by Anne Malcom
She’d never been impressed by my previous boyfriends. Not that she said as much, but she did go to great pains to call them all ‘Chip’ and ask them about their 401(k) the way a parent might ask an ex-con how long they were in prison for. To her, their sensible investment portfolios and five-year business plans were worse than a rap sheet a mile long.
So yes, I had the strong inkling that my grandmother would be delighted at a muscled, dangerous, and savagely beautiful biker here to shake up my life. But that wasn’t the problem. I didn’t know how long my life was going to have him in it for. I was on borrowed time as it was, before he realized exactly what I was—boringly sane, completely and utterly wrong for him.
Dealing with that heartbreak would be bad enough in my private sorrow.
Having to tell my grandmother would be worse.
But there was nothing I could do about it now.
The cackling of my seemingly elated grandmother coming from up the stairs told me that. And the low rumble of Gage’s voice that hit me right between the legs.
Yes, the biker I’d fucked last night after he’d finished killing a man was now making my eighty-year-old grandmother laugh at eight in the morning.
I was not a person to use this term in the sense of the word, but I was fucked.
And I had no choice but to go lumbering up the stairs like I was the eighty-year-old in the equation.
The sight upon entering my kitchen stopped me in my tracks. I literally slammed into the air like I’d hit an invisible wall.
Because Gage was in my kitchen, pouring coffee—I always had some on hand for Amy these days—for my grandmother, who was sitting on a barstool with her back to me.
That in itself wasn’t exactly an earth-shattering thing.
It was Gage.
In my kitchen.
Doing something as domestic as pouring coffee. After turning up on my doorstep hours before covered in someone else’s blood. After he’d fucked me on the very floor I was standing on right then.
Now he was in my kitchen, making coffee, making my grandmother laugh.
Oh, and he was shirtless.
Shirtless.
It was impressive last night. Feeling the ridges of his abs, raking my nails down them—my stomach dipped with the faint red scabs on his midsection serving as evidence of it—feasting my eyes on them in the dim light. I hadn’t exactly been in a position to study them correctly since I’d been half insane with desire the entire night. And I’d been rushing this morning.
But now, with the sunlight of the early morning streaming in, illuminating every ridge, every inch of his exposed and ink skin, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself.
Actually I did know what to do with myself. My fingers itched to hold a paintbrush, charcoal, a freaking Magic Marker, anything so I could reproduce this moment a thousand times over.
He was art.
There was no other way to describe him.
Not beautiful.
No, he was too hard for that. Not in a way that described his sculpted muscles, but in the way pain had etched itself into his skin.
The scars decorating his arms were so ugly that they had a rhythm to them. A flow that turned them hauntingly beautiful on his sculpted arms. Something so hard to look at it caused me pain. A kind of pain I would be loath to live without.
A pain that would become an addiction.
Yes, he was art.
Of the most brutal and horrible kind.
The greatest art was always created with the greatest and deepest kind of pain, after all.
His eyes met mine in a way that told me he’d known I was there for far longer than the seconds he held my gaze. Though those seconds could’ve been lifetimes. Not full of that strange awkwardness that came with the morning after. When everything was strange and impersonal—in my past experience, anyway—and the fact that you had been intimate the night before only created more distance in the morning.
No, there was none of that distance, though I might’ve craved it because of the intensity passing between us. One that scared me more than anything ever had in my life.
“Will,” he said, his voice low and husky.
I jerked in response. My entire body actually spasmed with the muscle memory of that rough voice in my ear while he pounded into me.
He saw it, my reaction, seemed to sense the erotic direction my mind had gone, because his eyes darkened and his jaw hardened.
“Babe, come here,” he demanded with a tone so dripping with sex it should’ve been illegal. Especially with my freaking grandmother sitting between us.
That should’ve given me pause, her presence. Should’ve made me hold onto common logic and appropriate behavior and seat myself beside her, be pleasant, civilized, and with the island between Gage and me. A physical barrier.
But there was no pause after his command.
I moved immediately, my body responding to his order the exact same way it had last night, without hesitation. I was rounding the island before my mind could catch up with me, and I stuttered in my step just before I made it to Gage, intending on stopping short of the muscled, scarred and shirtless Adonis in my freaking kitchen.
Of course he wasn’t going to let that happen, his eyes narrowing, moving so his hands circled my hip and yanked me into his side, his mouth coming down on mine.
I stiffened when his intention became clear. Yes, my grandmother was pretty worldly and easygoing, but I wasn’t about to kiss a shirtless man she’d just met right in front of her. Plus, I hadn’t brushed my teeth.
But the second his mouth hit mine, everything in me melted. I forgot my grandmother’s presence. Forgot the possibility of morning breath. Forgot the freaking world.
The kiss was quick, hard, and closemouthed, but it was firm. It communicated something.
Ownership.
“Gage, you can’t kiss me in front of my grandmother while shirtless, seconds after you’ve met her,” I hissed when he released my lips, my voice not as sharp as I would’ve liked thanks to the fact that his kiss had the same qualities of Xanax. Well, the qualities I imagined Xanax might try to mimic poorly.
