Thornhill Road (Love Me Tender)

Chapter Five

I stared at myself in the mirror and shook my head.

It was Saturday night, and I was dressed and ready to leave for Steel Mustang.

My outfit was a clear indicator a biker bar was exactly where I wanted to be that night.

But that didn’t make any of this a good idea.

I wasn’t a frills kind of gal. I never wore a ton of makeup, mostly because washing it all off was a chore in which I was not interested. Other than a pair of studs in my ears, I didn’t really wear jewelry. I owned exactly one little black dress, and I wasn’t sure when I’d last worn it, but I was sure I wouldn’t be wearing it to meet Mustang.

I was keeping my clothes on that night, and that dress implied otherwise.

I’d opted for a pair of jeans.

Then again—I had a pretty kickass collection of jeans.

I wasn’t a frills kind of gal, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t the kind of woman who would absolutely drop two-hundred dollars on a pair of jeans that fit just right. I couldn’t go out in anything less than a great pair of jeans if I also wanted to wear a fabulous pair of shoes—and I had some pretty freaking fabulous shoes.

I was only twelve when my mom died. I wasn’t old enough to absorb a lot of her wisdom, but there was one thing in particular she taught me that I would never forget. She told me life was short, and if I wanted red-sole Louboutins, I should buy them, wear them, and enjoy them.

I’d never been to Paris or Italy. I’d never seen Central Park or the Grand Canyon. I hadn’t gone on a real vacation in years—but I did own three pairs of Christian Louboutins and four pairs of Jimmy Choo heels.

That night, I was going with Jimmy.

I did my makeup like I normally did—a little eyeliner, a bit of mascara, a touch of blush, and a glossy lip. I’d styled my hair down. Its natural wavy texture gave it body, so all I had to do was fluff it a little with my hands and it hung how I wanted, kissing the tops of my shoulders.

The shirt I had on was a black, sleeveless turtleneck. It clung to my body and was long enough that it tucked nicely into my favorite high-waisted skinny jeans. They were faded, dark-washed denim with a couple minor holes strategically placed on each thigh. Rather than a zipper, it had five buttons up the front.

I didn’t have the perfect body by any means. I may have been thin-ish, but that was more on account of my odd schedule made my eating habits less than ideal, and I spent a lot of time on my feet. I wasn’t toned or tight anywhere—but my kickass jeans made me look like I could have been.

The icing on the cake was, of course, my shoes.

I knew I was going to a biker bar. I knew some might find my choice strange.

But if wearing Jimmy Choos to Steel Mustang was wrong, I didn’t want to be right.

I had on my ballet pink pumps.

They were made with both suede and patent.

They had a sharp pointed toe and a three-inch heel.

They also looked awesome with my outfit.

I’d have been a liar if I said I didn’t select every item of clothing with Mustang in mind. It would have been smarter to show up in a pair of scrubs and sneakers.

Then again, I’d learned that was not as unappealing as I’d imagined.

In any case, I was dressed. I was ready. It was time for me to go.

I grabbed my purse and headed for the door.

Ten minutes later, I was reminded that Steel Mustang at nine o’clock on a Saturday night was a different experience than it was on a Wednesday afternoon at four-thirty. The parking lot was packed. Mine wasn’t the only car there, but a good third of the lot was occupied by motorcycles.

A younger, dumber version of me would hardly have been able to contain her excitement at the prospect of a great time had by all beyond the doors of the popular biker bar. I could hear the music from inside the second I stepped out of my car. A live rock band, a good drink, and a bunch of badasses in a room teeming with testosterone was nothing less than a recipe for a wild night.

Admittedly, the older, wiser version of me still felt a thrill ripple through me as I made my way toward the front entrance. I knew, inside that bar, there were no rules. No boundaries. No sickness or sorrow. And while I couldn’t let go entirely—first, because I was on-call, and second, because I needed to be sure things didn’t get out of hand with Mustang—I didn’t have to hold myself back in a place like this. All anyone who passed through those doors, or mounted a motorcycle, or even a wild bull—all any rebel really wanted was to feel free .

