Tin Queen

by Devney Perry

  “Morning, baby,” I said, glancing up as she stepped onto the deck wearing nothing but my white T-shirt from last night.

  In her hands, she clutched a steaming mug and gave me a sleepy smile. Then she went to the chaise beside mine, curling into the cushion and tucking her legs underneath her. “Morning, Ace.”

  It was still raining, a light drizzle compared to last night’s downpour. The air smelled of grass and pine and water. This covered deck was my favorite part about the house. On mornings like this, being able to sit here and watch the forest grow was about all a man needed.

  And maybe the rare chance to share it with a beautiful woman whose hair was mussed from a night of sex.

  “Hungry?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Finish that cup and I’ll make you breakfast.”

  She nodded and sipped from her mug, content to listen to the rain.

  When both of our mugs were empty, I took her hand and led her inside. Then I refilled her cup and had her sit at the kitchen island while I went about making us an omelet.

  “Want some help?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  She drank her second cup of coffee while I fried bacon and chopped peppers, mushrooms and an onion. Then while I was whisking the eggs, she disappeared.

  I figured she’d gone in search of her clothes. They were in the laundry room, hanging to dry. Instead, she came out wearing a pair of my sweatpants, the waist rolled a few times so they’d fit.

  She padded to the stove, running her hands up and down my bare back. I’d only bothered with sweatpants this morning. With a kiss dropped to my shoulder, she stole my mug to refill it along with her own.

  Having her here was . . . comfortable. I couldn’t think of the last time I’d cooked a woman breakfast. It had to be at least ten years ago and never once had it been in this house. It was uncommon for me to let anyone stay and if I made an exception, the visitor would be out the door first thing in the morning.

  But instead of ushering her out, I was coming up with reasons to delay the return trip to town. Why her? What was so special about this woman? Christ, I didn’t even know her name.

  That should worry me more than it did.

  Maybe the reason she was here was because of the anonymity. It was an invisible line in the sand and when crossed, maybe this good time would disappear.

  “Where are your plates?” she asked.

  I pointed to a cabinet and she took out two, setting them on the island.

  “Silverware?”

  “Drawer beside the fridge.”

  The clink of forks and knives echoed as the eggs sizzled in the pan.

  We moved in tandem, her setting our places while I added cheese and fillings and spices to the meal. When it was done, I split the omelet in two and we sat down to eat.

  Not once over breakfast did she ask to be taken to her car. Not once did I offer.

  We ate and did the dishes. Then before she could ask for a ride to town, I took her hand and led her to the leather living room couch, where I pulled her onto my lap and snagged the remote from the coffee table.

  “What do you feel like watching?” It was a test to see if she’d push me.

  She gave me a sly grin, like she knew exactly what I was doing, then snatched the remote from my hand. “The Last Kingdom? I just got started on it but so far I’m hooked.”

  “It’s good. Pick up wherever you left off.”

  “We can watch something you haven’t seen yet.”

  “Nah.” I shifted, stretching out on the couch and shifting her so she was lying on my side. “This is a good show.”

  We watched three episodes before she finally pushed up off the couch and shut the TV off.

  Once again, I expected her to ask for her clothes, to mention it was time to leave. Instead, she reached for the hem of the shirt she was wearing—my shirt—and whipped it over her head, setting those glorious breasts free.

  My cock jerked as she plucked a condom from the pocket of the sweats. She must have stolen it from the nightstand earlier.

  We fucked on the couch. We took a shower. We fucked in bed. We dressed in the same sweats and returned to the kitchen for lunch. The afternoon passed a lot like the morning, TV and sex.

  It was one of the best Saturdays I’d had in years.

  When was the last time I’d lazed around like this? When was the last time I hadn’t rushed out the door or into my office first thing in the morning? When was the last time I’d held a woman on the couch and let myself unwind?

  Never.

