by Toni Blake
And that’s when her body stretched, lifted, held, and then she was moving again, but crying out now, climaxing, and Lucky’s face turned warm, his whole body shuddering in response. He’d given his fair share of women orgasms before, but this was the first time it had made him feel so . . . powerful. Powerful in a way that mattered, in a way that went beyond masculinity—because suddenly it did give him some real control, at least a little, over how she felt tonight.
“Lucky,” she breathed upon finally going still. “Lucky?”
He was busy raining kisses across her forehead, cheek, mouth. “What is it, babe?”
“Please. Inside me. Now.”
Aw, God. It wasn’t the first time she’d issued such a demand, but this time it came so gentle, so sweet. He said nothing in reply, just extracted his hand from where it had been and pulled on the drawstring at her hips. A second later, she was lifting, helping him push her pants down. As she kicked them off, he undid his belt, his jeans, and she began reaching, trying to shove the denim away, impatient. It made his heart beat even faster. “Please,” she said again.
“I’m on my way, hot stuff,” he promised, and without bothering to undress either of them further, he moved between her parted legs and pressed his erection inward, listening as she sucked in her breath at the contact.
The entry was slow, wet, deep. Immersed in her as far as their bodies would allow, Lucky gazed into her eyes and said, “God, you’re warm. Tight. This is . . . so good.”
She only nodded, and her eyes told him she was experiencing the same sense of connection as him. And as they began to move, their rhythm remained slow, lingering—it was more about feeling the union of their flesh than about sensation and friction.
Lucky didn’t know how long it stayed that way, but he got lost in it—lost in her eyes, in the warm night air, in the enveloping moisture between her thighs. At some point, her legs wrapped around his hips. Their foreheads touched. He could hear them both breathing.
“Jesus,” he whispered eventually, because after a while, he wanted to move deeper, harder. He began to sweat.
His strokes increased gradually, but she met each one, and finally he knew the time for going slow was over. Thank God. Because he had loved that—in a way he hadn’t known he could—but now he needed to let himself go, to drive into her over and over, hard and fast.
And before long they were both moaning, crying out with each powerful stroke, and finally Lucky just closed his eyes and allowed the pleasure to own him. He plunged into her waiting warmth, faster, faster; he smelled fresh green grass and spring flowers mingling with the scent of her skin; he braced himself, planting his palms at either side of her head, making her sob with the hard pleasure he delivered now—and then he let go. He let go and erupted inside her, his climax explosive and swallowing and . . . so draining that when it was done, he simply lowered his weight on top of her, resting his head next to hers on the quilt.
“I meant it,” he whispered, low, in her ear. “I love you.”
By Tuesday, Tessa felt much better. Enough that she’d gotten up, showered, dressed, and surprised Amy by coming in to work. And it was such a relief to hear that Amy had handled the rush of the May Day festival without her!
Now, she sat on a stool, shelving new mystery novels, soaking in the lovely scents of books, old wood, and coffee, and let out a happy sigh—it was good to be out and about again. Even the sun shining in through the front windows of Under the Covers felt brighter than the last time she’d been here.
Maybe it was silly, but she could have sworn sex with Lucky had cured her flare-up. Or maybe it had been his words. When he’d agreed with what she’d said. About loving her. Her heart felt as if it swelled in her chest just remembering. Lucky loved her. And maybe that was a little scary in a sense—they were so different in ways, and there was still so much she didn’t know about him. But it felt amazing, too.
They’d slept in the park all night, waking with the sun—then looking frantically around to make sure no early birds were out and about to see them wrapped, half naked, in her grandmother’s quilt. Then they’d scurried back to her car and headed home, having shared so much: the sky, the night, the sex, the sleeping together beneath the stars.