While I didn’t consider myself a rebel, I was no different.

I made it to the door, reached for the handle, and pulled it open without a hint of hesitation.

I didn’t know who was playing that night, but it was already standing room only. Even in my heels, I couldn’t see from the door to the bar. I had no idea how I was going to find Mustang, but it seemed like my best bet to head in that direction.

I was squeezing and shimmying my way across the room when I felt a large hand wrap around my arm, just above my elbow. I stopped to look and see who had hold of me, but my cheek pressed against his before I could see his face—his lips grazing my ear as he spoke.

“Welcome back, darlin’,” he drawled. “You still lookin’ for Mustang, or are you here for a different Stallion? Cause I sure wouldn’t mind your company.”

Mustache .

I registered who the man was a second before another arm snaked around the back of my waist and pulled me firmly against his warm, solid chest. My nostrils filled with the scent of leather and fresh air—this time, with the welcome addition of pine —and I didn’t even have to look up to see Mustang had me in his grip.

But I did anyway.

He wasn’t even looking at me. His eyes were fixed on Mustache. I watched him wink at the man, but he did it with a straight face. When I felt the hand on my arm loosen, I understood that wink had been a warning.

I felt a familiar zing in my belly.

“Alright, brother,” said Mustache, his tone laced in amusement.

Mustang didn’t bother with a hello . Once he’d made his message clear, with his arm still around my waist, he escorted me toward the bar. It was significantly easier maneuvering through the crowd with him at my side. When we made it to the back, rather than signal one of the bartenders, he stood me in front of a very large man.

Even sitting, I knew he was taller than Mustang by at least a couple inches. He was older and broader, too. Not by much, but enough to notice. He had a thick beard he’d grown out down to his chest, most of it more salt than pepper, and he’d curled the ends of his mustache. His salt and pepper hair was cut short on the sides, the top combed back in a classic, clean look. Though, classic and clean didn’t describe his vibe.

The front of his kutte was riddled with sewn on patches—but there were three on his upper-right chest that stood out the most. The top read Bull . The one underneath it, President . And the one underneath that, Gillette.

So, he wasn’t just a big man. He was a big flipping deal.

He was also covered in tattoos. The V-neck of his tee revealed he had more than he cared to show that night, ink peeking out from the thin layer of chest hair exposed. The only skin I saw on him that didn’t have a drop of ink was his face—but the wrinkles around his eyes told a story of their own.

And his eyes were piercingly beautiful.

They were the purest light blue I’d ever seen.

“Bull, you mind?” Mustang hollered over the band.

His blue eyes caught mine, and I swear I was struck in the middle of my chest by the depth of his character in a single glance.

His gaze didn’t last long before he looked at Mustang and gave him a silent nod. He then got up and moved to squeeze into the space in front of the woman in the seat next to the one he’d vacated. She didn’t seem to mind. She wrapped her arms around him, he leaned into her a little, and they both watched me settle onto the empty barstool—my back to the bar, like everyone else.

Mustang made room for himself at my side, and I ignored the pleasant sensation that came as a result of the heat radiating off his body and onto mine.

It came as little surprise to me that the woman who claimed the man Bull was gorgeous. Her platinum blonde hair was a few inches longer than mine and the texture slightly curlier. I couldn’t tell if she got that color from a bottle or not—but it didn’t matter. She rocked it.

She had a narrow face with angular features and a long, slender body to match. Her eyes were dark blue; and while her gaze didn’t have the same effect as Bull’s, I had no doubt she was a woman who could hold her own. She was also a woman no younger than forty who could pull off a cropped Sturgis tee, high-waisted black leather shorts, and fishnet stockings with killer boots.

Even in my Jimmy Choos, I was a little jealous of her swagger.

“Where’re your manners?” called Bull. “Aren’t you gonna introduce us?”

