by Juli Valenti
Poet couldn’t help watch, confused as hell over what he was doing. He removed his cut, followed by his shoulder holster, and then unbuttoned his shirt before placing the three of them on the chest at the foot of the bed. Surely he didn’t think?
“Move over, babe.”
Okay. So he did think.
“What?”
“Move. Over.”
Too tired to argue, Poet did as he asked, telling herself she was being an idiot. What the fuck was she thinking? A Bishop in her bed? Clearly it’s just to sleep, her subconscious told her and she couldn’t help the scoff that escaped her. No biker she’d ever met, not hers, a Bishop, none of them, ever climbed into bed with a woman without thinking they were getting lucky. Sure, she was different than the sweeties that lingered, hoping to fuck their way onto the back of a bike, but she was still a woman. And Titan was very much a man.
So why was she letting Titan scoot her over, pushing down the comforter, only to pull it back over them both? Why was she letting the shirtless man roll over to turn out the light before moving to face her, his head on one of her pillows?
“Titan…” she started, exasperated.
“Don’t worry, babe. I know you want me in those tight-as-fuck pants, but you’ll have to wait. You’re hurt.”
“You are a complete asshole, you know that, right?”
Titan chuckled beside her, the sound creating stupid feelings in the pit of her stomach. Feelings she did not want, nor did she welcome. “I am a lot of things, Poet, I’m okay with that. Just like you are. Besides, I’m not being nice – it’d be hard for you to be on your knees sucking my cock when you can barely breathe while you’re doing it. Maybe when you’re better.”
“Dream. The. Fuck. On, Titan. I get on my knees for no man,” she yawned, her body demanding she sleep.
“We’ll see, babe.”
Her mind was wandering as her limbs relaxed, her heartbeat a constant throb in every inch of her. She couldn’t figure out why she was so at ease – why she felt so … safe … with Titan beside her in bed. It went against everything she knew, everything she’d experienced or ever thought. Never trust a man who rode a motorcycle. More than that – never trust a man who wore a cut and rode a motorcycle. Still, she was. She knew the Bishops President would protect her, not that she needed it, and that he would be there if she actually wanted his help.
What she didn’t know, however, was if she’d made the right decision in coming to her house, having him there. Was it better being vulnerable and weak in front of her own men, her club? Or being vulnerable and weak in front of the President of her rival club?
Poet wasn’t sure.
Chapter Five
Poet stirred, the light streaming in through her floor-to-ceiling window trying to drag her from sleep. She sighed, not wanting to give in to its demands. Refusing the pull to wake, she pushed back into the warm body behind her.
A heavy arm was laying across her stomach, holding her, and she was more comfortable than she could ever remember being. Funny, she had never felt that way with Braeden before – must’ve been a good night. Abruptly she remembered the night before: the beating, the ride to her house in the hills. More so, she remembered who was actually spooning her. Titan. Fuck.
As though her thoughts woke him, he moved against her, his erection at her back undeniable while his grip tightened on her hip. Pain mixed with unwanted desire flooded her and she groaned.
“Did I hurt you?” Titan’s sleep-heavy voice asked, his fingers immediately loosening on her bruised body.
“Ungh.”
Taking her incoherent utterance as permission, she fought a shudder as his hands traced a spiral on her exposed skin. That’s not Braeden, Poet. It’s Titan fucking Warren. Shut that shit down and quick. She knew her mind was speaking the truth, it was undeniable, but she didn’t want to. Shut him down, at least. Feeling him touch her sent thrills through her body, something she hadn’t felt in oh so long.
Sure, sex with Brae was good, but it wasn’t spectacular. It never had been. He was a tool to be used when she had an itch needing to be scratched, and he with her. There were no ties, no complications, and very little spark. Lately she’d been refusing his calls and ignoring his texts for late-night fuck sessions – they weren’t as satisfying as they’d once been.