“He can and he did,” my grandmother interjected when Gage didn’t respond, merely stared at me as if he was etching my face into his mind. “And boy, do I approve.” Her slow clap echoed in my head as I tried to pull away from Gage.
He merely pressed his lips against my head and tucked me into his shoulder. My body sagged against him, coming alive at his touch, inside his embrace.
My grandmother’s face was beaming behind her coffee mug. Yes, she was delighted at seeing me be ordered around and manhandled and kissed in front of her.
“This is like Christmas, Easter, and Mardi Gras all rolled into one,” she exclaimed, then focused on Gage. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to see a man abandon the laws of decency and french my granddaughter in front of me.”
Gage’s chest vibrated with his low chuckle.
“Glad I could be of service, ma’am,” he replied, his voice a low rasp, but also somehow lighter than I’d ever heard it. Almost playful. Almost carefree. But it would always be almost for Gage.
That thought was a razor against my soul. The scarred arms, brutal and stark in the morning light, showed the truth. They would be the immovable force, creating the almost happy, almost carefree, the completely broken.
The lightness on my grandmother’s face disappeared and she narrowed her eyes at Gage’s words, but not for the same reason as me. “Now, I like you, so I’ll not be scooping your eyeballs out with my sugar spoon for calling me that,” she said with distaste. “I give one free pass. Don’t make me do it. I’m sure you’re attached to your sight.”
Gage’s eyes found mine, twinkling and hard at the same time. “Increasingly so,” he murmured.
A blush crept up my neck, his words and gaze almost chasing away the pain of before.
Almost.
“So he lost the bet, I got to use his private jet
for a month, and I thought what a perfect place to make my last stop,” my grandmother said, sipping at her second cup of coffee. The one she’d put a serious dollop of whisky in, from the bottle she always carried in her purse “for emergencies.”
She winked at me. “And don’t worry, I got you some great souvenirs. Asia has some excellent skincare and makeup. And I know how much you love those products, even though you don’t buy them for yourself, because you’re so sane and sensible.” She groaned the words like they were worse than eating non-dolphin-safe tuna.
Her eyes touched on Gage, who, surprisingly, was still there, chatting with my grandmother, sipping on his own coffee—sans whisky—and holding me like it was natural. Normal.
But there was nothing normal about the two people in my kitchen.
Two people who were important to me.
Grandma had been in my life for as long as I could remember, so that made sense.
Gage had been in it for less than two weeks. That did not make sense. But he was still important. Gaining more crucial status with every minute those scarred arms stayed around me. With every second he didn’t make his excuses and escape. Because it was what most men would’ve done. Most men who didn’t plan on being permanent.
My heart fluttered at the thought.
“Well, you’re not completely sensible and sane,” Grandma murmured, eyes still on Gage. “And it’s just wonderful.”
Gage’s arms flexed around me, the energy coming off him changing slightly.
“I can’t wait for you to tell me all about this,” she said, waving her free hand at us. “When the man in question is out of earshot, of course.”
That strange energy coming from Gage dissipated slightly and the corner of his mouth quirked. “Is that your way of tellin’ me to fuck off, Anna?” he asked.
I jerked. “You can’t curse in front of my grandmother!” I hissed before she could answer.
“Of course he can. I expect nothing less,” she interjected. “Not everyone has a mouth like a choirboy, Lo,” she said. “Swearing is fabulous. You should try it some time.” She winked. “And yes, young man, as much as I thoroughly enjoy the company, and the view”—her eyes pointed to his torso in a way a grandmother should not look at the man her granddaughter had slept with the night before—“I need some serious deets, and it won’t work as well with Lauren being all awkward and quiet with you here. She’s already going to be awkward and quiet enough without you here. I’ve got my work cut out for me.” She winked at me again as I pressed my head into Gage’s shoulder for some kind of solace. “But I expect you back here so I can take you out for dinner.” She paused. “That’s unless you have some kind of rival gang to give a beatdown to, or something to blow up. In that case, we’ll make it a late dinner and you can take me along. I do love an adventure.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered into Gage’s shoulder.
“No bombs to make tonight, I’m sorry to say,” Gage replied, not missing a beat. “But I’ll be sure to let you know if something comes up while you’re in town, Anna.”
Grandma nodded. “You be sure to do that, though I’m thinking it’s going to be a flying visit so I don’t cramp your style. Plus, I’ve got a meeting with a Calvin Klein model,” she replied. “You’ll be free for dinner, then?”
I was about to open my mouth and say that men like Gage, who radiated danger, who lived life hard and chaotic, were not about to go to dinner on a Saturday night with an eighty-year-old and the boring woman he’d slept with the night before.
Gage’s arms flexed around me, and he spoke before I could. “Yeah, I’m not likely to want to be anywhere else.”
I let out a strangled breath. “This is too much to take in the morning,” I murmured to no one but myself.
Gage’s hand went to my chin, making my eyes meet his. “You can take it, Will,” he said, voice lower than a whisper.
The sex barely concealed beneath the words sucked away the oxygen from my lungs.
“Breathe, Lauren.”