The blonde smiled, and it was contagious, which was how I found myself smiling up at Mustang as I waited for his reply.

“Tess—Bull and his ol’ lady, Winona.”

“Kickass shoes!” Winona freed up a hand and offered it to me. “And you can call me Winnie.”

I loved her instantly.

Accepting her gesture, I said loudly, “Thank you! It’s nice to meet you both.”

I meant it more than either of them could know.

It was a relief to be sitting next to people who could help stave off whatever sexual tension Mustang had aroused the moment he touched me. Buffer people were good. Great, even—especially friendly female ones.

“Babe, what’re you drinkin’?” asked a woman from behind the bar.

I was not the least bit surprised when I twisted and found a knockout redhead waiting to take my order. A place like this only let the pretty ones behind the bar. It was more surprising she had on a decent amount of clothing; and it was the fierceness in her dark green eyes I found most intriguing.

I cleared my throat and called out, “I’ll take a ranch water, please.”

She gave me the okay signal with her hand, then left to make my drink, not bothering to take Mustang’s order.

Turning to look at him, I asked, “You’re not having a drink?”

He shook his head once, then said, “Don’t drink.”

I frowned and tilted my head in confusion, “What?”

This got me a half-smile before he semi-repeated, “I don’t drink.”

I straightened, leaning away from him so as to get a better look at his face as I asked, “You’re telling me you own a biker bar, you’re a member of a biker club, and you don’t drink? Ever? ”

His half-smile stretched into a full one, and I felt another zing light up my belly.

“Nope,” he answered simply.

I stared at him, stunned and intrigued.

There was a story there. There had to be a reason why this particular badass never drank. It made zero sense on its face. But I didn’t want to pry, which meant I wasn’t going to ask, no matter how badly I wanted to know.

The more I knew about him, the more I’d want to know about him.

It was a slippery slope—one I did not wish to traverse.

However, Mustang had no problem revealing the reasons behind his sobriety. As if he could tell I wanted to know even if I wasn’t going to ask, he explained, “Lived with an alcoholic the first sixteen years of my life. Just in case that shit’s hereditary, never touched the stuff. Can’t ride drunk. I’d rather ride free than buzzed or high.”

Just like that, one of the puzzle pieces he’d tossed at my feet the night before snapped into place.

Ed was an alcoholic.

Given the state of his liver, this was not startling news to me. He was sober now, though how long he’d managed to stay that way I wasn’t sure. Nonetheless, for sixteen very crucial years, he’d succumbed to his vice, and I suspected that was a major reason why Ed and Mustang were no longer on speaking terms.

There were definitely more pieces yet to fit into place, but this one revealed a whole lot.

Mustang never drank. Ever. Because of Ed.

“You work today?” he asked, changing the subject.

It was my turn to shake my head. “No. But I am on-call Saturdays and Sundays, so I’m just going to have the one drink.” I lifted a single shoulder in a shrug. “Hopefully no one needs me tonight.”

He propped a hand on the edge of the bar, pressing in a little closer. “How long you been a nurse?”

“Ten years,” I told him. I watched his eyes drop to my mouth as I went on to say, “I’ve been in hospice care for the last six.”

His eyes found mine once more before he asked, “You from around here?”

“I grew up in Casper, then left to go to school down in Greeley. I made my way back home right after I graduated. Or, close to it, at least.”

He jerked his chin in acknowledgement then I lost his eyes. The next thing I knew, he was lowering my drink in front of me. I took it, murmuring a thank-you I wasn’t sure he heard as I noticed his knuckle tattoo for the first time. He moved too quickly for me to make out what it said, but I made a mental note to keep an eye out for it at my next opportunity.

As I sipped my drink, my eyes drifted over the patches on the front-right chest of his kutte. I hadn’t noticed them the other day, too distracted by the rest of him. His patches were just like Bull’s, only the top one read, Mustang; and the one underneath, Sergeant-at-Arms .