All creativity had gone out the window, and, as often as she told herself it was what she wanted, he was entirely too tame. Once when she’d scratched his back too hard, he’d threatened to tie her up. It was one of the hottest things he ever said to her, but when she called him on it later, he looked at her like she had two heads. I’d never do that, Poet, he’d said, and her excited libido had dropped a good forty degrees.
Her libido now was all but smoldering, like lava cascading down a volcano side. Titan touching her was wrong; it was forbidden to her morals. Yet as she continuously repeated the cons for letting him proceed, her body betrayed her. She could feel her heart rate speeding, goosebumps forming along her skin in the wake of his trail, and her breathing was erratic.
Lost in her internal struggle, Poet almost missed him pressing his hardness against her, a question, an option, a demand. Jumping to her feet, thankful she didn’t get caught in her covers, she stood at the side of her bed, refusing to look at him. He was too much of a temptation, the bastard, and she hated it. Hated him for making some small part of her want him.
“Get back in this bed, Poet.”
Her eyes darted to his, anger rising in her at his demand, easing her out of her lust-induced haze. It also helped dull the pain that had begun throbbing through her again.
“No. Get out. Of my bed, my house. I’m sick of fucking looking at you.”
Titan’s eyebrows rose before his lips turned into a smirk, something that pissed her off even more. How dare he look at her that way, like she was a plaything. She wanted to backhand him to wipe it from her memory.
“You can keep saying that, babe, but we both know you’re a goddamned liar. You aren’t sick of looking at me – you want to see more, and you hate it, which I love.”
Wrapping an arm around her middle in an effort to hold back groans of pains, Poet moved quickly to her bureau and rifled through the top drawer. Turning to face him, she palmed her Pink Lady, aiming at his head. The .38 caliber special revolver only had five rounds, but she wouldn’t need that many.
“I said, get the fuck out of my bed.”
Poet gritted her teeth to keep her body solid, refusing to show how difficult it was to hold the position. A threat was only as good as the person making it. A shaking little blonde didn’t have nearly the same effect as the badass, only female club president ever. She tried hard to ignore the fact that she was barefoot, still clad in her acid-washed skinny jeans, and only her black lace bra.
Still, the large man in her bed didn’t bat an eye at her. He continued to stare at her like she was a novelty, a funny one at that, and Poet could feel blood rushing to her face.
“You know I won’t hesitate to pull this trigger.”
“Did you know your gun is fucking pink? Really? A pink damn revolver? Are you telling me I’m supposed to be scared of you pointing that pea shooter at me?” Titan stood from the bed, stretching as though she wasn’t holding a gun at him. Her gaze moved from his head to his chest and stomach as muscles rippled with his movement, her mouth drying. He stalked toward her. “I’m not afraid of you, Poet Butler. We’ve gone through this – I know your reputation, your habit of shooting and asking questions later, with no second thought. But I also know that you love your room, so you don’t want my blood ruining your floors, and I also know that you’re hurt as hell right now. Yeah, I see you locking your elbows in effort to keep from shaking.”
“Shaking or not, I’ll still do some damage, Bishop.”
“Fuck you, Poet,” he murmured, his lips suddenly close to her ear. She watched his hand rise to meet hers, his grip closing around her pistol. “If you want to shoot me, fine, do it. But know I’
m going to kiss the hell out of you first.”
The Bishop didn’t allow her a reply. Instead he crushed his lips to hers, stealing her breath as his tongue sought entrance into her mouth. Poet kept her body stiff, unresponsive, her palm sweating on the grip of her gun, yet it didn’t deter him. His hand that wasn’t holding hers moved to cradle her chin, forcing her gaze to his as he broke away for a moment. A second passed, and another, the weight of the .38 becoming unbearable and she let her arm drop, along with her shield against him. Just one kiss, Poet. That’s it.
Ignoring the protest in her ribs, she let her arm snake around Titan’s neck and pulled his lips back to hers. This time, she kissed him, allowing her tongue to explore his mouth, tasting him and letting him consume her, if only for a moment. He tasted like the morning, mixed with remnants of the previous night’s tequila, but she didn’t mind.