  I’d never done this before. Not even with the few girlfriends I’d had. I couldn’t recall a time in my life when I’d spent the day with a woman, simply enjoying her company.

  Maybe the reason this was working was because she wasn’t my girlfriend. Because we were acquaintances and nothing more. Because her company was a short-lived phenomenon.

  Eventually, this would end.

  Everything did.

  As the hours passed and the rain finally stopped outside, I asked the question that I’d been dreading all day. “Want me to take you back to your car?”

  She twisted, looking up at me from where her head was resting on my lap. One of my arms was draped over the back of the couch while the other was toying with her hair. “Not really. I’m enjoying doing nothing today. I don’t do it often enough. But . . .”

  “But.”

  “I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want to make promises I know I’ll break. I don’t want expectations that I won’t meet. That’s why I don’t want names.”

  “I’m not looking for anything serious.”

  “Then no, I don’t want you to take me to my car.”

  A no-strings arrangement was fine by me. “Kiss me, Nova.”

  She jerked at the name, her eyes flashing panic. “W-what did you call me?”

  “Listen, as much as I like calling you baby in the bedroom, that’s not going to work for me all the time. You can call me Ace. I’m calling you Nova after that sweet-ass car you drive.”

  “Oh.” Her frame relaxed and she shook her head. Then before I could ask why that had surprised her, she was up and straddling my lap, giving me the kiss I’d demanded.

  I took her on the couch, and after we were spent, we went to the deck, where I cooked us burgers. We lazed on our respective chairs, watching the sun set behind the trees.

  “Do you like whiskey?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I stood and went inside, getting two tumblers from the kitchen and pouring us each a drink. I found her exactly where I’d left her, completely content in a chaise.

  It would be hard for me to see that lounge chair as anything but hers for a while. I might as well have bought it for her. It was the chaise that matched my own but the one I never sat in. After dinner, she’d stolen a hoodie from my closet. It billowed around her, draping past her fingertips and hanging to her thighs.

  She looked perfect there, her face fresh and makeup-free. Her hair in loose waves from air-drying. Her delectable body covered in my clothes.

  I sipped my whiskey, enjoying the chirp of birds in the evergreens.

  “What’s your favorite food?” she asked.

  “I’m not picky.”

  She turned toward me. “That’s not an answer.”

  “Tacos. Burgers. My mom’s chicken parm.”

  “Favorite cocktail?”

  “This whiskey.” I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, the ice cubes rattling.

  This whiskey had been Dad’s favorite. It wasn’t top shelf or imported. But on special occasions, when he wanted more than a beer, he’d have a glass on the rocks. Sometimes, Mom would have one with him too.

  “What’s yours?” I asked.

  “Depends on my mood. When I’m home after work and cooking dinner, I usually go for red wine. When I’m at a restaurant or bar, a martini.”

  “And how about when you’re barefoot, sitting on a deck, wearing my clothes?”


  She raised her glass. “This whiskey.”

  “Good answer.” I grinned and took another sip. “What’s your favorite place you’ve ever traveled?”

  “Cabo. I went with a couple of friends for my twenty-first birthday. I laid on the beach and drank the entire week away. You?”

  “Alaska. Took a month-long trip up there. Drove through Canada. Camped and hiked along the way. Got there and considered staying for good.”

  “That sounds fun.”

  “Can’t wear heels camping.”

  She giggled. “I own shoes without heels. I just prefer heels on a regular basis.”

  “Considering how sexy your heels are, I prefer them too.”

  She laughed again. “What’s your favorite movie?”

  “Braveheart.”

  “Is that why you’ve got the long hair? Going for a Mel Gibson look?”

  “Just too lazy to cut it all the time. It grows fast and it’s easier this way.” I hit the barber shop every three or four months, either that or have Mom cut it straight across the bottom. When I’d kept it short, I’d had to go in every two weeks.

  “When’s the last time it was short?”

  “When I was in my early twenties.”

