Pinky arched up into his questing fingers, her thighs falling open as wide as the tight denim would allow. It was enough. An easy path to her panties. And it gave him a deep sense of satisfaction to find her already wet for him, the damp cotton molding to his fingertips as he traced her outer lips. Goddamn, she was hot. Her brown eyes going hazy with lust. The soft, needy sounds spilling from her throat. But she didn’t lose sight of what she was doing...and as he stroked her, she stroked him—her grip sure and just a little bit mean.
He didn’t want to come first. She was making it really fucking difficult not to. As he slipped two fingers under the waistband of her underwear, she flicked her thumb over his head, catching the beads of moisture there and using them to slick him up. The friction was ridiculous. So intense. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t keep up with her. Bending to kiss her mouth again only spun him out further, faster. Trucker wanted her just as undone. Just as gone. And he wanted to be inside her when she lost it.
“Off,” he murmured, thickly. “I want your clothes off. I need you naked.”
“Same,” she said against his lips.
They parted by mutual agreement, just long enough to whip off T-shirts and shuck jeans. Toss undergarments to far corners of the room. She laughed a little as she shimmied out of her panties and unhooked her bra. And when he raised his brows in silent question, she enlightened him: “I wasn’t sure if you were into tearing. So I didn’t wear my very best pair.”
He did love a practical gal. Trucker chuckled and pointed to the condoms he’d rescued from his wallet—four of them, because he was an optimist. “Only thing I plan to be tearing tonight is wrappers,” he assured. “Your clothes are safe.”
Pinky stretched out on the mattress in all her naked glory. “You could also tear up my heart,” she pointed out, dryly.
Just how much of his Eastville Eagles cred was he going to destroy if he admitted he understood an NSYNC reference? This was the slippery slope of Captain America T-shirts. Before you knew it, you were desperately trying to rid yourself of a boyband earworm. Trucker side-stepped the problem entirely by moving over Pinky once more, caging her with his arms. “Your heart’s safe, too,” he assured. When her breath caught, releasing in a quiet “oh,” he realized he hadn’t done his biker cred any favors. Humming “I Want It That Way” might have been better than talking about the state of her heart. But he couldn’t very well take it back now. All he could do was fuck-addle them both until feelings were a non-issue.
Trucker applied himself to the task with near-religious fervor, crawling down her body, stopping to worship at the temple of her tits and pay homage to the lush curve of her hip. Poised above her pussy, he stopped for a check in. “Are you okay with this?”
Her hand tangled in his hair. She caressed his nape...and then she guided his head down, the message clear. But she followed it up with enthusiastic verbal confirmation. “Hell yes! Move in if you feel like it!”
He kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh, loving the way she shuddered under his mouth. “I was thinking of building a condo.”
“I’m...zoned...for that,” she panted as he slid one finger, and then two, into her slick heat. “Permit approved.”
When was the last time he’d laughed during sex? The last time he’d laughed at all? Had he ever had this much fun with someone? He was determined to make the fun last as long as possible. To make her pleasure last as long as possible.
Trucker took his sweet damn time building that cunnilingus condo. Licking. Sucking. Paying special attention to her clit and reveling in the way her legs closed around him like a vise when he found her G-spot. She could snap his neck and he’d die a happy man. Better to kick the bucket in her bed than for the Eagles, that was for damn sure. And he loved how vocal she was. How she gasped and swore and gave him directions. When she finally came, it was fucking beautiful. She fell apart, sobbing his name—his real name, and he had no complaints this time. Just the bone-deep happiness that she knew him. Him, not anyone else. Tyson “Trucker” Carrigan—not some nameless, faceless, motorcycle thug—had gotten her to this place. Sheened with sweat, trembling, scrambling for protection because she wanted more and wanted it right now.
Together, they managed to unroll the condom over his dick. He was so damn hard that the fit of the latex was almost painful. But the fit of her cunt as he slowly slid into her...? Heaven. Warm, wet, welcoming heaven. And every time he pulled out and thrust back in, she blessed him anew.