I gulped in air on his command. Air saturated with him. With the sheer unbelievably of the moment.
My eyes stayed captured in his stare for a beat longer before he stepped back. I sagged slightly with the loss of him, and his hand steadied my hip for a moment before he let me go.
“I got shit to do, anyway,” he said, voice louder now. “But I’ll be back, tonight.” The words were a promise for a lot more than just dinner.
The tenderness between my legs pulsated with the craving for more.
With my freaking grandmother right between us.
“Oh don’t worry, I’m not staying here,” Grandma said. “I don’t like the rules.”
I turned to face her fully to give her a warning look.
I now had my back to Gage, so he couldn’t see this look, nor understand the warning it conveyed.
“Rules?” he repeated, voice low and raspy and slightly amused.
Grandma nodded. “Oh yes, and curfews.”
“Curfews?” His eyes darted to me before he yanked me back into his arms as if he couldn’t be without my touch. There was definite amusement in his voice now.
“There are no curfews,” I hissed, still fighting to get out of Gage’s embrace. It was distracting. “Just exit and entry preferences.”
Gage’s body vibrated with a chuckle. “Babe. ‘Exit and entry preferences?’”
“What are you today, a parrot?” I hissed, my face flushing. I glared at Grandma. “You need entry preferences since, on more than one occasion, you’ve lumbered in at 4:00 a.m.”
“Lumbered?” she said, hand to her chest. “I do not lumber. Imagine a thing to say to a grandmother. If we’re talking about lumbering, what is it you do during uncivilized hours on a Sunday?”
“I go to yoga,” I snapped. “And eight in the morning is hardly uncivilized.”
“In my world it is. Especially when you’ve just gotten home at four.” She glanced to Gage. “She’s a tyrant.”
I let out a sound of exasperation. “It’s my house!”
Grandma narrowed her eyes. “You know what my house is? My vagina. And your father came out of it. And his sperm went into your mother’s. So I’m responsible for giving you life. How about a bit more respect?”
My head found my hands. “Oh my gosh, my grandmother is talking about her vagina at nine in the morning when my man is right beside me,” I muttered, mortified.
The air had been light, pleasant, easy, and I’d sunk into it without hesitation. That was my mistake. Because my words tore through that energy with a serrated knife, Gage’s body stiffening behind me.
And then I wasn’t tucked into his embrace any longer, because he was dragging me across the room.
Yes, dragging me across the living room, without a word to my grandmother, who didn’t seem concerned at all, if her faint giggle was anything to go by.
I didn’t really have it in me to struggle. There was never a time I had struggled against Gage. Never a time I wanted to struggle.
The door to my bedroom slammed behind us. The scent of our coupling—of pure fucking—permeated the air, the rumpled and blood-smeared sheets assaulting me with beautifully brutal memories for the second I looked at it before I was slammed against the closed door.
Yes, slammed. My body protested at the impact, as the tenderness of my muscles cried out from the brutal handling. Gage didn’t seem to notice, since both of his hands circled my neck in a grip that so wasn’t gentle as his entire body pressed against mine, plastering me to him.
“Gage, what are you—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he ordered.
And then I did shut up, because his mouth was on mine. His kiss wasn’t tender. It couldn’t be. Not with the wildness in his eyes, the violence in his body. The kiss was as painful as everything else.
And it was also as beautiful.
Soul-destroying.
Time and space disappeared for the moments—or was it years?—his mouth moved against mi
ne.
My breathing came in shallow pants when he finally released me, the darkness in his eyes seeping out and covering every inch of my skin. Every inch of my freaking soul.
“Want to fuck you right now,” he growled. “Want to sink my cock so deep inside you that I’m fucking imprinted on your insides like you are mine.” The grip at my neck tightened and his hardness pressed into my stomach. “Gonna punish you for sayin’ that shit at a time when I can’t do that,” he murmured, teeth brushing my lips, pressing down so they drew blood.
Wetness flooded between my legs.
My blood stained Gage’s lips. His tongue flicked out and tasted it.
His hardness pulsated inside his jeans and his grip tightened even more, to the point of pleasurable pain.
“You’re gonna pay for makin’ me hold back right now,” he hissed.
“For wh-what?” I stuttered.
“You called me your fuckin’ man, baby. Yours.” He ground the words out like they were painful.
I froze.
I had. Without even thinking about it. There wasn’t a question. With what we shared last night, there was no option other than that Gage was unequivocally mine.
He was broken. And mine.
He’d be a battle.
One I was going to fight.
I hadn’t even realized I’d decided that until right that second. Because it was in that second that it became very apparent that everything with Gage was a battle. Merely breathing was a battle for him.
“You are mine,” I whispered, gaze never faltering. “Because you’re broken. Like me. And I want to be yours because you won’t try and fix me. Because I’m broken too.”
He turned to marble with my words, his eyes the only thing still active, still alive, still devouring my soul.
He didn’t speak.
Not for a long time.
He just kept staring. Kept sucking me into him, burrowing under my skin.
Then he released me, stepped back so I was no longer pressed against the door, but I stayed there, still glued in place by the coldness of his eyes. Of the weight of the moment.