Her gaze darted around the club, searching for the biker.
Maybe it’s time to bring it on—for just one night?
She stopped dead in her tracks, catching sight of the man himself sitting at a pub table close to the bar. A bottle of beer was raised to his lips, and he was straight up ignoring a brunette in a lime-colored halter top and matching hot pants hovering nearby. Close enough for the nervous woman to reach over and grab a taste of him, once liquid courage kicked in. Seemed Huntley’s willful libido wasn’t the only one pulling cartwheels at the sight of McBadass.
Huntley inhaled sharply. Angrily. And the realization that she was pissed off made her more pissed off.
She didn’t even like him.
Something inside her snapped. Way beyond wild child, and more like the devil spawn. Whatever it was, it had her marching toward them, waiting for the exact moment he lowered his beer to act. With a carefully aimed hip thrust, she bumped the brunette and sent her flying into the biker’s chest.
She heard the sound of glass breaking—his beer?—but swiftly moved on, nudging her way into safer confines between two guys at the bar.
Had he seen her? In a wildly twisted way, she hoped he did. She’d buy a shot for the brunette to make it up to her.
“Woo, sweetheart. That’s some wicked smile,” the guy to her right said. “Wanna share your secret?”
“Just getting my crazy on,” she replied smoothly.
* * *
No doubt about it, he had Huntley’s attention.
Smooth move, too. Better that she come to him willingly.
“Later.” Bracken stood, unwinding Ruby’s arms from where they’d fallen around his shoulders. A former, pre-beard hook-up, Ruby had been shocked to see him. Skittish. Hesitant. Which is why he’d have given himself five minutes, not three, to get her on her back and moaning in pleasure.
Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong woman.
He rubbed the whiskers on his chin as he thought about his earlier conversation with Stefan. “Sugar will get you farther than salt—or in your case pepper. Get in her panties then get her on board. I’ll take care of her friend.”
“When exactly was the last time you got laid, sugar?” he’d shot back. Numbnuts’s silence from his spot in the passenger seat had been answer enough—clearly, his partner had earned his nickname, all right. No question, pepper worked fine for Bracken, in small strategic doses. But the beard was pushing the limits. It had to go. Soon.
Beard or no beard, tonight he was going to do whatever it took to make nice to Huntley.
He wouldn’t mind doing it, either. The devil knew, getting it on with the sexy fighter would help take the edge off. Help him forget, at least for a night, the hardcore lifestyle he’d been leading. The blood on his hands, trauma to his head, a heart frozen three inches thick and ready to crack from the weight of it all. And that was mild compared to his darkest demon. The one that plagued him more than any. His failure.
Ruby gave him a light peck on the cheek, finally summoning up the courage to get the ball rolling now that Huntley’d knocked her into his arms. He resisted the urge to wipe his wet cheek. With a light pat on Ruby’s neon lime ass, he sent her away, off to meet a kinder prospect. Tonight, Ruby’d served a higher purpose; she’d gotten Bracken’s game rolling.
Huntley had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.
With precise movements, he forced his way to the bar, brushing up next to her. Cock-blocking some idiot dressed in skin-tight purple corduroys. At least the guy’s pants hadn’t cut off circulation to his brain, because he was smart enough to close his trap and not say whatever was on his mind after catching sight of Bracken’s glare. He stepped away nervously and beat a hasty retreat.
Not so the woman scowling fiercely next to him.
Man, he liked the balls on her. Liked that tight body on her, those tits and that ass, as well.
He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the bar, then cocked his head and brazenly assessed her. “Huntley,” was all he said.
“Bracken.” With her chin raised high, she ignored him. Or tried to.
He’d bet it was taking all her willpower not to elbow him in the kidneys. Bracken was well aware of his faults—pissing people off was like breathing. He couldn’t seem to not do it.
The bartender placed two tequila shots in front of her. She stepped back and reached into the waistband of her skirt. The material slid low, revealing the swell of her right hipbone and the valley below it. A deep groove where he could spend hours before moving on to his favorite part, right between her legs.