  She took a sip, a smile on her pretty mouth. “I like it. I’ve never been with a man who had long hair. Gives me something to hold on to. Sort of like you do with mine.”

  Because she had great fucking hair. Thick and soft. Silky, and there was so damn much. Every chance I got I buried my hands in those strands and held on tight.

  The questions continued, questions about nothing and everything. Questions that didn’t get into our personal lives but were personal questions. We talked until our glasses were empty and the lingering ice cubes had melted.

  “What’s your favorite sexual position?” she asked.

  “You riding me on this chair like you did the other day wasn’t bad.”

  She stood and picked up our empty glasses, taking them inside.

  I found her in the kitchen, rinsing them clean at the sink. Walking to her, I pressed my chest against her back and snaked my hands underneath her hoodie and T-shirt, finding her nipples pebbled and waiting. Then I dropped my lips to her neck. “What’s your favorite sexual position?”

  “You’ll know when you find it.” She leaned back, pressing her ass into my cock.

  It took me three times to narrow down her favorite, but when I had her in my bed, pounding into her from behind, she came harder and faster than any time before.

  “I changed my mind,” I said, my head spinning and my body totally spent.

  “About what?” she panted.

  “That’s my new favorite too.”

  She laughed and no sound had ever sounded so good in my bedroom.

  Then she fell asleep in my arms. Despite my better judgment, I wasn’t ready to let her go.

  When I dropped her off at the grocery store the next morning, I kissed her slow and long, not giving a shit who saw us making out in the parking lot. If this was the last kiss, I wasn’t going to hurry.

  “Thanks for the fun weekend, Ace,” she said after we broke apart.

  “Welcome. Don’t be a stranger, baby.”

  She flashed me that breathtaking smile. “Oh, I think you’ll see me again.”

  I hoped so. Because for the first time, riding home alone and walking into a quiet house didn’t give me the normal sense of peace.

  Chapter Seven

  Nova

  “Not tonight,” I told myself. “I’m not going there tonight. No matter what.”

  I had to break this streak.

  Four days. I’d gone to Emmett’s house four days in a row because he was an addiction. An addiction I had to get under control before I lost my nerve.

  Easier said than done. My willpower had been nonexistent and it had all started because of the weekend.

  On Sunday when he’d dropped me at my car still at the grocery store, I’d gone to my rental house and replayed the weekend. I’d replayed it a thousand times since and I still couldn’t pinpoint the moment when my willpower had vanished. Maybe it had been over the omelet. Maybe it had been the whiskey. Maybe it had been one of the many orgasms he’d given me.

  Hell if I knew.

  It was probably a combination of everything because since last weekend, I couldn’t get Emmett off my mind. And I couldn’t get our weekend out of my head.

  Over and over I’d analyzed our time together. I’d obsessed over what I’d told him.

  The truth.

  For each question asked, I’d told him the truth. A lie required effort. The truth was simple. There’d been no need to lie. I’d told him about my favorites as he’d shared his own.

  I’d been completely honest with him, about everything except my identity. Not that he’d asked.

  Though when he’d called me Nova, I’d nearly had a heart attack.

  The car. A nickname because of my car.

  If only he knew how often I’d wanted someone outside my family to use my name.

  Maybe that was the moment my walls had cracked.

  I’d spent Sunday night in my bed, the scent of him clinging to my skin because I hadn’t wanted to wash it away. I’d planned to stay away on Monday too, but after a long day of work, my body had moved on autopilot, climbing into my car and making my way to his secluded mountain paradise.

  Pulling up to his house, I’d promised myself not to spend the night. That we’d have sex and I’d go home. To my own bed.

  Except his smooth white sheets had proved another addiction.

  Monday had repeated on Tuesday. Tuesday on Wednesday. Wednesday on Thursday. Now it was Friday and I had to stop. I had to break this streak.

  I didn’t want to go to his house. Because I wanted to go so badly.

