The Dangerous Son (Coalition Collection Book 1)

by Zoe Hill

  Every person connected to the Coalition is forced to make concessions—to bend to their will.

  My problems—physical and psychological—always meant that I was exempt from some of the personal side effects of the life I was born into. Unable to be strategically married off, I’m treated like a foot soldier. Sent in to reign bloody hell and clean up their mistakes.

  Until this moment, I’d never considered my lowly designation to be a blessing. Truthfully, I was too resentful to see this world from anyone else’s perspective. Now, after touching a girl’s hair, holding her hand three times, and watching her come around another man’s cock, I have a new understanding of the price we all pay for the Coalition’s schemes.

  “She’s not answering,” Poppy stumbles back into the living area.

  “Who isn’t?” She doesn’t answer me verbally. Instead, Poppy throws herself down on the far end of the couch then rolls onto her side. Hugging her thighs to her chest and lowering her face onto her knees, she’s a tiny, weeping ball of misery. Her sadness consolidates the thoughts I had while she was in the bathroom, although my conundrum remains unanswered. When I slide closer to her and lay a tentative hand on her hip, her sobs become a muffled, hiccupped explanation. “Bella. She hates me... I ruined her life. I’ve ruined my life. Ollie’s dead... oh, my God, Ollie’s dead. Seb is a lying, date rapist... Mom and Dad haven’t phoned to see if I’m all right... Violet’s all by herself with them and I’m scared she’s going to get dragged into their bullshit.”

  Holy fuck. Her stumbling admissions, one on top of the other, strip me bare. I push the coffee table that holds my empty water glass and the solitary beer bottle that Poppy finished during the movie out of the way so savagely that the bottle falls over and rolls off the other side of the table. Crouching down near her head, I lower my hand until my palm is barely grazing her hair, then I stop.

  Can I do this? Can I offer support to the woman who’s crying over a life I had a hand in ruining? Can I find another level of connection within myself without lashing out at her if it goes wrong?

  Poppy Tennyson makes the decision for me.

  She jack-knifes upright, rising to rest with her knees on the couch and hooks her arms around my neck. In an instant, I freeze. My hands drop to her lower back, but I don’t touch her. There’s a small buffer, hardly enough room to fit a cigarette paper, yet for me, it is as good as a mile. Poppy tightens her arms around me and burrows her face into the crook of my neck.

  Her tears dampen my shoulder and my arms close around her of their own volition.

  “I’m so sorry, Spenser,” she mumbles. “I’m a mess. My problems aren’t yours... plus this is the second time I’ve made you think that you have a shot at fucking me, then I’ve dissolved into tears over my family.”

  “I told you, I don’t fuck. If I could, I’d make an exception for you...”

  My fingers snake inside the bottom hem of her top. I breathe out in a subdued hiss when her body shudders from the contact, and the swell of her breasts rubs against my chest. I’m burning up, not from my phobia, but from my need to touch as much of her skin as she’ll let me. The hum in my fingers is electric. It energizes me and goads me to slide my palms along the small of her back.

  “You’re so funny,” Poppy announces. With my cock hardening further in my pants as I explore her skin, I nearly miss the change in her mood. “So kind, too. I remember you pretending to be a virgin at the bar to spare me from the embarrassment of throwing my drunken self at you.”

  “What?”

  Poppy moves back from me far enough to look at my face. A sad smile curls her lips. Her sorrow lingers in her eyes, but she’s stopped crying. Laying a hand on each side of my face, Poppy stretches upward on her knees and presses her lips against mine. I part my lips a tiny bit and breathe her in. Pulling back, there’s a tenderness in her eyes that makes my heart skip a beat. A warm tingle flows over my skin and a light flutter invades my stomach.

  I just had my first kiss.

  “You’re absolutely lovely.”

  “So are you,” I murmur.

  She presses her forehead against mine. “I wish I could sleep with you tonight, but I can’t. I’m broken, and I don’t want to cut you with all my sharp bits.”