She hadn’t told him she loved him back—because, in truth, she hadn’t allowed herself to think that far ahead. Even as close as they’d become, it had never occurred to her that Lucky would say those words, that this would turn into that. And now . . . well, maybe she loved him, too, but just hadn’t let herself admit it. Maybe she was afraid of the things Lucky hadn’t told her about himself. There were questions to be answered, for them both, but for now, today, she just wanted to enjoy the sensation of purpose and productivity delivered by being back in the land of the living. Funny—sometimes she felt that to truly grab life, she had to seek out all sorts of radical things like skydiving or tattoos. And then, other times, it was as simple as putting books on a shelf on a sunny day.
“Hey, look who wants to see you.”
Tessa glanced up to find Amy standing beside her, little Brontë in her arms. She let out a soft gasp at the sight. “She even lets you hold her now, too?”
Amy lifted the kitty’s white mitten paw to wave it at Tessa, saying in a silly cat voice, “Hi, Tessa. I’ve missed you and I’m glad you’re back.”
Tessa couldn’t help smiling.
“She’s still antsy around customers,” Amy explained, “but yeah, with me, she’s calming down a lot.” And with that, she slowly handed Brontë down to Tessa, and taking the lanky kitty into her arms, provided yet another sense of comfort.
“Hi there,” she whispered. “It’s good to see you.” She hugged the cat to her chest, running her fingertips over her fur.
“I still think you’d like having a cat at home,” Amy said.
Tessa lifted her gaze back to her friend and replied honestly. “I kind of do, too—but after the week I’ve just had . . . well, I definitely think she’s better off here where we can share kitty duties.”
“I bet she gets lonely and scared at night when she’s alone,” Amy offered up.
But in response, Tessa just rolled her eyes. “She’d be alone at my place a lot, too.”
“Not in the dark,” Amy persisted.
“Knock it off,” Tessa said. “I like her, but I just don’t think it’s in the cards.” Even if she suddenly didn’t enjoy envisioning Brontë alone here at night. Maybe they could rig her up a night light or something. “Don’t you have some books to sell or plants to water or something?”
Shrugging, Amy said, “Suit yourself,” before she walked away.
Tessa then lowered Brontë to her lap, fully expecting the cat to jump down and go trotting away—so when she didn’t, instead curling up and lying among the folds of Tessa’s skirt, Tessa smiled gently down at her, then reached over her to discover she could shelve books with a cat on her lap just as easily as without one.
A couple of nights later, Tessa cooked Lucky dinner using a simple baked chicken recipe and breaking out a bottle of wine—all to thank him for being there during her tough days. “And,” she admitted over the table as they ate, “for making me let you be there. I’m not very good at sharing that part of my life with people.”
“I wasn’t about to take no for an answer,” he told her just before forking a bite of baked potato into his mouth.
“Despite myself, I’m glad you didn’t,” she confessed.
“Have you talked to your mom? Did I freak her out very bad?”
In fact, Tessa had talked to her mom, who’d admitted it had scared the wits out of her when Lucky came to the door, but that she’d quickly seen in his eyes how much he cared about Tessa and how worried he was. To Tessa’s surprise, that seemed to be enough—her mother had no qualms about Tessa seeing a guy with flames and a grim reaper on his arms. “Actually, she thought you were very sweet.”
He scowled. “Sweet?”
And Tessa just grinned at her big, tough b
iker. “In fact, I think I know what kind of tattoo you should get next. A big yellow smiley face—right above Mr. Reaper there.”
He arched one eyebrow. “That’s not funny, hot stuff.”
“Yes it is,” she said on a giggle. “Just picture it.”
Lucky was clearly holding back a smile now. “Well, then I think the next tattoo you should get is a great big skull, right in the center of your chest.”
Her jaw dropped in horror at the image he’d just put in her mind. “That’s not funny.”
“See what I mean?”
The days were lengthening, the sun setting a bit later each night—and by the time they’d cleaned up the dishes, dusk fell over the cabin. It came earlier here along Whisper Falls Road for the pair of little houses nestled down among the trees. Lucky poured two more glasses of Chardonnay from the bottle Tessa had opened for dinner, confiding, “I’ve always been more of a beer or whiskey man, but this stuff isn’t bad.”