“What about you?” I asked him, lifting my gaze in search of his. “How long have you been a Stallion?”

He reached up and raked his fingers through his hair before dropping his hand and shoving his fingers into the front pocket of his jeans.

“Officially? Eighteen years. Unofficially?” He jerked his chin toward my opposite side and said, “Bull took me under his wing a couple years before that. Looked out for me until I was old enough to earn the patches on my kutte. All in—twenty years. Makes me more Stallion than anything else.”

My eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Twenty years ago, I’d just lost my mom.

I was twelve. How old was he?

“How old are you?” I blurted.

“Thirty-six. How old are you?”

“Thirty-two,” I told him distractedly, still trying to piece together the timeline of his life.

I noticed as those hazel-blue eyes dropped down to my mouth again, and suddenly I lost track of my thoughts. I took a sip of my drink, scrambling to think of another question.

“So—what did you do before the bar?”

“Same as the rest of us. Worked in the garage and the shop. Still do, when I feel like it.”

I nodded and took another swallow of my ranch water.

I was out of questions.

Or, rather, I was out of safe questions. What else was there after work talk? Family was out. Hobbies were obsolete. I had no real hobbies, unless one considered power napping an interesting activity.

Deciding to leave the ball in his court, I turned my attention toward the band. Since I sat down, they’d played one or two covers, but there were some songs I’d never heard before. I wondered if they were originals. If they were, they were really good.

“Is this band local?” I inquired, barely taking my eyes off of them as I did.

“No, they’re based in South Dakota,” Mustang answered, his lips closer to my ear than they were before. “They’re a crowd favorite, though. Found out about ‘em a couple years ago, and I try to get them up here at least once every month or two.”

I thought about what he said. Not so much about the band, but his role in getting them there. Then I put a couple pieces together myself, recognizing that while it made zero sense for a badass biker who owned a badass biker bar to never drink, it made a whole lot of sense that a badass biker who owned a badass biker bar but never drank could pour a whole lot of his focus into sourcing awesome bands to come play at his bar. A bar that was known for miles as the place to be on a Saturday night if you wanted to hear some kickass live music.

I didn’t need another reason to like Mustang—but he’d given me one.

For the next forty-five minutes, I sipped slowly at my drink, enjoying the show. Mustang and I didn’t ask each other anymore questions, but the silence between us wasn’t weird. It didn’t feel like we were ignoring one another. It wasn’t just the two of us. We were in a crowded room, riding the vibe of the band. It was actually pretty great.

When I got to the bottom of my drink, I was a little disappointed I had to cut myself off.

Before I could twist to set my empty glass on the bar, Mustang’s fingers brushed against mine as he took it and put it behind me. I’d just looked up to say thank you when the band wrapped up their set. The overhead music kicked on, decidedly less loud, as they started clearing the stage in order to make way for the next band.

That’s when Mustang started grazing his knuckles up and down my side.

I stiffened at first contact, my eyes glued to the floor, but he wasn’t deterred.

When he kept going, the excitement that sparked in my belly rippled through me, causing a wave of warmth to spread all the way into my chest.

Against my better judgement, I relaxed.

It felt good, and I liked that his manly, tattooed hand was capable of a touch so gentle.

Yeah —I didn’t need another reason to like Mustang, but he’d scored one again.

I was in serious trouble.

As if she’d been waiting to take advantage of a quiet moment, Winnie turned toward me, mercifully pulling me from my thoughts as she asked, “How’d you two meet? I haven’t seen you around before.”

For a moment, Mustang’s fingers stopped grazing.

Instead, he wrapped his hand around my side and squeezed.

Somehow, I knew exactly what he was communicating.

This was why I answered, “I came in the other day, when it wasn’t busy, and he was behind the bar. I’ve been here a couple times, but on nights more like tonight.”

I’d said the right thing. I knew this because Mustang let me go, then continued the steady up and down rhythm of his knuckles on my side. Rather than get lost in the feel of his touch, I tried desperately to focus on what Winnie was saying.