  Madness ambushes my brain and forces my next offer out of my mouth before I’ve fully formed the thought. “Stay. No sex. No pressure. Nothing but two broken people bleeding together.”

  The moment the words leave my lips, I regret them. I need space to think. I need to learn more about her, about her parents’ MC, about their involvement with the Coalition’s sex trafficking ring.

  Most importantly, I need to work out why Trigger isn’t protecting me anymore.

  “Are you sure?” Meeting her eyes, my mental objections fly out of my head. She’s eager, almost childlike in her innocent excitement over sharing a bed with a man she just met. It boggles my mind. How is this enthusiastic woman a hard-assed detective, who was raised in an outlaw gang, and is illegally investigating the baddest men on earth to aid her family in their expansion plans?

  I nod in response to her question and she presses her lips against my forehead before she says, “No expectations, though. Promise? I like you... and you’re probably gonna run when I say this...” Poppy draws in a ragged breath. “I like you. I don’t want to ruin this before it starts. If it starts. No pressure. I just...”

  Cradling her face the same way she did mine, I silence her with my mouth. Swallowing her gasp, I let go of her cheeks to lift her into my arms. Her legs settle around my waist, and still kissing, I carry her into the main bedroom of the suite.

  My movements are slow and gentle as I deposit Poppy onto the bed and stare down at her. Pink spots in her cheeks, she touches her lips. I lick mine. I can taste her. She’s divine, slightly bitter from the beer she drank, yet sweet. Our kisses have been mainly chaste, except for the tips of our tongues touching. It’s nothing in the scheme of things normal consenting adults do... for me, it’s monumental. I kissed a woman and liked it. Harrison didn’t overrun my mind. My head was filled with Poppy, and only her.

  “Thank you for staying.”

  She blinks twice, then a brilliant smile illuminates her face. “Thank you for asking.”

  The smattering of freckles across her nose become more pronounced when she scrunches up her nose, and I can’t resist testing my limits a little further. Starting between her eyebrows, I slide my finger down the slope of her nose, over the delicate, turned up bump at the end, and over her pouty lips and chin. Running my finger beneath her jaw and down her throat, I fall to my knees when I reach the notch between her collar bones. A shudder runs through Poppy’s body as I scrape her flesh lightly with my fingernail. When I lean close and press my tongue against her cleft, she gasps. Buoyed by the buzz that vibrates over me, I run my tongue along her collar bone. Her hands land on my head, and the switch in my brain tries to flip and send me spiraling from the bad memories until Poppy winds her fingers into my hair and tugs lightly.

  Goosebumps break out over my skin, eradicating all thoughts of past hurt.

  “Fuck,” I groan.

  “I know,” Poppy declares. “Amazing.”

  Remaining on my knees, I lay my cheek against the side of her neck and close my eyes.

  I can’t remember the last time I was able to touch someone like this.

  A flash of memory invades my mind, but it disappears when Poppy links her thin fingers at the base of my neck. She smells incredible. I breathe in as deep as I can and hold her scent in my lungs until they burn. This is a problem. I’m becoming attached to a woman I barely know. Being able to touch her freely, to accept her touch without a negative reaction is ruining my biggest dream.

  Killing Harrison should be what I’m concentrating on now, instead all I can think about is how I can keep Poppy alive.

  SIXTEEN

  “It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.” ~William Shakespeare~

  PO
PPY

  Spenser’s broad chest expands as he breathes in. I match his movement, sucking in a lungful of his spicy cologne at the same time as I drop my fingers to the back of his neck and pull his face harder against me. His lips move silently against my pulse point, and the final remnants of tension leave his body.

  I don’t know him well—at all, really—but I’d risk Violet’s life betting that he’s working his way through the same thoughts that are crowding my head. The connection I feel with him is unbelievable. There’s an ease between us that I can tell he feels as well. As naff as it sounds in my head, I can’t help but acknowledge that I’ve said more to him in the two times we’ve seen each other than I have to anyone other than Bella in two years. To me, he’s a kindred spirit. Comforting. Reassuring. Familiar.