His hand dropped from her face to her hip, gently holding her, his palms large and warm against her bare skin. Poet shivered and gasped, a sound he swallowed as he backed her up against the wood of her bureau. She was getting lost in him, in his lips strong against hers, his tongue taking charge, overpowering her. It was a heady feeling, a change of pace. Poet was so often in charge of everything, yet in this moment with Titan, it was he who took point.
A cold breeze caressing her nipple pulled her slightly from the haze she was in, until his lips left hers, enclosing around the tight bud and pulling. She felt the motion all the way to her toes, her body responding to it, and a moan escaped her throat. The Bishop in front of her growled in what she assumed was approval, his hand leaving her hip to grip her other breast. His large fingers kneaded her tender skin roughly, his thumb flicking at her nipple, and making Poet squirm.
She was panting as Titan released her, her body trembling despite her willing it to hold still. The lack of his warmth on her skin, on her lips, her breasts, left her wanting more, and never wanting him to touch her again. The man was dangerous, and with more than just a coldhearted resolve to get things done.
Large fingers pressed between her and the waistband of her skinny jeans, tugging until the button released. The zipper was pulled down, followed by the lace of her panties. When the tight material didn’t give enough to allow room for his hand, Titan cursed before gripping the sides and easing them down her hips, freeing her to his gaze.
“Fuck yeah, babe,” he murmured huskily, standing up to his full height, his lips at her neck. He ran a finger through her wetness before plunging one inside her. “Fuck yeah. You want me so bad right now. Tell me you want me, Poet.”
Poet grit her teeth in response, refusing to let those exact words fall from her lips. Truthfully, she did want him. She wanted him to take her, the way only an alpha, a President, could. For once, in longer than she could remember, she wanted to have zero control, to be the beta, to be allowed to feel instead of being herself. Fuck if she’d ever admit that to him, though. Hell no, never. Admitting such a thing would be weakness in and of itself, and Poet was anything but.
Titan withdrew his finger slightly, only to thrust two more into her, making her bite her lip to keep from moaning again. “I’m going to fuck you, President, and you’re going to love it. You’re going to beg for my cock, beg me to come inside you. You’re going to turn around and give me that beautiful ass, and I’m going to pound into you the way I know you want me to.”
She shivered at his words mixed with the never-ending movement of his fingers inside her, caressing her g-spot. Her head and her pussy weren’t on the same page; it was weeping for him, begging him just as his words said she would. Poet’s brain, though, refused to give in, to back down.
Before she could change her mind or get lost in him more than she already was, Poet raised her arm, the Pink Lady still held limply in her hand. Tightening her grip, she grit her teeth and brought the barrel of the small revolver to his temple.
“The only begging you’ll ever hear is your own, begging me not to put a slug in your fucking head. Now get off me.”
She watched as Titan’s eyes grew wide, his fingers stilling inside her before thrusting deeper. Poet steeled herself against her body’s desire.
“I swear on my club, I won’t tell you again. Get. The fuck. Off me, Bishop. I don’t give a damn about my hardwood floors,” Poet told him, putting every bit of conviction she could into her words - most she felt, some she didn’t.
Slowly, he removed his fingers, his gaze never leaving Poet’s. He stared at her as he brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking the remnants of her pleasure from them. Jolts of desire shot back through her again, but she ignored them, waiting as patiently as she could for him to back up.
Titan eventually took a step backward, his lips upturned. “Alright, Princess. For now, at least. But make no mistake – you want me and I sure as fuck want you. I will sink myself into that tight pussy, and when I do, you’ll never want another dick. Now where’s your shower?”
“Who the hell does that asshole think he is,” Poet grumbled to herself as she dragged the towel lightly across her stomach.