Chapter Six
Trucker’s dick was going to kill me. I’d never really understood the phrase “I want him to murder my vagina,” but now it made perfect sense. He was big and hard and relentless and I loved it. I wanted more. Fucking in the truck had been impulsive, wild. With no time to appreciate the finer points. In bed, his finest point was everything. I clung to his shoulders, still spinning out from what he’d done with his mouth and his fingers, trying to keep pace with his thrusts. No amount of Pilates could prepare a girl for this workout.
I’d made the most of my time away at college. Trucker wasn’t my first, my second, or my third. But tonight was proving that he was definitely the best. Not just because he was skilled, but because, even with the force of how we came together, I felt...cherished. He kissed me again and again—my lips, my cheeks, my throat. He whispered things that weren’t just filthy. They were sweet. Things I never would’ve thought him capable of until this past week.
“You’re beautiful,” as he reached down between us and rubbed my clit. “I don’t want to stop, I want to make this last,” as his movements grew more frantic. And then my name. Over and over. Two syllables that he turned into one. Desperate. Dark. Dirty. Pink, Pink, Pink.
I could barely hear him. Barely think. But I felt him deep under my skin. In my bones. His orgasm crashing into mine, hot and thick and endless. And then we were just tangled up— sweaty limbs, sticky bodies, utterly spent. We lay there for minutes. Maybe hours. His weight on me heavy but not uncomfortable, his heartbeat—or maybe my own—echoing in my ears.
“Fuck,” he managed to say eventually, as he levered up off me. “Fuck, Pinky, that was...”
“Yeah. That was,” I agreed. Amazing. Fantastic. Beyond words.
He pinched the condom as he slipped out, careful not to ruin our prophylactic efforts, and then gingerly climbed out of bed to dispose of it. His back and shoulders were broad, bare of tattoos, and his butt was a thing of beauty. You could probably bounce quarters off those taut cheeks. I imagined some of his past lovers had done so—but probably not the girlfriend who’d claimed blowjobs weren’t vegan. She didn’t seem like the whimsical type.
Trucker needed whimsy. That much was obvious. He needed impulsive hookups and comic books and laughter with his loving. Just as much as I needed escape.
I watched him again as he walked back from the bathroom. That obscenely large dick resting heavily against one thigh. His hair and beard damp from a quick wash-up. Because you came all over his face. I knew I was supposed to be embarrassed. Supposed to be second-guessing this entire thing. After all, nice Punjabi girls didn’t bang bikers in motel rooms, did they? But I couldn’t seem to muster up any shame. Only satisfaction. Yeah, I’d come all over Trucker Carrigan’s face...and he’d loved every minute of it. Even now, he was looking at me like he wanted to go another round. This beautiful beast of a man. I had no idea what it was he did outside these four walls, but within them, he’d given me a different kind of truth. Who he was really. Who I was—the person I’d been hiding for so many months while working in Mom and Dad’s restaurant. What we could be together. Something wild. Something explosive. Something fun.
But at whose expense? At what cost?
“Hey. That’s a pretty serious look in your eyes.” The mattress dipped under Trucker’s weight as he rejoined me. And then he was making himself comfortable, laying on his side, propping his head up on one hand. “Regrets?” he asked, quietly. Kindly. Like he was willing to give me the out.
“No. Zero regrets.” The assurance was quick. Dead honest. But I couldn’t help but think of the Eagles leathers he hadn’t worn tonight. Because he was trying to forget...or because he didn’t want me to remember? I was deliciously sore. My body already missed him. But my brain...it couldn’t ignore reality. Or the puzzle Trucker presented.
How could he be this geeky, adorable man who made jokes about building condos in my vagina and the man who swaggered around with Frick and Frack? How could the hands that touched me so gently also commit violence?
“Still with the serious face.” He traced the furrow of my brows with his fingertip. Just the lightest touch and I tingled all over. “Can you tell me what this is?”
I could stall. Distract him with kisses. Get up to pee and stave off any pesky UTIs. But there was no point in putting off the inevitable, was there? At some point, we were going to have the conversation. I had to address the elephant—or the Eagles—in the room.
