His middle finger caressed her nub briefly before sliding inside of her in one firm thrust. Someone moaned. Him. Her. It didn’t matter.
He lifted his head, and tiny goosebumps perked up on her skin. “I want you,” his voice rumbled into her ear, pushing her forward with his body until her belly touched the punching bag, his finger deepening his claim on her with every small step. He lifted their joined arms and positioned hers around the hard bag. “Wrap your other arm around it, and don’t let go,” he ordered, briskly. All business. Harsh, almost—except that his tone was an octave deeper than normal, and his words ripe with need.
She’d have rolled her eyes, if it wasn’t for his finger sending wave after wave of pleasure throughout every nerve in her body. A sure-fire prelude to what was about to come.
Moving her free arm, she hugged the bag.
His finger slid out of her and he removed his hand from her sweatpants. Grabbing the elastic band from both sides of her hips, he tugged her pants down to her ankles in one smooth movement.
“Jesus. That bit of dental floss is what you’ve been training in?” He sounded defeated, like she’d just won a bout she didn’t know they’d been fighting.
She pressed her cheek into the bag and smiled.
Her smile quickly vanished as he ripped her thong clear off her, and let it cascade around her ankle and on top of her sweatpants.
“Hey. That was brand new.”
“I’ll make it up to you.” His palm cupped her cheek and gave it a squeeze before she heard a rustle behind her. That sound was followed by the noticeable crackle of a wrapper being opened. McBadass had come prepared for business, and pleasure, it seemed.
Well, hell’s bells, so had she.
Reaching an arm behind her, she searched for him, and was immediately rewarded with the feel of his stiff heat beneath her fingers. Wrapping her hand around his thick girth, she caressed the throbbing length of him. With a growl, he narrowed the distance he’d created between them and, taking her by the wrist, removed her hand and placed it back on the bag.
“Hold on.”
She barely had her arm back around it when his hands parted her thighs, the tip of him nudging into her warm slick core. With a smooth thrust, he buried himself so deep inside of her, she cried out.
“Shit,” he said, nipping her earlobe then taking it between his lips. He picked up the tempo until all reason vanished replaced by sweet bliss. With every push, she rose onto her toes and into the bag, causing it to swing forward yet his hands on her hips yanked her backward. Where a moment earlier they’d boxed, now they danced. In a wildly beautiful rhythm, unknown to Huntley but controlled—and superbly choreographed—by Bracken.
She felt his heart beating against her back as he pulled her in close. Not so controlled, after all. But then, she forgot everything as a rush of sensation burst to life within her and a second later, she shattered.
“Jesus, you are so fucking sweet,” he whispered in her ear.
She arched back against him, in a not-so-sweet gesture, and was rewarded by a fury of curses. “Fuck me. You don’t like to play sweet, huh, Creampuff. You want it harder?”
A fire reignited deep within her core. His words excited her, challenging her to a repeat performance. “Yes.” She didn’t need to say more because he seemed to swell and thicken as he pounded into her and sent her spiraling head over heels once again.
“Fuck,” he shouted, climaxing hard, his hips pulsing against her ass and his chest firmly pressed against her back as he pulled her in tight.
Time stood still. The only sound the slight squeaking of the metal chain holding the bag to the ceiling. Without the bag and Bracken supporting her, she’d have been down on the mat in no time, with the way her sweatpants prohibited her legs from moving.
He moved, slightly, and she felt his forehead against her back.
What was running through his mind right now? That was nothing short of spectacular. Did he feel the same way?
She wanted to ask him, needed to know in a way, because deep down inside, there was more than attraction at play. Well, for her anyway.
Who’d have thought she’d fall for a biker? Or even someone she knew very little about, aside from the fact that he could make her body float like a feather with a simple breath.
She anticipated his pulling away. Back to business. Mission accomplished. No afterplay, no post-coitus cuddling required. Well, at least it’d give her time to get her feelings in check. But he surprised her by working her sweatpants back up and over her legs. With his hands pausing on her hips, he twirled her around to face him.