They stepped out onto Tessa’s deck to enjoy the night, sitting at her patio table. When she mindlessly lifted her feet onto Lucky’s thigh, using it as a stool, he began giving her a light foot massage and she wondered what she’d done right to get such a man. To find such a man behind that rough-and-tumble exterior.
What parts of Lucky hadn’t she found yet, though? What parts of him didn’t she know? She’d been basking in the pleasure of their affair, telling herself that part could wait—but how long? If you don’t find out the rest, then this isn’t real, and it won’t last.
God, the thought of that wrenched her soul. She didn’t want this to end. And she longed for it to be as real as it felt in her heart. So as she sat watching him, she realized she had to ask him. Even if it scared her. Even if she wasn’t really sure she wanted the answers.
“Tell me about California, Lucky,” she said softly, but she knew her tone underscored the seriousness of the question.
Lucky’s hands went still and he raised his gaze to hers in the darkening air. His muscles tensed. And his heart felt heavy.
Maybe he should have seen this coming. Maybe he should have known you couldn’t get this close to a woman without her needing to know your secrets. And . . . maybe it had been a lot easier to just not think about those secrets lately, after deciding the past really was behind him and that it was finally safe to let a woman into his life.
His first instinct was to lie. To sugarcoat every bit of it. He’d gotten real good at that in Wisconsin, after all. On the rare occasions he’d volunteered information about those days to friends, customers—it had been easy enough to talk in vague stories that made it sound like nothing worse than sewing some wild oats. He could do that with Tessa, too. Except that—to the very core of his soul, he didn’t want to lie to her. He didn’t think he could bear it.
So he considered just refusing to answer, point-blank. Telling her it was nothing she needed to know, that it was a long time ago and didn’t matter. God knew it was his least favorite subject, and the very idea of dredging it up made his stomach churn.
But with Tessa, that wasn’t good enough, either—it wasn’t right. He wasn’t sure what was right. He wasn’t even very good at reconciling the man he’d been then with the man he was now—so how could he expect her to do it?
So finally he said what he was thinking. “You might hate me if I do.”
He saw her flinch—just slightly; she’d tried to hide it. She’d clearly been hoping he’d tell her nothing really bad had happened. Which made the idea of telling her the truth all the more daunting.
“I would never hate you,” she whispered. He thought her voice sounded like an angel’s in the night. An angel with a daisy chain around her ankle.
“You might,” he heard himself say.
“No,” she insisted.
Which was sweet as hell—but she didn’t know yet. And if anything could change the way she felt about him, it was this.
So maybe he should shut up. Just not tell her.
But again, no matter how he looked at it, he felt he owed her the truth. It’s that damn love thing. It felt like a chain in a way, and not the daisy kind. More like a big, heavy, steel contraption that pressed on him, and pulled on him, and took away the freedom inside him, in his head—which was maybe the last freedom he’d retained after coming back here.
And yet . . . it wasn’t fair to describe it that way—because it wasn’t an ugly thing. It wasn’t something he would give up if he could. It felt like something holding him tight in its grasp—but also like something warm, good. So good that . . . for Christ’s sake, it had him making daisy chains in a park. He must want it. It was scary as hell in a way, but he must want it in his life to have gone there so easily.
With one hand still resting softly on her ankle, he ran the other back through his hair. He couldn’t think how to begin. He couldn’t think how to make sense of the things he’d done, the shit that had happened when he’d been young.
Just do it. Just tell her. Dive in. Get it out, once and for all.
“From the time I was twenty until I was twenty-three, I was in a motorcycle club called the Devil’s Assassins.”
He looked up at her in the dark, met her gaze. So far, she didn’t look too worried. But he hadn’t gotten to the heart of the matter yet. And in fact, he’d sugarcoated it already—calling it something as simple as a club, just as they did in Cali, just as they insisted to anyone who asked. Stop it. Tell her the whole awful truth. “But . . . it was really an outlaw gang. We did . . . illegal things. To make money.”