“It’s nice to see a new friendly face. We get a lot of sheep, not all of them friendly, and certainly none with such impeccable taste in shoes.”

“Sheep?”

This was a new term for me.

Winnie smiled knowingly, glanced over my head at Mustang, then fixed her gaze back on me. I wasn’t sure what that look meant, but I was certain it meant something.

“Yeah, you know—hang-arounds. Club sheep. Always on the compound looking for a good time.”

I nodded, catching her drift, while at the same time hoping my being there for a drink with Mustang didn’t land me in the sheep category. I had a type, a weakness , really—but I wasn’t desperate.

“Heard you’re a nurse,” she went on to say, rescuing me from my thoughts for the second time.

“Yeah. I am.”

“Noble. Brutal .”

I laughed, as amused as I was impressed she could sum up my career in two simple words. “Yeah. That about sums it up. What about you? What do you do?”

“I’m part time over at the garage, handling all the admin work,” she said, nodding in its direction. “And when I’m not there, I’m with our three hellions. We’ve got a seventeen-year-old, a fifteen-year-old, and a five-year-old. All boys.”

I smiled at that. Knowing Winnie was a mom made me like her even more.

“I’m gettin’ another,” said Bull, turning to address his wife.

I’d spotted the rock on her finger and figured, in their case, ol’ lady was synonymous with wife.

“You want one?” he asked her.

“Yeah, honey. I’ll have another.”

Bull then looked at me. “Tess?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He gave me a slight nod, then turned to order another round. As he did, the lead singer of the next band introduced them. The drummer marked the beat, and then the music drowned out everything else. Bull hooked his arm around Winnie’s shoulders, and she nestled into his side as they settled.

Now, with no one to talk to, I was again hyperaware of Mustang and his hand at my side. I chanced a look at him and found his attention was on the band. He really was so handsome. I resisted the urge to reach up and run my fingers through his hair.

As if he sensed my gaze aimed at him, he looked down at me.

Another zing ricocheted in my belly.

His eyes searched mine for a long moment before he brought his mouth to my ear. I felt the whiskers of his beard, he was so close.

“You ever been on the back of a hog, baby?”

A thrill shot up my spine, and I had to fight the urge to shiver.

I’d been on the back of a motorcycle before.

But I’d never been on a Harley.

I shook my head in response.

“You feel like a ride?”

Oh, god .

I held my breath as I contemplated his offer.

It was a bad idea. The worst.

Me, on the back of Mustang’s bike?

There’d be no turning back after that.

The second he took off, we’d be racing across every boundary I’d told myself I shouldn’t cross.

But it was a perfect summer night.

I’d have been a liar if I said I didn’t want to experience the power of his hog and the wind in my hair with me at his back—and I really didn’t like to lie.

I ran out of oxygen.

I blew out my breath, inhaled another, and shifted so I could see into those hazel-blue eyes.

Then I nodded, waving a white flag of surrender.

In that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to go for a ride.

The next thing I knew, he had hold of my hand, and I was sliding off my barstool. As he pulled me toward the door, I managed to glance back at Winnie.

She grinned and winked at me, then I lost sight of her altogether.

As soon as were outside, I had to move my feet double time to keep up with Mustang’s long stride in my heels. His bike was parked near the end of the row closest to the building. When we reached it, excitement rippled through me knowing I was about to be on it.

“Purse?” he asked as he dropped my hand.

I gave it to him, and he flipped open the lid of his saddlebag and stowed it away. Once the top was latched closed, he mounted his ride, and it was just as hot then as it had been the last time I saw it.

After he was settled, he pointed at a foot peg and told me, “Use that to help you climb on.” He then extended his hand to further assist me.

I hesitated for a moment. The bike was beautiful and slightly intimidating once faced with the prospect of straddling it in my Jimmy Choos; but I was going for a ride, and nothing was going to stop me.

