Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“So you think I’m pretty?” I bat my lashes, putting the look of a bimbo on just for his amusement.
He smiles, his white pearly teeth on full display and for a second he doesn’t look like a deadly killer.
He moves quickly and sits right behind me on the seat of the motorcycle, the citrus smell and cloves surround me and take me down memory lane.
His chest to my back pressure rests on my left shoulder, his chin.
“I think we both know I find you attractive, D,” he whispers in my ear, and my lips part with the information. His hand slowly wraps around me and slips into my overalls, his calloused tattoo hand rests on my flat stomach, one of his fingers caressing the skin. Dancing and twirling me into a frenzy of feeling. I find it hard to focus, my eyes fluttering from the rush of arousal spinning through my veins. I want to push him off but fuck, it feels so good to be touched.
“D?” he mutters seductively, his breath hot and sticky amongst my earlobe.
“Yeah?” I ask out of breath, the effect he has on me still as strong today as it was when we were kids.
“You put the mask on or I put it on for you.” His tone takes a sudden bite out of my desire and my eyes snap open.
Raising my left brow, I glance over my shoulder. He thinks him being an asshole would shake me, but if he could feel my panties right now, he’d know I’m into it.
The bike rocks as he stands up, the warmth of his body and that familiar scent now a void in my bubble of thirst. He snatches the mask up off the floor and hands it to me.
My mouth parts, my back teeth grinding with irritation. If it were anyone else, I’d throw it at them.
I snatch it, but he doesn’t let go. Looking up at him, our eyes lock.
“Stay away from the guys. Got it?”
Confusion has me blink. Is he jealous? Who does he think he is telling me to stay away from them? Is it because he’s a fucking control freak, or are his men dangerous? The encounter I had the other day with Bugs I’m not sure what the answer is.
“I’m here to paint, Thane. That’s it,” I strictly clarify. I’m not his, and I want nothing to do with his club. I left my club to be a regular boring person, and that’s what I’m trying to do.
But will he let me?
Big Chief
Parked behind the main body shop called Shiv’s Whip, hidden by the garbage can, I sit in my truck with the windows up and watch Delilah paint. Her hair is pulled back, and it looks like she’s singing. I can’t help but smirk, she’s something else. I remember when she would paint at the club and sing to the radio, she was so off note but I loved watching her. If she hadn’t left LA, who knows maybe I would have made a move. A man steps into the bay, catching her attention and a look I’ve never seen before crosses Delilah’s face. My finger taps the steering wheel as I watch this guy who is eye-fucking D. He struts around the room like he owns the place and I instantly hate him. He suddenly slips behind her on the motorcycle and my hand reaches the door handle, wanting to drive over there and throw him off her.
But I stop myself, my breathing labored and nostrils flaring, I force myself to sit back and watch. I can’t go out there, I was told not to be seen. I’m here to observe and report back. Relaxing my shoulders, I crack my neck and release the tight grip I have on my steering wheel. Why am I so pissed at the thought of that guy pawing all over D? Is it because I want her, or because I know she’s club property and it’s my duty to protect her? Making myself look away, I stare at the empty cans of energy drinks and fast food laying on my floorboard. I should clean my truck out, take a break from stalking the club princess. I’m losing my shit and need some rest.
A knock has me jump, one of my hands rest on the gun in my holster and my attention snapping to my driver’s side window. It’s someone gesturing me to roll down the window with his hand. Using one hand, I roll it down, placing my other hand on the seat beside me, ready to grab my gun out if need be. A man glares at me with one eye, the other smoky looking. He reeks of booze and weed, and looks like fucking trouble. Despite the bad eye, his face is clean of wrinkles or scars. He must be in his thirties if I had to guess. He’s wearing a leather cut, he’s a biker.