Her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of him. He leaned in and his lips claimed her in a kiss that made her want to wiggle back out of her sweatpants and have a go at round two.
He broke away, his gaze wild for a split second before he shuttered the play of emotion deep within his baby blues. “This can’t happen again,” he stated abruptly, his words so clearly in conflict with his desires.
She cocked her head, and silently waited for him to continue. Not angry. Not upset by his abrupt shift in manner. More curious. Why deny himself something so pleasurable? Mutually pleasurable. Heck, in one boxing lesson, she learned exactly what she’d been doing wrong. Sex and training sounded reasonable, like something she could handle.
“Shit.” He shook his head. Her gaze fell, first onto the chest no biker had any right having, and lower to his manhood, which was still semi-erect and seeming to thicken before her eyes. Physical proof he desired her. So what was up?
She arched an eyebrow at him, forcing her gaze away from his erection.
“You’re going to get hurt.”
Her lips twitched. “You didn’t hurt me in the least. It was pretty damn hot—that’s what I think. Why set limits? We can train and...”
Again, he shook his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about. You came so hard, my teeth clenched. I had to hold back before totally demolishing you with my cock.” He grew serious once again. “Look, Huntley. We need to focus on getting you up to speed for Vegas. Plus, if you ever find yourself in a position where you need to defend yourself...”
With a curled fist, she pivoted on the balls of her feet and hit the bag. “I can protect myself just fine. And you know what?” Goddamn, he knew what buttons to press to piss her off. “I’ve been preparing to defend myself for years. From some unknown assailant, the boogeyman. Years of mixed martial art training, and not once have I had to defend myself for real. I refuse to live my life in fear. Or mourn. That’s not what Mama would have wanted.”
Huntley closed her mouth, knowing she’d said too much.
“Your mama? Look at me,” he demanded.
She turned, and was immediately pinned in place by his narrowed eyes.
“What do you mean, that you’ve been preparing for years?”
“I don’t...I can’t talk about it.”
“Jesus. What haven’t you told me?” He sounded frustrated, like she’d intentionally misled him.
“You’re a hard-ass, Bracken. Not exactly a cuddly feely kind of guy, more like the type who keeps people at a fist’s length.” She stopped and poked him in the chest. “Don’t glower at me. So you’re irritated because what? I won’t spill my guts to you, tell you about my fucked-up past? Well, maybe I don’t want to think about it anymore. Maybe I just want to move on with my life. Live a little. Have a life where I call the shots. Where I feel fulfilled. Where I make my own goddamn decisions.” With each point, she poked him harder and harder.
He let her, his arms to his side, his beautiful body as naked on the outside as she felt on the inside.
She paused, breathing hard. Therapy had helped her deal with the trauma of her mother’s murder. The physical release from training, along with the mental release of knowing she was able to prot
ect herself, helped as well. Yet nothing had prepared her for her brothers’ and father’s emotional unraveling. And just as they’d seemed to pull themselves together, someone torched their warehouse. Would fate ever cut them a break?
Her fingers pressed against his chest, the pad of them running circles along his warm skin. Circles, like her life. She stopped her spiral, midway. Just like she’d planned on doing with her family. Stop. The. Vicious. Cycle. Of fear. Panic. Hurting.
Bracken grabbed her wrist, and tugged her against him. “Are you in danger?” He asked it so softly, said it like he cared.
She thought about Robert. How she’d missed the obsessive person he was, the lengths he’d go to toward getting a piece of her family’s business. Drugging her—what kind of bastard did such a thing? No, danger wasn’t the right word. Ironic, how she’d spent years preparing herself for the inevitable physical assault only to be blindsided by an emotionally aggressive assailant. A harmful one, all the same.
Bracken ran a comforting hand along her back. “Answer me. Are you in danger?”
“No.”