“The motorcycle gang,” I said, huffing out a breath. “I don’t get it. I mean, yeah, you were a hellraiser when you were in high school, and you got in a lot of fights, but you were never...”
“A gun-toting, racist asshole?” he supplied with a grimace.
Yes. That. I shrugged helplessly, falling back against the pillows.
Trucker sighed raggedly and flopped down next to me. “I don’t suppose you’d believe we’re just ‘enthusiasts’ who love to go on rides?”
“Yeah, no.” I snorted. “I’ve seen Sons of Anarchy. I’ve read some biker romances. More than that, I’ve lived in Eastville my whole life. I know what kind of hold the Eagles have on the area. Before you came back, they tried to strong-arm my parents into paying protection at least a couple times a year.”
They’d knocked it off when Mom started getting sick. A show of largesse, probably meant to be collected upon at a later date. But then Trucker—who’d come back to town around the same time as me—had stepped in and declared the Taj his safe zone.
“Goddamn.” He winced, rubbing at his jaw with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry.”
And there it was. Another puzzle piece falling into place. He was sorry. What kind of vicious criminal gang member went around being sorry for his gang doing what they did? That was like betrayal. That was practically like being a narc. “Oh. Oh, shit.” The light dawned swiftly, and I knew I needed to keep the words in, to stop from uttering them aloud, but I couldn’t help myself.
“You’re a cop, aren’t you?”
***
Trucker had always thought he’d get made with a gun to his ribs. Hands above his head. Surrounded by the men he’d pretended were his brothers for years. Walking that tension line of “Am I going to die now, or five minutes from now?” He’d never imagined he’d be naked, half-hard from proximity to a beautiful woman who’d just given him the best sex of his life.
“You’re a cop, aren’t you?”
The words hung there between them like fog. Pinky’s dark eyes were wide with shock, her mouth a tight, tense, slash. She hadn’t meant to voice the suspicion. That much was clear. And the longer he waited to address it, the more obvious his deflection was.
“What do you want my answer to be?” He tilted his head on the pillow. They were just inches apart. Inches...and miles.
“Whatever involves you killing fewer people,” she said, her high pitch a mix of hysteria and practicality. “No people would be ideal.”
Yeah, well. That ship had sailed. He’d shot two perps in the line of duty. One during the official takedown of a weapons warehouse and another in self-defense, when he and some of the Eagles had been pinned down by guys from a rival club. So, that was two lives he was directly responsible for ending. And how many more, both innocent and guilty, had died on his watch? There was blood under his nails that he was never going to be able to scrub out.
Christ. He never should’ve flirted with her. Never should’ve allowed it to get this far. He should’ve just enjoyed his lassi and his chicken curry, finished up his assignment, and gotten the fuck out of town. The litany was familiar. He’d said this shit to himself a dozen times in the last few weeks. To no avail. Because here he was, wanting to bury his cock in Pinky Grover all over again, despite her figuring out his biggest secret.
Or maybe because she’d figured out his secret.
Trucker sighed. “I wish I could tell you that the only gun I’ve held was while playing Big Buck Hunter in a dive bar outside of Reno. That I haven’t hurt a single soul.” He reached down and took her hand, threading their fingers together. Metaphorical blood-crusted nails be damned. “I got recruited by the ATF while I was in the Army. Eastville. Sealed juvie records. They couldn’t resist. I was the perfect deep-cover operative.”
“Was?” She latched onto the word, the dark wings of her eyebrows furrowing again. He couldn’t tell if she was relieved by his confession or even more disturbed.
“I’m not so perfect now, am I?” he pointed out. “I blew it.”
“Because you blew me.” Her reply was blunt. And she didn’t let go of his hand, but he could feel her pulling away.
“Because I got so caught up in you that I forgot my mission,” he corrected. What was it about this girl that made him so damn chatty? It was like he couldn’t be anything but his real self around her. Sappy. Geeky. Vulnerable. The kid he’d been trying not to be for twenty years. “I lost sight of everything except being near you. Talking to you. Having you.”