  Shit. I was in trouble.

  What was wrong with me? It was only sex. This was just part of the plan. So why couldn’t I detach from him?

  Every moment spent with Emmett was infuriating because he was so goddamn perfect. He was not who he should have been. He was not the monster I’d expected.

  Part of me wanted to blame my infatuation on the orgasms—the many, many orgasms. And while they surely had contributed to the muddling of my brain, this addiction was because Emmett was so . . . everything.

  It was the way he constantly touched or pulled me close, like he couldn’t bear even an inch between us. It was the way he’d held me pressed into his side when we’d watched TV. It was the way he’d pushed the lounge chairs on his deck together so that even though we kept our individual seats, his leg would cross over to mine.

  He moved like a dream in the kitchen. It was ridiculously sexy to watch a man who liked to cook and who did it well. I’d only ever seen my mother in our childhood kitchen. With Dad’s constant absence, she’d carried that burden alone. Even Shelby’s husband, Jack, didn’t cook.

  Nope, just Emmett.

  Why couldn’t he have been the man I met after this charade?

  I would not allow myself to fall for Emmett. He was a criminal. He was a Tin Gypsy. And they deserved to pay for their crimes.

  It was time to reset. To remember why I was here. Remembering was the reason I stood across the street from the Clifton Forge Garage, hidden behind the corner of a beige building.

  The Nova was parked three blocks away on a side street. I hadn’t wanted to risk Emmett seeing it. I’d parked, then walked here, keeping to the alleyways as I skirted nondescript buildings until I had a decent view of the garage and its open shop doors.

  Emmett was working on a bike in the third bay. While I’d been spying, the other mechanics had been doing oil changes and tire rotations. But Emmett had been working alone, spending his time welding on the motorcycle. A shield covered his handsome face but I’d recognize that messy bun of his anywhere.

  He was the only mechanic I recognized today. The other two Tin Gypsies, Dash and Leo, were either not working or off to a long lunch. Maybe they were
in the office, hidden from my spying.

  It didn’t matter. They could have been standing in the street waving pink and purple flags and my attention would still have been drawn to Emmett.

  He’d pulled on a pair of coveralls over the jeans he’d had on this morning, tying them at the waist. The colorful tattoos on his arms were all on display, his white tank top showing off his muscled biceps.

  I’d traced nearly every one of his tattoos with my tongue. All except the skull on his back.

  As a little girl, I’d memorized Dad’s club’s patch. Maybe because it was the last thing I saw when he rode away, the emblem stitched into his black leather vest. The Arrowhead Warrior patch was simple in design. It was an arrowhead framed by the club’s name and the year it had been founded. The stitching was white but Dad’s had faded to a grayish cream over the years after so much wear.

  I would never admit it to my father, but compared to the artful Tin Gypsy patch, the Warrior emblem was like a child’s drawing. Though I’d never seen the Tin Gypsy patch on a cut, I’d seen the design on Emmett’s skin. And though I couldn’t always avoid touching it completely, I didn’t worship it like I did his other ink.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out. The garage was too far for anyone to hear me, but still I kept my voice low as I answered my sister’s call. “Hey.”

  “Why are you whispering? Is this a bad time?”

  “No, I’m good. Working.”

  “I just wanted to call and say hi.”

  I smiled. “Hi.”

  So much of me wanted to tell her everything. About Dad. About the Warriors. About Emmett. If anyone could help me make sense of the mess in my head, it was my sister.

  But I kept my secrets inside and my eyes on the object of my confusion.

  Emmett flipped up the face shield, giving me a glimpse of that strong jaw covered by a beard that had tickled my thighs last night. I would never be able to kiss those soft lips enough. I’d never have enough time in his arms. If I ever fell apart, those arms had the strength to keep my broken pieces together.

  Except when I fell apart, he wouldn’t be there, would he?

  And the only person I’d have to blame was myself.