I took his hand, held on tight, and found my way onto the seat behind Mustang. It might not have been entirely graceful, but with a Harley Davidson between my legs, I couldn’t spare a thought to worry about it.

He pressed a few buttons, the engine roared to life, and I didn’t fight my shiver.

Before we took off, he reached down, grabbed me behind my knees, and yanked me forward. My breath caught as I practically slammed into his back, every part of me now in contact with a part of him.

Leather. Fresh air. Pine.

He smelled divine.

“Hold onto me, Tess,” he demanded.

I didn’t have to be told twice.

My arms locked around his waist, and we were gone.

We rode casually off the compound’s lot, Mustang pointing us I didn’t know where. It wasn’t long before I realized we were headed for I-90. He merged onto the highway, and we flew .

I was scared for all of thirty seconds—then I reminded myself Mustang and his bike were one. He was in control, and I was safe, no matter how fast we went.

When I began to relax and enjoy the ride, I tasted freedom like I’d never had it before. I emptied my mind completely, and it was bliss.

There was, however, one thing I couldn’t ignore.

The vibration of the Harley coupled with the feel of Mustang between my legs turned me on.

There was no fighting it.

The wind was cool against my skin as it whipped through my hair, but Mustang was warm, keeping me that way, too. He steered us through the heart of Gillette and beyond, until there was nothing to see on either side of the road but the darkness of night. I pressed my cheek to the back of his shoulder as I closed my eyes, and I swear he rode even faster.

I didn’t know if we were chasing a feeling or running from one—but I never wanted to stop.

We rode for a while. How long, I couldn’t say. He eased us off the interstate at a rest stop, then turned us around, taking us back from where we came, and we rode a while longer.

I was a little disappointed when, at last, I saw the compound come into view.

He turned into the entrance but didn’t stop at the bar. Instead, he drove right past it, toward the furthest building on the lot. When he finally stopped and killed the engine, I let him go reluctantly. He held out a hand, the only signal I needed that it was time for me to dismount, so I did.

“Why didn’t you park closer to the bar?” I forced the words out of my mouth, needing to get my brain to focus on something other than the longing that beckoned between my legs. With my feet on the ground, I felt almost desperate for a release.

“We’re not going back to the bar,” he stated as he dismounted and turned to face me.

“We’re not?”

I barely finished my question before Mustang took hold of the side of my neck, held me steady, then crushed his mouth against mine.

My knees were instantly useless.

I grasped either side of his kutte and held on.

I knew he didn’t mind when he licked my lips open.

Reckless as it was, I moaned and pressed myself closer.

He kissed me deep and greedy.

It was heaven .

It was also exactly what I needed after our ride.

Except, if he didn’t give me more, I was going to combust.

As if he could read my mind, he broke our kiss and asked, “You still want to go back to the bar?”

I shook my head, tightening my grip on his kutte.

We understood each other.

I knew this because he got my purse out of his saddlebag and held it with one hand, taking one of mine in his other; then he started for what I would soon learn was the Wild Stallions clubhouse.

Still very turned on, I didn’t have the wherewithal to truly take in the details of the place. I noticed brick walls, cement floors, lots of leather couches, and a bar.

As Mustang pulled me along, I thought I saw two women making out while one guy watched. I looked away only to spot another man getting head across the room. When I shifted my eyes again and saw a couple getting dangerously close to having sex right there on the pool table, I squeezed Mustang’s hand and stared at the Wild Stallions patch on his back.

Then I remembered the tattoo on his knuckles.

I twisted our hands until I could see K-A-T-E spelled out across the knuckles of his left fingers.

I didn’t have a chance to think about what that could imply before Mustang pulled me down a hallway and through the fourth door on the left. It was a private room. His room.

I knew this because I could make out the faint traces of his scent in the air.

He slammed the door behind us, dropped my purse on the floor, flipped on the overhead light, then hauled me into his arms.

I gasped in excitement, and he took advantage, plunging his tongue into my mouth.

At the beginning of the night, I promised myself I was going to keep my clothes on.