After speaking in two-word sentences to the man, giving him general directions to the other bathroom on the second floor, she’d jumped into her own. Her hope had been that a scalding shower would help wash away what had happened, that it would help her to forget how it felt to surrender, if even for a moment. Much to her ire, it didn’t.
“I must be needing Braeden more than I thought,” she added, cringing when she twisted wrong and pain shot through her ribs. Titan had said bruised, possibly a hairline fracture, but not broken. “And what would he know. Not like he has his m-fucking-d.”
Moving slowly, the pain her lust had hidden from her when she’d gotten up now in full force, she dressed and wrapped her hair in a towel. Most girls probably would have at least dried it, but she didn’t give a damn how she came off to the pretentious Bishop in her house. She was at home, she hurt like fucking crazy, and all she wanted was something to eat. With a side of President, her subconscious added not so helpfully.
The stairs were a nightmare, and Poet had the sudden urge to demolish the entire house to avoid moving down them. But, already halfway through, she powered on, sighing when she got to the landing. Her first destination was the kitchen – the freezer to be exact. She extracted the box of jelly-filled pastries as well as a bottle of Grey Goose.
Popping two toaster strudels into the toaster, she put the icing packet on the machine so it would melt some, and set to making a cup of coffee. Idly, she swigged from the vodka bottle as the Keurig spit and finally produced her liquid caffeine. Taking the mug, she set it on the bar, along with the alcohol, and finished making her breakfast. Just as she sat down to eat, loud footsteps alerted her to Titan’s arrival.
“Should have known you’d make a five-star breakfast.”
“Should have known you took longer than a sweetie to shower,” she shot back, not turning to look at him.
He came around the counter, still shirtless, mirroring her with a towel wrapped around his head. His muscles looked even better in the bright light of her kitchen, the illumination from the skylights making him seem unreal. She shook her head as she realized she’d been staring and he’d clearly asked a question. In answer she raised an eyebrow.
“Breakfast? Coffee? Stare at me later, woman, I’m hungry.”
“Ugh. Breakfast is in the freezer, k-cups in the drawer,” she pointed, taking another bite of her pastry.
“Vodka on the counter?” he asked, his own eyebrow up at her in question as he started the coffee maker.
“Better than Vicodin.” Poet regretted the honesty the minute she’d said it, almost backpedaling but deciding against it. The man had seen more of her body than she’d ever wanted him to, knew the damage that had been done the night before. Who cared at this point if he knew she was having a five-year-old’s breakfast with a side of adult. She hurt, damn it.
Still, she waited for the Bishop to spout off a snide comment, to tell her she w
as a little bitch who had no right to hang with the “big boys.” She’d heard it a million times, could repeat the script word for word to anyone who wanted to hear it. But when it didn’t come, she looked up from the black coffee she’d been pretending to observe, coming face to face with his honey eyes.
“You’re a tough fucking bitch, Poet. Seen bigger men than you whining like pansies on the couch when they’ve taken a beating.”
“Men are pussies,” she answered flippantly, not knowing what else to say for the small kindness he was paying her. What she also couldn’t figure out is if he was being for real or just trying to get back in her pants.
Needing something to do, she stood and made her way to where she’d left her holster the night before and shrugged the rig on. The instant the leather fell into place, she felt sturdier, less off balance from the bizarre shitfest her life had turned into. Now all she needed was to find her phone and check in with Shakespeare.
Murmuring a quick, “I’ll be right back,” Poet made her way out to the garage, letting her fingers caress the leather of her father’s bike before reaching her own. She refused to let herself think about Fury and what his reaction would’ve been to know a Bishop was in her house, had been in her bed, and almost in her pants. Instead she rummaged in her saddle bag for her iPhone, finding it dead, and made her way back to the kitchen.
For a second, she was dumbstruck, unable to move her feet as she took in the scene in front of her. There, at her stove, was Titan, cooking. More so, it looked like he’d helped himself to her eggs and the rest of the ham she’d had in the drawer. His head was nodding to music she couldn’t hear as he stirred the mixture in the pan.