If the skirt fell any further, Huntley was going to find that out sooner rather than later.
Self-consciously, she readjusted it, as if reading his mind. Except now, the freakin’ thing lifted too high, revealing the pale skin of her upper thigh. That bit of skin had been driving him nuts all night. Sexy as all fuck, and just the place he’d start his seduction.
“Oh, crap,” she exclaimed, as the wad of cash she’d retrieved from her skirt fell to the floor.
Oh, crap, was right. He swiftly scooped up her money and handed it to her, retrieved two twenties from his own pocket and tossed them onto the bar. Fast, before she could protest. Before she bent over and exposed her ass to the bar. Then he grabbed one of the shots and threw it back.
“Make that two more.” The bartender nodded and did as told.
“What happened? The Hells Angels kick you out and you wound up here?”
“Maybe I came to give someone a ride.”
He pressed up against her, then withdrew. But not before feeling her body tighten. She inhaled sharply. Nice. His words excited her, and the devil knew, he couldn’t wait to run his hands over her beautiful body and make her flex beneath him.
“Where did the woman in neon hot pants run off to? She’s much better dressed for a ride...on your Harley.”
His lips lifted slightly. The sight of him with another woman had gotten to her. A guaranteed score, like walking a dog in a park.
Huntley gave him a measured look. “You have lipstick on your chin.”
He didn’t reply, but wiped it away with the back of his hand and stared at her, hard.
“What are you doing here, anyway? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the Club Klimax type.” She let her gaze slowly run over him, just like he’d done to her on numerous occasions. Tit for tat.
He snorted.
“That’s what I thought. So?”
“We need to talk.”
She raised an eyebrow. Tonight, she’d discover he was full of surprises.
“About training.” He nodded at the new shots the bartender placed before them. “Or lack of it. Sweetheart, if you’re serious about fighting, no way should you be wasting calories on that shit. But maybe you’re content being an ammy, knocking around with half-assed fighters who couldn’t battle their way out of a toy store.”
Huntley bristled.
Good. He had her full attention now. Nothing like spicing things up.
She drew in a deep breath, and he almost smiled.
“First of all, I’m not officially committed yet and figured one night out wouldn’t upset my training too much.” She turned to look up at him, her hands on her hips. “Secondly, you yourself just did a tequila shot. Two weeks ago, you drank enough booze to fill the Reno Convention Center. And, you’re lecturing me on training. What kind of coach are you?”
“One that gets the job done, sweetheart. I always fulfill my commitments, it’s a matter of pride.”
“Terrific.” She turned back to the bar, dismissing him. “Better get busy then, and find someone who’d be insane enough to take you on. We don’t have an arrangement. So there’s no obligation on your part. See ya around.”
Just as she was about to try and make her getaway
, her cell phone rang. Some woman’s anthem about hearing her roar like a tiger. A fitting song for Huntley, all dolled up like a woman on the make, yet a fighter beneath it all.
Huntley about ripped the skirt off her luscious hips as she hurriedly tugged her cell phone from the clip on her waistband. A scowl creased her lips, the lines growing deeper as she silently listened to what the caller was saying. “Jesus, with him? No. I’ll be okay. Have fun,” she muttered, unconvincingly.
Bracken felt his own cell vibrate in his pocket but didn’t need to check it—Stefan had done what they’d agreed upon. Somehow the prick had worked a little love on Kaleigh and was now taking her home. Leaving Huntley without a ride.
Time for him to uphold his end of the plan.
“Nice chatting with ya. Gotta go.” Fastening her cell back on its clip, she picked up the shots, careful not to spill them before angling herself away. Perfect.
He moved closer, crowding her and limiting her mobility, warning her with his body that if she moved in the slightest, she risked spilling her drinks. A trickle of amber liquid cascaded off the shot glasses and onto the bar. Message received—she wasn’t going anywhere.