She bit her lower lip, her eyes showing concern. “What kinds of things?”
And Lucky pressed his mouth into a flat, unhappy line. It shamed him to remember this. “We ran guns. And drugs. And we stole cars and motorcycles.”
He could sense her muscles tensing merely from the way her ankles balanced on his leg now. “And you, personally, did these things?”
He sighed. “My job was . . . stealing cars. I was . . . good at it.” It was strange to remember he’d once taken pride in the skill.
Next to him, Tessa stayed quiet a moment and he hated himself for who he’d been back then. “Why?” she finally asked.
The question confused him. “Why was I good at it?”
“Why did you join this club?”
He thought it over. Funny, back then, it had seemed the obvious thing to do—like some grand opportunity. “I was wandering, drifting—and it was someplace to belong. They got to do what they wanted, live how they wanted—they had a lot of power, and when I was twenty, power was appealing.”
“How come?”
“I’d never felt like I’d had any before. And when you get patched into an MC, it’s supposed to be like . . . a family. A family where you matter. They made me feel important. They said they’d always have my back.”
“And did they?”
“No,” he answered simply. An understatement of epic proportions. “All the family shit was a lie.”
She simply stared at him then, for a good long time. And he wondered what she was thinking—when she finally said, “Are you gonna tell me the rest of it?”
“How do you know there’s more?”
“The look on your face,” she replied. And when he still didn’t launch into the story, she said, “Lucky, I just need to know where you’ve been.”
He nodded. Swallowed. He understood that. So he took a deep breath and said, “The whole thing ended . . . bad. But . . . it had been bad for a while already.”
“Go on,” she prodded.
“Not long after I was patched in—”
“What’s that mean?”
In that moment, drawn back to an existence he’d long ago left behind, he’d forgotten the whole world didn’t know MC terminology. “It’s when you’re made a full member. You go through different stages before you get the club’s whole emblem to wear. You’re tested in different ways, made to prove your loyalty, and your usefulness.”
“Tested how?”
&nb
sp; He sighed. It sounded so stupid now, juvenile. “Steal something maybe, do something against a rival gang, find a way to score some drugs for the club.”
He heard her pull in a slow breath, let it back out. “Did you, um, do drugs?”
God, he was in Destiny—no one in Destiny did drugs. She’d think he was slime, but he wasn’t gonna lie. “If you wouldn’t do coke with the other guys, they thought it meant you were a cop. But I found out pretty fast I didn’t like not having full control of myself when I was with them—I figured out it was best to stay alert. So I got good at faking it, at acting like I’d done it and, when nobody was looking, just brushing it away.”
“Have you . . . done anything like that since then?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t for me. I was happy to leave it behind with the rest of that life.”
“Tell me the rest,” she reminded him.
It made him let out another long, shameful sigh. “Almost as soon as I was made a full patch, I started seeing maybe it wasn’t as great as I thought. I mean, I knew they were dangerous—but what I didn’t catch on to until too late was that they were dangerous even to each other. One minute we were swearing we were brothers to the end—and the next, guys were getting drunk or high or both, and then starting fights over nothing, or making threats, and you felt like you were gonna be stabbed in the back any minute.
“Duke hooked up with the Assassins around the same time as me, and we got along, and figured out pretty quick that it was good to have an ally. I think we both wanted to leave the club a while before we did, but the thing is—you can’t just decide to go. Once you’re in, it’s for life. So to even talk about leaving would put a target on your back.
“Anyway . . . how things ended.” He returned his gaze to hers. “You sure you wanna hear this, hot stuff?”
She nodded. “Not want to. Have to.”
He sighed once more—then just tried to barrel forward. “The president of the Devil’s Assassins was a guy named Wild Bill Murphy. And I didn’t realize it at first, but he was . . . fucking crazy. He could be the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet or the meanest bastard on the planet, and he could switch on you in a heartbeat.” Just remembering the cold look Bill could get in his eye made Lucky feel a little sick.