He took her by the arms and shook her gently. Her head fell back, away from the spot she’d claimed against his chest. She looked at him, biting her lower lip to keep from saying more. He was just a biker. Her trainer. Sweet Savannah, she didn’t know the first thing about him, yet he was pushing her to lay out all her troubles on his shoulders.
“Huntley. I need to know. Hurt is written all over your face. You relocated to Reno from Savannah, right? What—who—are you running from?”
She did the only thing she could do. She went on the defensive. “What are you now, a detective? All these questions, like you care.” She broke free from his grip, stalked over to the half-wall and grabbed the water bottle. Unscrewing the lid—determined not to let her emotions unscrew her—she took a long sip. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him roll off the spent condom and wrap it in a tissue he’d pulled from his leather jacket, before he silently dressed.
The best sex of her life ruined by events she’d had no control over. Talk about a buzz kill.
“Come on. Give me a lift home, then we’ll...fuck...” He stopped mid-sentence, and scowled. She was fairly certain the “fuck” wasn’t a play to get inside her panties, but him stopping himself before he spilled his own set of biker beans. He looked so fierce, glaring at her like she’d grown two heads. Like he had a big decision ahead of him and she was influencing him in a naughty way.
His glower felt like a hug. Familiar territory. Normal ground. She cocked her head at him. “See, you are so damn secretive, you can’t even form complete sentences.”
He rubbed his finger along his bearded chin, studying her. The lightness seeped back into his gaze. “Shit,” he mumbled, then added, “Idiot.”
“Exactly my point. Now you can barely put words together.”
He shook his head, and for a second, they simply looked at each other. An exchange that wasn’t filled with sexual tension or thinly veiled barbs. It was more like they’d come to some kind of nonverbal agreement, a conclusion about each other.
“Jesus. Fine. What the hell,” he added, grabbing his jacket and gesturing toward the exit into the Warehouse.
“So I’m giving you a lift home? And then we’re going to what?”
He stopped dead in his tracks and waited for her to catch up. “We’re going to go for a ride.”
She frowned. “I thought you wanted me to drop you off home?”
“Yeah. Then we’ll go for a ride.”
Her eyebrows lifted, as it dawned on her what he was saying. “On your bike?”
“Harley.”
Before she could anticipate her movements, she jumped him, wrapping her arms around his chest in an excited bear hug.
Bracken, however, didn’t seem quite as thrilled, as he tensed beneath her and whispered against her ear. “I’m already fucked. So what the hell.”
Chapter Eleven
The Harley 1200 Custom idled beneath the Biggest City in the World sign, with Bracken feeling like the biggest fuckup in the world.
A sexy diversion—that’s what she was. Temporary. A means to an end. Because he never got sidetracked from getting the job done. The devil knew there’d been plenty of distractions, drugs, a bounty of women willing to do anything for a price—how he managed to stay celibate was a goddamned miracle—blood and mayhem. Dishonorable things. Actions that chipped away at his self-respect. His dignity. And instead of putting an end to all the illegal shit, he’d turned a blind eye to it. His eye instead was always on the end game. The big bust. But seeing the excitement pass across Huntley’s face as she fit the spare helmet on and climbed onto his bike gave him such an overwhelming sense of pleasure, he felt himself smiling. Goddamned smiling.
It didn’t fade, either. Riding through the city streets with an incredible machine between his thighs, Huntley wrapped around him like a fine leather jacket, and that feeling of lightness within his heart—he was enjoying himself.
As the light turned green, he gave his bike more juice than warranted, wanting to leave his uncomfortable emotions in the dust at the intersection. Huntley hugged him tightly as they took off flying. Her laughter, and obvious joy, spoke volumes; his moody bullshit was long forgotten in her rush from the morning ride.
He had to shake off the emotional crap and get down to business. A few Russians had started trickling into the Warehouse. Hell, the guy Huntley’d been chatting with had all the markings of a drug pimp. What Bracken should have done was let it play out. Let Huntley charm the crook, just like every other freakin’ guy in the place. Use her to smooth his way to befriending the perp.