He lightly pressed his chest into her back and nudged her midriff against the bar, effectively trapping Huntley.
“Move, and you’ll waste two good drinks,” he whispered into her ear, letting his breath linger briefly.
She glared over her shoulder at him.
“How about I give you a lift?” he murmured. With a feather-light touch, he placed a thumb on the back of her thigh, just above the naughty stocking. Shit, she felt so hot and looked so sweet in that get-up. He rubbed his thumb in a straight path across the soft, bare skin.
She jerked against him. “Tsk. Tsk. Gonna spill.” He shifted to place his other thumb on her other thigh, higher up and closer to her skirt. Closer to the sweet curve of her ass.
Her back stiffened. Too much pepper, perhaps, but that outfit had given him ideas, and his cock swelled at the prospect of it all.
“I’m going use my tongue next. Right here.” He pressed harder, scraping his thumbnail against the lace of her panties. “Show you how a real man takes a body shot.”
She gasped, and a shot splashed onto the bar.
“How about we take this elsewhere? Somewhere less crowded?” He put a finger in his mouth, moistening the digit before drawing a straight line along her thigh. “Just...like...this,” he promised. Man, he was enjoying himself—seducing Huntley was the first good idea Stefan’d had all year.
“You want to do this here? Fine with me,” he added before she could speak. He leaned in and rolled his finger across the side of a shot glass, wetting it. Reaching his other hand around her body, he grabbed the canister off the bar and doused his digit with salt. Her lips had fallen open, her eyes following his every movement. Wordlessly, Huntley allowed herself to be engulfed by his embrace.
She’s game. Hell, now that he’d wrapped his head around the idea of having her, he was more than on board.
“Hold still, sweetheart,” he ordered, then stepped back slightly, breaking contact. He lifted her skirt. Go big or go home.
“Lord have mercy,” he heard her breathe, low and throaty, and full of need.
So fucking hot. Time to head out. What he had in mind was best done in private. But he had to press that point home. He snaked a salty finger up her warm thigh, higher, and higher still.
His cock thickened and his pulse began to pound. Come on, Huntley. Break. He’d do whatever it took; fuck the audience around them.
Her call.
Her legs flexed beneath his fingers and he noticed the smooth, lean muscles running up the back of her thigh. How her tight ass felt so hot beneath his fingers. Man, he was going to enjoy making her body hum.
He was so caught up in where this was headed, he missed her next move.
With a flick of her wrists, Huntley tossed back first one shot, then the other, and dropped the empty glasses onto the bar. “Take a walk on the wild side. Right.” He heard her mumble.
Holding back a curse, he straightened and let his arms fall to his side. He’d underestimated her. Again. Game over. Shit. Maybe Stefan was right about sugaring his approach.
She twisted around. For a second, he thought she meant to make a break for it. Instead, she cocked her head and said, “Let’s do this.”
Fuck, yeah. Game on.
Chapter Four
Let’s face it, logic hadn’t been on tonight’s menu. Instead, judging by the way her feet were doing the tequila two-step, it felt like Jell-O—not tequila shots—had been tonight’s drink of choice.
“Three, or more?” the man at her side demanded.
“Good ole Jell-O syndrome.” Darn it, she’d said that aloud.
“Shit. Jell-O shots too?”
Huntley swayed—case in point. “No. My legs. My equilibrium. The Jell-O-syndrome. You know, the only thing able to break the chains of amino acids binding Jell-O together is heat energy.”
Jeez. The warmth radiating off of McBadass’s body was enough to turn her into a liquid mess. The massive man had her propped up against his side, his arm woven around her waist, towing her out into the Club Klimax parking lot. Who was she kidding? He’d turn solid rock into a puddle—a force to be reckoned with, for sure.
“Lightweight.”
“No. I’m a featherweight.” She grinned.
He snorted. “Empty carbs won’t get you there.”