  It’s a ridiculous notion, yet I can’t shake it off.

  If I’m completely honest, I should be calling 9-1-1 on myself because, after spending a little more than three hours together, I’m battling the urge to cut this man open so I can slide inside his body then sew his skin shut around me.

  It’s gruesome, but true.

  Spenser feels safe.

  Like the home I never knew I was missing.

  Like the final piece to a puzzle that’s fractured my psyche returning to take its place.

  The only person I’ve ever felt like this with is my best friend. Our eyes met over the training course on the first day at the academy, and that was it, I knew Sabella Archimedes would be in my life forever. In her, I’d seen someone brimming with loyalty, acceptance, and resolve.

  My ride or die.

  It’s very similar to my first encounter with Spenser. Within minutes of meeting in the badly lit bar the MC owns, I spilled my deepest secret to him, and instead of revulsion, I found understanding lingering beneath the surface of his angular face. The alleyway incident consolidated my belief that he was the same as me.

  A broken person fighting to prevent the flames of our personal hell from burning us to a crisp.

  Meeting Spenser has played on my mind throughout the day, and when he’d popped up just when I needed someone tonight, it felt like destiny. Walking hand in hand through the Garment District and down Times Square to the Plaza, our conversation had immediately turned confessional. None of the filth that normally invades my mind when I’m alone with a man had surfaced. Accepting his offer to come upstairs to his suite had felt right.

  Hugging him right now. Feeling his upper body pressed against mine. Absorbing his essence through our physical connection. It scares me as much as it fills me with confidence. Is he the answer to my problem? My coping strategies aren’t therapist approved, after all it would be downright reckless for a professional to recommend that I continue picking up strangers in bars and propositioning them for a quick, hard, violent fuck in the closest alleyway or vehicle, however, I haven’t felt the need to ask Spenser to hurt me.

  Sure, I’m attracted to him something fierce, and the desire that surges through me is genuine. It’s just that, right now, his appeal is translating as a tentative need to be with him both physically and platonically. Which is dangerous when your usual urges are as dark as mine. Eventually, my jagged pieces will make him bleed, and he’ll either run for the hills or try to fix me. Because, unspoken understanding notwithstanding, I very much doubt a man who looks like him, who’s as successful as he obviously is, will be interested in someone like me once he discovers how messed up and sullied I am.

  “Are you tired?” Spenser’s smooth voice scatters my internal pity party.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “The last few days have been a lot to deal with. I could sleep for a week.”

  He leans back and looks me over. The emerald green in his eyes is more pronounced than earlier, and the reason why becomes apparent when he stands and the bulge in his expertly tailored pants become eye level. My mouth runs dry, and I try to look anywhere, but there. Quickly, I settle for taking hold of his left hand and pretending to inspect the expensive watch that adorns his wrist.

  Directing my attention elsewhere does little to dampen my awareness of Spenser.

  Every inch of him calls to something in me.

  In my head, I hear Bella’s lilting voice teasing me about insta-love and insta-lust. A devoted romance reader, my best friend has long been a proponent of love at first sight. As the resident pessimist in our friendship, I’m dubious. Lust at first sight, I can get on board with... anything else seemed fantastical.

  We’ve mock-wrestled more than once over the issue and a definite winner has never been declared.

  Until now.

  If Bella was talking to me and I explained my thoughts about Spenser, I’m sure she’d be crowing about karma and chickens coming home to roost. Knowing her, she’d be dancing a jig and texting me book recommendations to help me better understand my predicament.

  A pang of worry jabs me in the heart.

  I’ve texted and phoned over a dozen times since I left the precinct, and she hasn’t answered once. Bella hasn’t even left me on “read” like she has done during the few times we’ve argued over the seven years we’ve been friends. As a snarky voice at the back of my mind infects my nerves with the suggestion that Bella mightn’t be as ride or die as I believed, my vision tunnels to a pinpoint, and I swallow over and over to work some saliva into my mouth.