“Eating my mom’s samosas,” she added. “Depleting the Taj of several meals’ worth of butter chicken.”
She was trying to distance herself from his intimate words. From him and her. Trucker wasn’t about to drag her back to any place she didn’t want to be. “Hey. Be honest.” He echoed her light tone. “Wouldn’t you rather eat samosas than smuggle weapons for homegrown terrorists?”
Pinky seemed to appreciate the shift. She stretched her arms above her head, tapping the headboard. “Mmm. You do have a point. There’s not a whole lot to do in this one-horse town besides patronizing our fine dining establishment and engaging in domestic terrorism.”
“School sporting events. Bingo night at the senior center. The movies,” he suggested. A multiplex had been built out on the same stretch of road as the Walmart at some point when he was in high school. He far preferred the old drive-in just a mile or so north of Eastville. “Sometimes I go out to the Royal and park in the back. Watch whatever half-price stuff they’ve got playing. I can’t believe it’s still in business.”
That got her to look at him again. Like she was here. Present. With him. “Really? I wouldn’t have pegged as a drive-in kind of guy.”
Trucker waggled his eyebrows. “Best place to get lucky besides a store parking lot.”
“I know.” She laughed. “That’s where I lost my virginity. After Homecoming my junior year. To Jason Parker. During a half-price showing of Grease.”
Pinky already knew he liked comic books, so he decided to go all-in and confess to his love of musical theater, too. “Guess nobody was stranded or branded a fool?”
Her eyes went wide with shock. For a second he thought he’d miscalculated in the worst way. But then she replied in a passable soprano, “What would they say the next day at school?”
God. This woman. She was everything he’d wanted her to be, and even more than he could’ve asked for. Maybe he was the fool. But, right now, he really didn’t give a good goddamn.
“Jason Parker, huh?” He had a vague impression of a dark-haired teenager who’d played baseball for Eastville High. The kind of kid who dressed well and aced his classes but was constantly trying to score drugs off of anyone who looked like they came from the wrong side of the tracks. “You guys were years behind me, but I remember him being a punk.”
Pinky turned on her side, facing him, pillowing her cheek on her palm. “He was a punk. We were seventeen. His car smelled like stale bananas and Axe body spray. And the sex was over in five minutes. I think I’d rath
er have had a hickey from Kenickie, you know?”
Trucker had no idea why he was so thrilled to hear that sex she’d had five or six years ago was terrible. Probably the patriarchy and some bizarre sense of masculine ownership of her vagina now that he’d been in it. He was smart enough not to voice any of these thoughts out loud. “Ah, I see. T-Birds...Eagles...you have a type,” he accused instead, unable to stop himself from grinning.
She reached out and shoved at his shoulder, gasping in mock-outrage. “Are you judging me? Mister ‘My vegan girlfriend doesn’t give blowjobs’?”
He gave her his most solemn look. It was quite possibly his most secretly pervy look. “I would never presume to judge. Especially if blowjobs are involved.”
He wasn’t sure what to make of all the jokes. Did all this delightful banter mean they were okay? Was she going to keep his identity to herself? Was she going to walk out the door and never look back?
He got at least one answer a few moments later. When she crawled down his body and took his cock in her mouth.
Pinky Grover was definitely not a vegan.
Chapter Seven
I had sex with an undercover federal agent. Three times. Sure, it was infinitely preferable to having sex with a real Eagles enforcer...but it was no less complicated. Especially since the third time had been after Trucker told me the truth. When I was still processing everything. Trying to cover my panic with inappropriate one-liners. It had just seemed prudent to shut off any further babbling by swallowing his dick. And then by riding it.
I’d crept out of the motel room somewhere around 2AM. He’d let me go without comment. Without even trying to keep me there with him. Or to keep me quiet. “Do what you need to do,” was all he’d said, sitting up in bed, the sheets pooling around his hips. “I’ll be in town for a few more weeks.”
I’d had sex with an undercover federal agent who was leaving town. See above re: “complicated.”
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