Ouch. His words were sharp. True, but sharp, and she felt their bite. She’d cut loose for one night and here was a biker, of all people, cautioning her on excesses.
“And you will?” she shot back.
“I’ll get you off, then get you there. In that order. Unless...”
Holy shit. Talk about sending her equilibrium into a tailspin—even if his tone was curt, like he’d promised to wash her car instead of train her. The naughty, unspoken parts of his promise had her heart pulling its own version of “how low can you go.”
Like her night, her attraction to him was irrational. What was it that was such a turn on? His eyes, so blue? So full of a mesmerizing lightness, such a contrast to his otherwise dark features and personality? The hint of a manly, dependable jaw beneath his whiskers? His downright lethal body? Everything about him spoke to the woman inside her, a kind of primitive honey-let’s-get-it-on talk, buried beneath layers of common sense.
Then, on top of it all...oh holy sweetness, his bike.
“Fucking great. You’re hammered. No. Can. Do.” She felt him stiffen against her but ignored it and his muttered words.
Instead, she pulled away from him and narrowed the distance between her and the Harley Dyna Street Bob. A custom job, too, with its hard candy orange scallops tank and Boss solo seat.
“It’s beautiful. Just the badass kind of ride I was expecting from you.” She didn’t give him the chance to stop her. Hell, years ago her brother had broken up with a girl just because she’d scratched his Kowasaki with her designer heel when he’d given her a lift home.
Huntley’s loafers, though, weren’t the problem. How was she going to navigate the seat wearing what was the equivalent of a headband around her bottom? She quickly scanned the parking lot. Nearly empty. A green light—might as well. Shifting her hands to the hem of her skirt, she tugged it firmly down before carefully clambering onto the smooth leather and straddling the seat.
“Ha! If those snobettes and their lame wimpo husbands at the Savannah Country Club could see me now. My brother Aiden had a bike but refused to let me on it—not because of keeping up appearances. Oh no, Aiden flipped society the royal bird far too many times to count. Overprotective, that’s all. God, I’ve been wanting to ride a Harley for way too long.”
She wiggled around, trying to find a way to more comfor
tably position herself, imagining riding through the desert with the wind on her face and the purr of this beautiful beast beneath her.
Bracken made a noise, a low, throaty sound, drawing her attention. His eyes glimmered with a look so primal, it stole her breath away. Two, three seconds passed, an eternity, before he released her from the exquisite inferno of lust that had her squirming on the seat and lowered his gaze. What was left of the air trapped in her throat slowly disappeared in a single rush.
Forget the Harley. I’m gonna make your motor purr, Huntley. After you scream my name.
No sooner did her interpretation of his look pass her mind than Bracken fiddled with his beard, cussed beneath his breath, and iced her with a look so cold, chills sped up her spine.
What the hell just happened?
His phone rang and she watched, unnerved and frustrated by his one-eighty, as he pulled out his cell. With a lengthy string of curses, he stalked off and out of hearing range.
A polar vortex would have been less of a wake-up call. Like the Dyna beneath her, McBadass was custom made, a man unlike anyone she’d ever met, comprised of multiple layers. Mysterious. Complex. Fickle. Subtle parts that didn’t quite fit. Parts she hadn’t thought existed until this very moment, when it’d become crystal clear how little she knew about him.
The only predictable thing about him was his ability to piss her—and from what she’d witnessed, everyone—off.
You let your coochie do the talking, Huntley. Acting illogically. Irrationally. Without considering the consequences of getting involved with a loose cannon like him.
His curse rang out in the parking lot. Once more, his fingers ran over his whiskers, and she watched him glare at his cell phone, in clear disagreement with what was being said on the other end. As he stalked back her way, she caught the tail end of his conversation. “My way or no way. Don’t call again, Numbnuts.”
He stood, studying her for a few uncomfortable seconds, his expression indecipherable. She sat up straighter on the bike. “What happened? The police raid your MC and seize your stash?”
Out for the Count Page 6