  My connection to a motorcycle club—even one that mainly does good in the world—has never affected the career she’s fought so hard to build before. If she chooses to put space between us to combat the stain her demotion and my suspension will leave on her record, I have to accept her decision as logical.

  It’s understandable, sensible even, but heart-breaking at the same time.

  “You’re beautiful.” Spenser tugs me to my feet. “If you want to go, I get it. I’m not going to force you to stay... I mean, I know I’m not exactly a catch, and I’ve more than likely freaked you out with this...” He shakes off the tight grip I have on his left hand to hold it in the air. “And I... I want you to know that I get it, all right?”

  As he waggles his index finger, I notice that it’s deformed. Taking hold of his fingers, I pull his hand closer so I can inspect his long-healed injury. I find that he’s missing the top of the digit from his first knuckle onward. It’s a clean incision, surgical if I had to guess.

  Guilt weaves through me. For the second time since we entered the bedroom, I’ve become lost in my own head. This time, I’ve inadvertently made Spenser feel inadequate with my neuroses. I offer him a hesitant smile, but it doesn’t remove the pain from his eyes completely, so I lift his hand to my lips and kiss each of his fingers, one at a time.

  “I’m not freaked out about this or you,” I admit in a thin voice, lightly tugging his damaged finger. “And, I’ll dispute the fact that you’re not a catch until the end of time. It’s just... I wasn’t joking when I said that I’m broken. Me and men are akin to water and oil. We don’t mix outside the obvious, and since you don’t fuck.” Letting go of his hand, I peer up at him and waggle my eyebrows as I repeat his preposterous claim. “I’m feeling a little out of my depth here.”

  “Come here,” Spenser growls, throwing his arms wide open. Before I can react, he engulfs me in a strong embrace. Indulging in all that is him, I feel some of my misgivings disappear... for now. “Let’s agree to disagree. I’ll pretend you’re not the most beautiful woman I’ve had the privilege to touch and you’ll act like I’m the biggest catch in the city.”

  Nodding, I reply, “Agreed.”

  The carnal look that heats Spenser’s gaze wipes my mind blank. All the reasons and doubts that should send me running are gone, and I’m back to struggling against the desire to wear him like a fur coat.

  Yes, I am that depraved.

  I have no capacity to apologize for it, either.

  Stepping up onto my tiptoes, I nip at his whiskered chin, then yank his shirttails out of his waistband. After helping him drag the shirt over his head, I press a kiss against
his heart. With a flirty wink, I unbuckle his belt and snap open the top button of his pants. A harsh breath is blown out over the top of my head when I pull Spenser’s zipper down. He grips my wrist and holds my hand in place.

  “No expectations, remember?”

  “I know.” My knuckles graze his bulge when I flex my fingers to test his resolve.

  He hisses when I move my fingers again. My second touch galvanizes Spenser into action. He lets go of my arm and unbuttons my shirt with agile fingers. My black pants are pulled down to my ankles. Kneeling in front of me, Spenser tugs my heels free and helps me step out of them. When he peels my socks off, he tugs my pants to the floor.

  “Jesus,” he curses. Every inch of my skin flushes red when Spenser drags his nose from my knee to the apex of my thighs. “I want to eat you.”

  “Do it.” My challenge hangs in the air until he runs his finger over my panties, right down the slit to the tiny wet spot that’s darkening the red cotton. I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging at his locks as warmth travels from my lower stomach to pool in my groin. “Touch me. Do something. Please.”

  Spenser hooks his thumb into one side of my panties and slides them across to expose me. My hips buck as he slowly pushes his middle finger inside me. My legs turn to jelly, and struggling to maintain my balance, I clutch at his wide shoulders and his head. Eyes wide open, I rock my hips back and forth, watching as he works that single digit in and out of me.