by Anne Malcom
I chewed my lip. “Almost ten years.” For someone obsessed about safety, an alarm system should’ve been the first thing I’d installed. But it wasn’t.
His face went hard. “You’re getting a fuckin’ alarm. This week.”
I wanted to argue with him, despite the fact that he was right. A woman living alone—even in a small town—needed an alarm for safety. Especially when said small town had a rather violent history. But that was mostly to do with Gage’s club, which I’d had nothing to do with.
So no alarm.
But that wasn’t Gage’s business. And I was about to educate him on that, but he was already walking toward the bike, picking up the helmet and shoving it at me much like I’d shoved the coffee at him.
I took it on instinct.
And then I frowned when I watched him mount the bike. Not just because it turned me on even more than watching him walk. No, because he shoved on Ray-Bans that had been hanging off the handlebars—and he was lecturing me about security. Someone could’ve totally stolen them, if they were stupid enough to steal from a biker—and that was the extent of his protection.
He glanced at me. “Helmet works best on your head, Will.”
I kept the aforementioned helmet clutched against my chest. “You don’t have one.”
He grinned. “Yeah, and I’m not gettin’ one. Got you one, because I’m not riskin’ the 0.1 percent chance of me crashing and you getting a hair on that head hurt.”
Okay, that was sweet. “It’s illegal to ride a motorcycle without a helmet in the state of California,” I continued, not knowing why I was even trying.
He was a grown man. A biker who belonged to a one-percenter motorcycle club. One that existed because they didn’t want to follow rules. Society’s. The law’s. And I was sure they thought they looked so much cooler riding without a helmet.
Another grin. “Do I look like I give a fuck about laws?” he asked, reading my mind.
I chewed my lip, standing my ground for no other reason than because I hated the thought of that beautiful head smashing against the road with no protection. And I had to think of that because I always thought of the worst-case scenario.
Life was full of worst-case scenarios.
He sighed. “You get one, baby. Either cigarettes or the helmet. One. Take your pick.”
I jerked back. Was he seriously telling me I got to choose?
His face had lost its grin and he was now watching me intently as I continued to chew my lip, his hands fisted atop his thighs.
Yeah, he looked pretty darn serious.
So I thought on it.
Weighed the options.
Riding a motorcycle was already dangerous enough. And that was if the rider had on all the right safety gear and kept within the speed limits. Gage was wearing a cut and a thin henley. His boots were the only thing that would’ve offered any protection, and I guessed that wasn’t why he was wearing them. So driving at high speeds, without the proper gear, the helmet wouldn’t do much more to save his life. There was a reason they called motorcycle riders ‘organ donors.’
My stomach clenched at the mere thought of it.
“Cigarettes,” I said quickly.
I loved the smell of smoke on him, the gravel in his voice, but I knew that even if he’d been smoking his entire adult life, stopping in his mid-thirties would decrease a lot of the risks of cancer and other health complications.
He only nodded once.
And I gaped.
He’s going to give up smoking. For me?
I doubted he was a man who gave up anything for anyone.
“Babe, we’ve made our deal. That means you put the helmet on and get on the back of my bike,” he barked.
And on autopilot, I did just that.
The ride to the office took a handful of minutes.
The entire time, I tried to think about what that morning meant.
A few minutes gave me no insight.
I reasoned a fricking lifetime wouldn’t.
Gage
He had no fucking clue how he’d found himself parking his bike in front of her apartment, knocking on her door.
Not in the way he’d used to find himself in places not knowing how he got there. Not battling against the blackout brought on by booze and junk and the decisions he’d made when he mixed the two.
Or more accurately, the bodies he’d made. And then he’d have to bury the bodies without any memory of creating them.
Six years sober and he made sure everything he did now was purposeful. Planned. He created bodies. Plenty of them. And he had lucid and stark realness every step of the way. He liked to blow shit up. That also required presence. Planning. Sobriety.
Then again, his whole fucking life required sobriety. Required him to fight against that itch in his skin that he woke up with. That he slept with. That he fucking breathed with. It was his penance. His punishment. He wondered now and again what Hell would be like when he finally ate a bullet. Because there wasn’t more to be done to him.
And maybe that’s what had him in front of that door. Because when she opened it, Hell felt a little bit like Heaven.
Everything about her face had flushed when she locked eyes with him. She fucking brightened, from the inside out.
At him.
She didn’t blanch. Didn’t harden herself.
Not that he guessed she even knew how to harden herself. She was soft, beautiful edges. Her full curves that she tried to hide with her conservative fucking librarian outfit, but it did the opposite.
He was already hard as a fucking rock just staring into her eyes. Her fucking eyes framed by glasses that shouldn’t have been sexy.
But they were.
Oh fuck, were they.
Her skirt, brushing over her knees, only showing a small length of her milky and lean legs shouldn’t have either. But it hugged her long form, spanned hips that he wanted to bury himself between.
And then he didn’t give a fuck how he got there, right where he shouldn’t be, on her doorstep.