Dream on, buddy. Not going to happen on so many levels. Befriend the Russian? Yeah, right. Bracken had been seconds away from grabbing him by the throat and squeezing the air out of him, curtailing him from even thinking about pursuing her. Huntley had an innocence about her, a wholesomeness that sent his protective instincts into a tailspin. Despite her having a kick that was lethal and an attitude that would crush a man’s heart if he wasn’t careful. If she hadn’t interrupted...
Bracken rolled his neck, trying to relieve the tight knot that’d formed there. Screw it, he worked best with an in-your-face approach, anyway.
His hand twitched. Shit, with each passing day, it was getting worse.
Bracken grabbed the handlebars tightly, willing his grip to hold steady. When that didn’t work, he ignored it and twisted the throttle. The Harley roared—much like he felt like doing. His cabin was calling him, his sanctuary. His psychiatrist, physiologist and therapist all wrapped up in one. A couple of months spent fixing it up should do the trick. Then this would all be one mind-fuck of a memory.
A little alone time. He couldn’t get there quick enough.
Damn, of all freakin’ places, he’d gone and promised to bring her there. Broken promises—as broken as the man himself, hollow down to his very soul. She’d learn soon enough.
Right now, he’d grasp hold of the brief reprieve from reality. The sun was gonna rise soon enough and shed its blistering light on the bullshit ahead of them.
The Harley purred as they flew past the Circus Circus clown, then the National Bowling Stadium. Crossing the Truckee River, he picked up speed as the city gave way to the high desert.
They rode until his mind was calm, his thoughts as placid as landscape around them. Though thoughts were like appearances, full of deception, which is why he hesitated before slowing the Harley to a gentle roll.
“That was such a rush.” She straightened on the seat behind him, breathless. Pleasure rolling off of her and causing a knot in his chest. There wasn’t a thing about her he didn’t like. He kept quiet as he climbed off the seat and stretched, basking in the tide of her joy, hoping it’d cleanse his dour soul. “Think you’d let me take over on the
ride back into town?”
His cock hardened at the thought. It’d be worth handing over the reins just to see her driving the beast, straddling the seat and handling the machine between her shapely thighs.
She slid off the bike and removed her helmet, her brown hair tumbling around her shoulders. Angling her head in that cute way of hers, she gave him a smile that’d melt butter. Tempting. Full of hope.
He bit back the stream of curses boiling up inside him, not wanting to ruin her evening. He had to figure out exactly who he was dealing with or both their lives might be at risk, more so than they already were. Strictly business, he reminded himself.
“Tell me about your mother,” he prompted, gentling his tone. “You mentioned her earlier at the Warehouse.”
“Yeah, me and my big mouth.” Despite her quick retort, her gaze fell to her feet, and Bracken knew that whatever had happened to her mother still hurt her. She continued, though, unaware that in a way she’d already answered his question.
“Yep. The cat’s out of the bag now. While I’m waiting on your explanation, let’s talk about my ride home.”
“You are the most evasive man I’ve ever met, do you know that? Are we bargaining again? My sad history for a chance at handling the Harley?”
“You’d be handling more than my bike, babe.” What a freakin’ cheeseball thing to say...but he meant it. Fortunately, she took the comment at its cheesiest best.
“Promises. Promises. Don’t think I’m unaware of the rather large fact,” she said, her eyes lowering to his crotch, “that it’d take little effort for me to get a grip on you. You’re that easy...babe.” Her words were playful but he’d seen the pain deep in her amber depths. Knew that this false sense of bravado was a ruse. Him being the king of ruses, and all.
The king who’s just been played, he thought as his cock swelled, hot and thick. “Okay. Not talking yet, huh? Then, climb back on. I’ll drop you home.”
He stepped toward her. A man without a plan, it seemed, as he found himself reaching out to gently take hold of her soft hair, absently winding a lock around his fist. Surprising her with his touch. Preventing her from moving away. “Don’t look so disappointed. You can drive,” he told her softly.
Out for the Count Page 16