onto the table and stands, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair, shrugging into it. Case closed, I guess. When I don’t move he sighs.

  “Darlin’, will you just let me treat you, please?”

  The way he says this has me relenting.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I reach for my own jacket but he moves to help me.

  His fingers brush the side of my neck as he sweeps my hair free of my jacket collar. It sends a delicious shiver running down my spine and it takes everything I have not to moan out as I tip my head to the side automatically.

  “You set?” he asks and I have to force my body to move.

  “Yep.”

  He holds out his hand to me, and I shouldn’t take it. I shouldn’t, but I do, because Dean is touching me and I don’t want him to ever stop.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When we get back to the house, he parks the bike on his drive and waits for me to climb off. I remove my helmet and wait for him to disembark before I hand it back to him. He takes it from me, seeming preoccupied, but my concern thaws as he grins at me and mutters, “Come on, let’s get you home.”

  He holds out a hand to me, and I take it without hesitation. Dean’s hand in mine feels natural, normal. Then again, being with Dean always feels comfortable.

  “I had a lovely time tonight,” I tell him, meaning it. I really did.

  “Me too.”

  “Did you enjoy your food?”

  “Yeah. They do good pizza there too. We should try that next time we go.”

  Next time.

  My heart swells, grateful he wants there to be a next time, and I realise I want that too. Very much so. In fact, I don’t want this evening to end.

  I duck my head as we reach my front door, trying to hide my emotions under the pretence of searching for my keys. I want him. I want him so much, but I know I can’t have him. How can I when I’m dragging so much crap behind me? I don’t need to burden him with my drama.

  I push the key into the lock, and shove the door open, fumbling for the lights. When I find it, I turn back to him. He looks amazing, standing there on my doorstep. His leather jacket hangs in a way that accentuates his broad shoulders and his jeans fit perfectly. He’s trimmed his beard for tonight; it’s cropped close to his face, neatly, no hint of scruffiness, and his hair flicks out and curls around his ears and nape. He’s gorgeous, so very gorgeous, and he wants me.

  He told me he’d wait for me but as I stand here looking at his full mouth and strong jaw beneath the layer of hair all I can think is what the fuck am I waiting for? Simon’s not in my life anymore; he took enough of my past without letting him take my future as well. I love Dean. I love him. I’m fairly certain I’ve loved him from the moment I met him.

  “Night, darlin’,” he says and gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, a smile that tells me exactly why he’s preoccupied. He wants this. He wants me, and I’m putting barriers between us.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” I tell him in a quiet voice. I might as well have shouted it because his expression is raw.

  “Can’t do what?”

  My breath hitches at his tone, which is quiet but hard.

  “I’m a mess, Dean. I have so much shit I’m dragging behind me.”

  He scratches at his brow, his eyes shutting as if he’s seeking patience. “I get it, darlin’—you’re damaged—but you’re not broken. The only way you’re broken is if you let him win, which is what you’re doing now.”

  He’s right; of course he is.

  “What Simon took from me can’t be replaced, Dean.”

  “Yeah,” is all he says, but I can see the tension in his frame. “So, what’re you saying, Liv?”

  “I’m saying I can’t keep pretending we’re just friends. We’re not friends.” I swallow hard. My heart is suddenly pounding in my chest and my hands feel clammy. “I don’t want to be friends.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he lets out a breath. “So what do you want?”

  “This.”

  I close the space between us, my hands seizing either side of his face. Then, I kiss him. His mouth is warm and wet and it tastes of the food we just ate. His fingers tangle in my hair as his tongue seeks mine and I automatically part my lips, allowing him to invade my mouth.

  My body is on fire. I’m hot, but shivery and I can barely think straight as his hands skim up my back under my blouse, stroking the skin there. He doesn’t move further, although I want him to. I want his hands to touch my heavy breasts and to take away the ache between my legs.

  When he finally pulls away from my mouth, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against mine even as his hand goes to the back of my neck. I flinch slightly, but this time it is not a fight response, but a twitch of overstimulated pleasure. And I can’t stop the intake of breath that accompanies it.

  “Liv… we don’t have to do this. I told you I’d wait until you’re ready.”

  He starts to move away, but I don’t let him go. We’re both standing on the edge of a precipice, willing each other to go over the edge, and I desperately want to take that leap with him.

  “But I’m ready.”

  I grab the front of his leather jacket and I yank him back to me. Then I kiss him. It’s a wet desperate kiss, one designed to show him with actions what I can’t say with words. I want him. I do. But there is a part of me that is still scared of going there, of being vulnerable again. I’ll always have that fear, although with Dean it is less. With Dean I have the feeling he will always try to take care of me. And there is something reassuring in that, something that makes me feel, for the first time in a long time, safe. Dean Lawler is my safe place.

  The kiss ends, but I keep my fingers fisted in his jacket. The leather is soft beneath my hands, worn from wear—like his kutte. Dean is more than just the man; he’s the Club. And if I want to go there with him I have to accept that too.

  Can I do it
?

  Yes, I think I can.

  Because my need for Dean outweighs everything else. It outweighs my fear and his criminal lifestyle. It outweighs my past and all my concerns about opening up again. It outweighs everything. There is no reason I can think of that would be enough to stand between me and Dean. Not anymore. The realisation that Dean shouldn’t have to wait forever for me to be ready pushes me into action.

  I stare up at him, this beautiful man who has shown me there is good in men, and I want to give him everything I have because I do want him. I want him so much it burns through me. We’re inches apart, our bodies so close I can feel his heat against me. I tighten my grip on his jacket and I pull him down so I can devour his mouth.

  Lips locked, we move into the hallway. Dean kicks the door shut behind us, but he doesn’t release his hold on me as he presses me against the wall. My entire body is thrumming as his hand hooks the back of my neck to pull me in closer. I melt against him, my tongue pushing past his teeth to duel with his. His hands skim underneath my top, running up and down my back.

  I take his hand and lead him up the stairs. My brain is short-circuiting, I’m anxious, nervous, excited and a hundred other emotions I can’t even put a name to, but I’m sure of one thing: I want this. As soon as we get into the bedroom he shuts the door behind us. Then he hoists me up his body, and my legs instinctively wrap around his waist as my feet leave the floor. I can hardly breathe between his kisses but I don’t care. My arms tighten around his neck as his hands go under my bum to support my weight.

  He walks us over to the bed, then gently lowers me onto the mattress before coming down on top of me, giving me some of his weight. I love the feel of this strong man above me. He lifts off me a little, looking down at me and asks, “Okay?” and the seriousness in his expression makes my heart swell.

  I’m nervous, of course I am; it’s a normal reaction to a new partner who is about to see all your wobbly bits for the first time, but I’m also ready. Dean and I have been dancing around each other for months—since we first met—and I don’t want to waste any more time. I want him; I’m fairly certain I need him, in fact.