He knew he had to find himself there every fucking day. Because even if he was bringing his own Hell into her life, he wouldn’t be able to deny her Heaven. He was already fighting too many battles of resistance. He should’ve fought against this one.
But he wasn’t going to.
Especially not when her hot and soft body pressed against him on his bike—once she finally climbed on. When her skirt rode up and her fucking hot cunt was almost pressing into his back, he almost forsook it all and pulled over on the side of Main Street to fuck her on the back of his bike.
Regardless of who was watching.
He’d done shit like that before, with plenty of women. A blur of bodies, of fucked-up sex, of empty orgasms.
He could only find pleasure in depravity.
And that’s what stopped him from taking her.
Not just on the street but at her apartment. When she’d run her eyes up him like some hungry sex kitten, not the shy librarian she convinced the world—and herself—she was.
There was something in there. Something wild inside her conventional and innocent little package. He saw it then. Fuck, he’d obviously seen it before. That’s what had him coming back. That’s what had him craving her almost more than junk these forty-six hours.
Almost more.
He’d never crave anything more than junk.
The roar of the bike left his ears when he pulled up outside her offices, which meant there was nothing but the itching need for junk to distract him from the way she was pressed against his back. The way her hands were interlaced at his midsection, how her palms were flat against his torso, almost brushing his belt buckle.
Almost brushing his fucking rock-hard cock.
He gripped the handles of his bike even tighter and was surprised he didn’t shatter his teeth the way he was clenching his jaw, restraining himself from grabbing those tiny delicate hands and placing them on his dick. Not even caring about the fact that it was jus
t past eight in the morning and there were people walking by.
But he was trying to remind himself that even if there was a little wild in her eyes, that didn’t mean shit compared to his darkness. His demons.
He was playing with fucking fire already.
And he wasn’t the one who was going to get burned.
So on the curb, with Lauren’s soft body behind him, her hands near his cock, her scent pressing into his motherfucking bones, he was glad his body was crying out for junk. Never in his life did he think he would find solace in that filthy desire.
But it gave him something to grab onto. Something to distract him.
Lauren’s body lurched, as if she was just now realizing that they were stopped and outside her building.
They had been stationary for eighty-eight seconds.
Gage had counted.
Because when shit got bad, like driving to the shady parts of Hope in search of a dealer bad, he counted.
Every second.
There were 86,400 seconds in a day. Sometimes, on those really bad fucking days, he counted every single one of them. It was his way of figuring out that time passed, and with every second, he was winning against the monkey at his back. Closer to the peace the grave might offer.
So he counted.
And he wanted more seconds with Lauren pressed against his back. He wanted 86,400 of them.
To start.
Then he wanted a fuckload more of her writhing underneath him, his cock deep inside her.
But he was glad that he didn’t have another handful of moments with her pressed against him right then, because he couldn’t take that shit.
So he exhaled when her heat left his back and she stood shakily on the curb. She had already taken the helmet off at some point and her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, saturated with more of that wild.
He felt it in his cock, that brightness, that chaos he saw lurking in those eyes. His little librarian had liked being on the back of his bike.
No, she’d loved it.
His gaze didn’t stay on hers for long, they darted to the fucker in a suit damn near walking into a door leering at her ass. Because her demure and hot-as-shit skirt had ridden up on the bike.
Way up.
She was now showing more of her shapely and long-as-fuck legs that no one but Gage should be seeing. He didn’t even think on that strange and possessive thought before he was off the bike and on the curb, his hands on either side of her hem, pulling the fabric down to its rightful place.
She jerked again, in surprise, maybe. Gage was sure she hadn’t expected him to move. He hadn’t expected his movements to be pulling down her fucking skirt. But although he’d been into audiences before, hadn’t given a fuck about people seeing—and taking—whatever bitch he had his dick inside, that was before.
That was with faceless women whose names he couldn’t remember, who he hadn’t given a shit about. Even the most recent bitch he’d tricked himself into thinking was something was really just him trying to pretend there was something he gave a shit about.
It had been a lie.
Until now.
He gave a shit about Lauren.
She blinked at him rapidly, her glasses magnifying the softness at the edges of her gaze when she realized what he’d done.
His hands moved from the bottom of her skirt, trailing up to rest lightly on her hips. Gage didn’t even know he’d been capable of gripping anything lightly, let alone a woman he wanted so badly.
“I, um,” she breathed. Yes, breathed. The air was hot and minty on his face, with a hint of cinnamon. He itched to taste it, to take her mouth. His body shook with the need to. But he wouldn’t have stopped if he started. And no way in fuck was he having an audience for the first time he claimed his woman’s mouth.
Not just because he’d be claiming her cunt shortly after.
“Thanks,” she said finally, seeming to find her words. Her voice was light and husky, and Gage heard it right in his cock.
He didn’t reply.
He couldn’t.
“For the ride,” she clarified.
He still didn’t reply.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t fucking breathe.
Because this was one of the moments. One he was sure he’d never get again. One of those simple, pure, perfect fucking moments that life gave you once in a while.
