by Anne Malcom
Maybe it had some kind of intoxicating quality.
Maybe he was just a totally intoxicating quality.
His hand was no longer on my face, having moved it the second his expression changed back to that vague and dangerous amusement.
“Well, since you’re not blind and you don’t have a broken nose—which I’m glad as fuck about, by the way—I’d say you’re gonna be okay on the bike now,” he said.
I gaped at him. “You want me on the bike?”
His eyes moved again. “Thought I made that pretty clear, babe.”
The way he said that told me he didn’t just mean today.
But I had to focus on today. Because that was all I had. Focusing on tomorrow was giving in to anxiety. Just like focusing on yesterdays—and the terrible yesterdays long before—was giving in to depression.
“I’m not getting on the bike,” I said, my voice sharp and strong. Because there was no way I could get on that bike. No way I could press my body against his. Imprint his scent onto my pores. I’d be well and truly lost then. My shit would never come back together.
“You are,” he replied, voice much sharper and stronger than my own.
That peeved me off. I folded my arms, but I didn’t get the same effect as he did, though I did unintentionally push my breasts upward and cause my modest top to become not-so-modest.
Gage’s eyes went there immediately and my entire body flushed.
“I’ve got to go to work,” I said through clenched teeth, both from anger and from trying to fight the desire he awakened within me.
“That’s why you’re getting on the bike,” he clipped, obviously getting impatient with someone not doing as he commanded. He looked like he might murder someone who told him no.
Murder was a pretty good motivation to say yes.
“You’re trying to tell me that you’re here at eight in the morning to take me to work on your motorcycle?” I surmised in shock.
He nodded once. “Figured you wouldn’t be workin’ yesterday considerin’ fuckin’ breathing seemed to hurt you, and I would’ve made sure your ass came home if that wasn’t the case.”
I blinked. “You would’ve made sure?” I repeated, not caring that I was parroting once more.
Another nod.
“And how would you have known I wasn’t at work?”
“Told you, babe. This is Amber. I’m me. I’d know,” he said. As if that was a satisfactory answer.
It was not.
“Okay, aside from the fact that that isn’t an answer, you also don’t have the right to make sure my ass is anywhere.”
On the mention of my ass, his eyes darkened again and he stepped forward, fully inside my doorway.
I should’ve stepped back.
But I didn’t.
I was hungry for his presence, the warmth that directly contradicted the icy resolve in his gaze.
“Oh, baby, you and I both know I have the fuckin’ biblical right to say exactly where your ass is goin’ to be. Where it should be right now. Which is on the back of my fuckin’ bike. And it’ll be over my fuckin’ knee if you stand here arguing with me, wastin’ both our time and not getting your shit together so you can get to work,” he rasped, his voice pure sex.
He was talking about spanking me.
Spanking.
And my entire body responded to that prospect.
Biblically.
His entire body hardened, the cords of his neck standing out as if he was holding himself back. Then very slowly, purposefully, he took a step back. A big one. And it looked like his motorcycle boots weighed a hundred pounds as he did so. Like he was forcing himself backward.
And I just watched him, craving the promise of being across his knee. Of his hand coming down on me.
I shook myself—mentally, of course. Gage already thought I was crazy, so he might’ve had me committed if I did it physically.
“You don’t need to drive me to work,” I said, speaking slowly and making sure I didn’t say anything stupid or embarrassing. Or something stupid and embarrassing. “It’s less than two miles away. I can walk.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not walkin’.”
I narrowed my own. “Oh really? Is that your decision to make?”
“Yep” was all he said.
Yep.
“I disagree,” I said through my teeth.
“You don’t have a fuckin’ car,” he said. “And you were in an accident two days ago. Not serious, but also not minor. You’re hurt. Not as bad as you were two days ago, but you’re still hurtin’. I can’t change that, but I can make it so you’re not walkin’ when you don’t need to. Which is, unless I’m beside you, never.” There was a heavy pause. “So for the foreseeable future, you don’t go anywhere unless it’s on the back of my bike. Until your car is fixed. Which is gonna be a week at the most, since I’m the one workin’ on it and I’m the best. Even then, you need to go somewhere and I’m free—and I’ll be free for you—it’s on the back of my bike.”
I blinked.
There were a lot of things wrong with that statement.
And worse, there were a lot of those wrong things that I freaking liked.
“We don’t have time for this shit,” he clipped, voice near feral. “You’re gonna be late to work if you keep starin’ at me like that.” He paused, his hands turning to fists. “You’re not even gonna make it to work, in fact.”
Work? Who cared about work? Who cared about anything but those large, fisted, and tattooed hands opening up and coming down hard on my bare flesh?
“Lauren,” he hissed between his teeth, “get your ass upstairs and get ready for work before I lose fuckin’ control. You can’t handle that right now.”
The danger, the menace in his words had me moving, turning, and literally running up my stairs despite the fact that I was still aching. Nowhere ached as bad as the spot between my legs.
I stopped hallway up the stairs, the doorway still in my eye line. Gage still in my eye line. He hadn’t moved a muscle, his entire form like a statue, his muscles bulging around the fabric of his shirt.
“Um, do you want to come in?” I asked, feeling strange about leaving him on the doorstep.
It wasn’t good hospitality.
“No fuckin’ way,” he bit out through his teeth.
I didn’t move, because his words were rough and harsh, and the way he said them didn’t communicate that he really didn’t want to come upstairs. It was that he really freaking did.
“Ass up the stairs, Lauren,” he demanded, his words slow and heavy.
“O-okay,” I breathed.
Then I turned and got my ass up the stairs.
I flattened myself against the wall in my kitchen once I was out of sight.
Took one breath.
Then another since the first one was shaky and shallow.
And then I recovered. Went to the kitchen, reached up to where I kept my coffeepot—strictly for guests I rarely had—did everything I needed to get it brewing, and then I went to quickly get the rest of myself ready.
Facing the mirror, I barely recognized who was staring back at me. My eyes, big and even bigger when magnified by my glasses, were almost glowing. Buzzing. More alive than I’d ever seen them. My cheeks were flushed a soft pink, lips seemingly swollen though they hadn’t been kissed.
I touched them, thinking about Gage’s lips on them. I had the distinct certainty that he would not be gentle. Tender. That my lips would be a lot more swollen than they were right then. That they would hurt from the force of his own.
And that excited me more.
“Get it together, Lauren,” I whispered to my reflection.
Gage was downstairs, waiting for me so he could take me to work on his motorcycle. And I couldn’t change that. He wasn’t going to let me change that.
I didn’t freaking want to.
So I quickly braided my hair into a single low plait, thinking about the helmet he’d pointed to. There was no w
ay to really avoid helmet head—not that I’d ever had it, it was just an educated guess—but I hoped the short ride wouldn’t do too much damage.
The smell of coffee filtered into my small bathroom at the end of my living room. It had a high window that was slightly frosted for privacy, but still gave a glimpse of the ocean and the horizon beyond. A vintage claw-footed tub took up a lot of the space. I’d had to knock down a wall that had once been a utility closet in order to get a shower cubicle put in. Not necessary, since I could’ve just replaced the bath with a shower, but I loved baths.
Evidenced by my huge collection of bath salts, bath bombs, and candles surrounding the small shelves around the tub.
My sink was also an extravagance I didn’t need but loved regardless.
The surface was reclaimed driftwood that my dad had shaped and polished so it worked as a sort of countertop with matte-black legs and shelving underneath. It ran longer on the right side, where I had fresh flowers and an array of my modest cosmetics collection on a silver tray.
The sink was polished gray ceramic, set above the counter like a mini tub with a white tile backsplash that melded into the painted white brick of the wall. Mounted on which was my antique mirror. Dad had polished that for me too.
I took one more look in the mirror, then rushed to the kitchen.
It took me two seconds to pour the coffee, run down the stairs—carefully so as not to spill the hot liquid—and thrust a mug at Gage, who was leaning against my doorframe.
And he could lean.
His long legs were encased in black jeans, which were tucked into black combat boots crossed over each other.
His arms were folded over his chest, over his cut.
But then they were outstretched, taking the coffee I darn near threw at him in the midst of my drooling.
“Coffee,” I explained, as if the black liquid in the mug needed explaining. “I didn’t put in cream or sugar, because I suppose such condiments might totally wreck your street cred and you’ll get kicked out of the club and then have to get a job at Best Buy and scare all the customers so bad the entire store will shut down, and I can’t be responsible for that,” I blurted, uneasy with his entire presence and my reaction to him freaking leaning.
He stared at me.
Then at the coffee.
Then he threw his head back.
And laughed.
I had been worried about my reaction to him leaning. It was nothing compared to watching him laugh. Really laugh. Something I sensed didn’t happen often. Because those eyes, or more accurately what was behind those eyes, didn’t let him. So it was something else entirely, watching the man in front of me laugh.
Beautiful because it didn’t happen often.
Painful because it didn’t happen often.
When he stopped, I was still staring at him in absolute wonder.
His eyes were light as his gaze went to where my hair was tucked over my shoulder. He leaned forward, grasping the bottom of my braid between his thumb and forefinger.
“You’ve officially saved the local Best Buy, baby,” he murmured. “And the local biker club. So how about you get that ass up the stairs again and finish gettin’ your shit before I make good on that promise of you not gettin’ to work at all.” He gave me a meaningful look that would’ve drenched my panties had they not already been soaked. “For the next week.”
I swallowed. Hard.
I was tempted to tell him I’d quit my freaking job if it meant I could see his eyes easy and light like that, watch him laugh. But of course I didn’t. I wasn’t that far gone.
Yet.
So I went upstairs, once more ignoring the persistent ache in my body at making the trek that pushed my muscles to the edge.
I pulled my cardigan on, my hands shaking as I did up the buttons. Checked that I had everything in my purse. Swiped on some more lip gloss. Took three deep breaths. Checked that I had turned all appliances and lights off.