Her scent pressing onto his leather, over the stale smell of cigarettes and motor oil. Her bright eyes magnified in her glasses. Her hair, mussed and shiny, tendrils escaping from her braid. The softness of her hips underneath his palms.
Her minty and cinnamon breath.
Clean.
Pure.
A moment he never should’ve had again.
Not since he’d laid his daughter on his chest, smelled her head. Felt her skin.
Those moments were lost to him.
His fucking soul was lost to him, because he was responsible for that lightness in his chest that haunted him with the truth as to where his baby girl was. Who was responsible for that.
He’d resigned himself to the fact that he was in Hell.
Perfect and pure moments didn’t exist in Hell.
But there he was, having one.
One he didn’t fucking deserve.
With a woman he didn’t fucking deserve.
So he broke the moment. Not just by breathing but by forcibly stepping back, releasing her hips from his grasp, and mounting his bike, then starting it in one swift move.
Lauren was gaping at him, her eyes dreamy, her body swaying slightly from the loss of his hands.
He should’ve left her there. Not said a thing. Just imprinted the moment on his memory as his one pure moment in Hell, and then go straight back to the pit where he belonged. Leave her up top, in the clean air, where she belonged.
“Be outside at five,” he barked. “And if you fuckin’ even think about walkin’ farther than up those stairs and to your desk, I’ll tan your ass.”
Then he roared off.
Not in the direction of the pit.
Because Hell wasn’t anywhere he could ride to.
It was something he carried around inside him.
Something he was throwing Lauren into.
Five
Lauren
“Lauren, am I having a stroke, or did you just get dropped off on a motorcycle?” Abagail, the receptionist, asked as I wandered past her, gripping the helmet I’d just realized Gage hadn’t taken with him.
Marty, our sports editor, was leaning against her desk, as he always was at that time of the morning, trying to get her to go out with him. It was an ongoing thing that Abagail was too nice to end. She was pretty, young, kind, and Marty was older, sleazy, and wore more hair spray than a Vegas show girl.
“She did. Saw her with one of the Templar guys,” he put in, his eyes running over the length of me in a way that made me need a shower.
And I didn’t want a shower. I didn’t want to wash Gage’s presence off me.
But it had already seeped under my skin. His smoky scent. His desire that was somehow malicious, dangerous, and tempting all at the same time. His penetrating gaze the moment he’d climbed off the bike to pull my skirt down for me. To protect my modesty. Granted, him all but forcing me on the bike was the reason my modesty needed protecting, but he hadn’t exactly forced me. I’d gotten on under my own volition.
Heck, I hadn’t even noticed or cared that my skirt had ridden up almost to my hips. On Main Street. In broad daylight.
No, I was too busy trying to calm my heart rate. Do difficult things like breathe and blink at the same time after pressing against Gage, having the roar of the motorcycle underneath me, and not be distracted by a head wound like I had been the night of my crash.
It was magnificent. But I had wanted more. I’d bitten my lip to stop myself from squeezing his abs, from screaming at him to go faster, go farther.
And then there was the whole image of him just sitting on his bik
e, tattooed hands clutching the handlebars, eyes on me underneath his shades.
I’d never thought something would be so savagely beautiful.
So I’d been taken by surprise when he’d dismounted in one fluid movement, and in another he’d yanked my skirt into place. Then he’d gently, almost reverently, run his hands up the fabric, resting them on my hips, just staring at me.
I’d been frozen, eyes on his face, on the hard edges of it, thinking about how his beard would feel brushing against my cheek. What his lips would feel like against mine. I’d been so sure I’d find out, the moment so taut with sexual pressure that it drowned out the world around us.
But then he’d stepped back. Violently. In direct contrast with the gentle way he’d handled me seconds before.
And he’d climbed on his bike, shouted at me and roared off. I watched him till the blackness against the soft morning light was gone.
My core was still pulsating with his throaty and savage voice promising to “tan my ass” if I did any walking. Because he knew I still hurt. And technically the promise in itself was to hurt me more—on the surface, at least. But the way his voice melded around the words, I was certain it would be the best kind of pain.
I was tempted to forgo work and walk to the outskirts of town, to the Sons of Templar compound, so he could keep his promise. So I could demand he do so.
But I’d shaken such a reckless thought from my head and did exactly what I was supposed to do, opening the doors to our offices and walking up the stairs to the reception area.
The clock on the wall told me I was five minutes late.
Almost unheard of.
But that wasn’t why Abagail was looking at me in shock.
Her widened eyes were on the motorcycle helmet I was clutching, before they went to me.
“The Sons of Templar?” she repeated. “You were on the back of one of their bikes? You?” Her words were not unkind exactly, just drenched with the rightful amount of shock.
Because I was somewhat of a staple in the office. I’d been there almost the longest, and had trained a lot of the staff—Abagail included, as I’d worked reception on break from college. They knew me. Knew I was a stickler for rules and being punctual. That I didn’t drink coffee, strictly herbal tea. That my hair was always smoothed, my hemlines always low, as were my heels.