Even in my fluster, that was one thing I would never forget to do. It wasn’t full-on OCD—I’d been checked for that—just another part of my need to make sure everything was orderly. That there was less of a chance of anything else in my life being destroyed. I was terrified of leaving the wrong switch on, forgetting to turn off the stove and coming home to see my entire sanctuary in flames.
Once I was satisfied, I made it to the bottom of the stairs, my purse on my shoulder and my muscles screaming at me for not treating them with the care they required.
I held out my hand to Gage. “Give me one second. I’ll take the coffee cup upstairs. Then we’ll go.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “But this isn’t me giving in, just so we’re clear. This is me being professional and caring about my job. I’m not going to be late because I have to argue with you on my doorstep. It is not the beginning of a habit.” I was pretty sure I was saying that to myself as much as to him.
Gage didn’t speak, merely pushed off the door, staring at me.
I struggled not to squirm under his gaze.
“I got the mug, babe,” he said finally.
I frowned, both loving and hating the idea of him being in my apartment. He would imprint his presence. I’d never be able to forget that he’d been there, even if it was the only time.
“I thought you had some strong reservations toward entering my home,” I said, not moving to let him pass.
“I had some strong reservations toward entering your home with you inside it and the number of surfaces available for me to fuck you on,” he growled. “So that’s why you’re gonna stay the fuck at the bottom of the stairs, because you’ve been comin’ up and down too much as it is. You’re hurtin’. Don’t want you hurtin’ more just because you want to take up my coffee cup. So I got the mug, babe.”
My stomach was little more than jelly at his words.
“The number of surfaces available for me to fuck you on.”
I had stepped aside before I actually realized I did so. And I realized right around the time his body brushed past mine, my nipples standing at attention underneath my cotton bra.
He grasped my chin, lifting my face to meet his gaze. “And you’re already doin’ enough in your fuckin’ sexy-as-shit librarian outfit you’ve got going on to make me seriously consider hiking up that fucking skirt and taking you against the wall,” he rasped. “Only thing stoppin’ me is the prospect of you hurtin’ more, and not in the way I’m gonna hurt you when I do finally sink into that sweet pussy. So how about you wait outside so I don’t forget that by the time I come downstairs?”
He kept his grasp on my chin as I blinked at him, my eyes lazy, my entire body humming.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He nodded once, eyes on my lips. There was a pause, one I was sure would be followed by a kiss.
And I was sure that would be followed by him hiking up my skirt and fucking me against the wall.
And I would let him.
But then he let me go, and all I saw was the patch on the back of his cut staring at me in accusation. As if the fabric knew I didn’t belong there. That I wasn’t made for the man inside that cut.
Or maybe you are. Maybe that’s why it’s staring at you, a voice whispered. Because it sees all those dark and depraved thoughts you’ve hidden in the shadows of your mind.
I shook my head, physically that time because Gage was out of sight.
Then I stepped into the fresh and salty air, needing something to clear my head, to cool my body. To calm my heart.
I stared at the bike on the curb in front of me.
All black. Chrome detailing—I’d looked it up.
A Harley. Obviously.
There were two saddlebags on either side at the back of it.
A replica of the Sons of Templar patch was painted onto the fuel tank, a grim reaper bearing a sword, riding on a road of skulls.
It shouldn’t have been beautiful. It should’ve been ugly and unnerving. But whoever painted the image was talented. It seemed to jump off the bike
itself, staring at me with almost the same intensity as the owner of the bike.
“Keys.”
I jumped at the voice, at the closeness of it. Breath was hot on my neck, the entire back of my body electrified with the presence behind me.
Turning, I found Gage in my space. Way up in it. His eyes wild.
I didn’t speak.
“Keys,” he repeated, palm outstretched.
I looked down at it.
Keys. For my apartment.
“Right,” I whispered, rummaging in my purse for the keys I’d remembered to take with me but forgotten I’d needed.
I placed them in his palm on instinct, forgetting that I was very capable of crossing the short distance to my front door and locking it myself.
He gave me his back before I could tell him as much.
And then I stared at that back. The knot of hair fastened into a messy bun at the nape of his skull. His wide shoulders that seemed like they could carry anything.
Like the world.
His muscled back, covered by that faded leather cut.
Perfect ass in his worn-in jeans. My fingernails bit into my palms as I clenched them into fists thinking about looking at all that without clothes on. About my nails raking down the bare muscled skin.
Lauren. Stop objectifying the biker, a voice inside me hissed. You don’t like it when men do that to women, and you don’t do double standards.
Extremely logical. I did find it annoying when women objectified men, like they didn’t know what it felt like themselves. Then again, men had been doing it for thousands of years, so maybe turnabout was fair play.
And this change of heart had everything to do with the biker striding toward me after locking up my apartment, twirling my keys on his fingers.
His steps were long, fluid, purposeful.
Freaking hell, even the way he walked turned me on.
He held out my keys.
I robotically took them, putting them in my purse.
“No alarm,” he said, eyes on me.
It took me a moment to figure out what the heck he meant. These bikers seemed adverse to complete sentences. “No alarm on my apartment, you mean?” I clarified. “Yeah, well, I’ve been meaning to get around it.”
“How long you been in there?”