There was no way I was going to be able to keep that promise now.

I wanted Mustang more than I could remember wanting anyone— ever .

When he broke our kiss again, a soft whine escaped my lips.

He flashed me his half-smile, then reached down to grab one of my butt-cheeks in a non-verbal reassurance we were just getting started.

Mustang backed away from me and shrugged off his kutte. He moved to hang it on a hook mounted to the back of the door—and I just knew nothing touched that hook other than his kutte.

As if that was the only thing holding him back, I had his fingers in my hair a second later. He gripped a fistful and angled my head where he wanted it before he gave me his mouth. I got another greedy, wet kiss as he snaked his other arm around my waist, pulling me close.

He then walked me backwards across the room.

As we went, he started tugging at my shirt.

Before I knew it, my top was on the floor.

We were still inching backwards when I pulled at the hem of his shirt, and he was quick to reach between his shoulders and yank it over his head. I drank him in, a small voice in the back of my head telling me his body was incredible, and mine wasn’t quite so fine.

He had a patch of chest hair between his pecs—and more tattoos on either side.

On his right was an image of a galloping mustang, depicted like it was coming at me.

Over his heart were two little footprints.

I didn’t read into those because my eyes kept going.

He had a six pack. Like an actual six pack.

My god—he was hot .

So hot, that small voice in my head was drowned out by a much louder one—this one telling me Mustang was turning me on to heights I’d never traversed, and if I didn’t come soon, I might die.

Then the back of my knees hit the edge of a bed, and I quickly found myself no longer vertical.

Mustang wasted not a second before sliding off my shoes then reaching for the buttons of my jeans. He peeled them off, taking my soaked panties with them, and then I was in nothing but my bra.

As soon as he caught sight of my sex, he descended—with his mouth.

I was so primed—no joke—he licked me once, twirled his tongue around my clit, and I was coming.

After our ride and all my built-up arousal, my quick-hitting orgasm felt so good, I wasn’t even embarrassed.

He kept at me until I grabbed a fistful of his hair and squeezed my thighs together.

Mustang freed his head in order to look up at me, and he did this grinning.

He nipped the inside of my thigh, then stood and proceeded to unbutton his jeans. As he freed the zipper, he walked toward the top of the bed, pulled open the drawer of a nightstand, and extracted a condom.

I started panting, my first orgasm barely scratching the surface of my need.

On his way back to the foot of the bed, he shoved down the waist of his jeans and boxer briefs only far enough to free his hard length.

I swallowed and squirmed at the sight of him.

He looked glorious—and I wanted all of that inside of me.

I ached for it. Desperately. Pathetically.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait for long.

Mustang made quick work of the condom, then took hold of me behind my knees, spreading my legs wide before he thrust in deep.

All the way in. Until I was full. So blissfully full.

Then he took me hard and fast.

I moaned, reaching over my head for anything I could grab hold of. I caught a fistful of sheets just as the promise of another orgasm began to bloom inside of me.

“Oh, god ,” I cried.

I felt wild with desire, unable to control my body in the slightest.

Then I was coming. Again. Just like that.

Mustang stilled inside of me, my sex constricting repeatedly around his length.

That's when I heard it.

He was laughing.

I righted my head and frowned in confusion.

Breathless, I asked, “Are you—are you laughing at me?”

He let go of my legs and lowered himself until he was propped on his forearms, resting on either side of me. Still smiling, he shook his head and muttered, “Enjoyin’ the ride, sugar.”

Then he kissed me.

Deep and wet.

I circled my arms around his neck, burying my fingers in his hair, luxuriating in his kiss—him still inside of me.

The thought of more of him had me rolling my hips up, and he grunted before he broke our kiss, gently tugging my bottom lip between his teeth.

“Meet me in the middle of the bed, baby. Bra off,” he told me before he stood.

I obeyed, first unhooking my bra and discarding it before I crawled on my backside to the middle of the bed, not interested in a scenario where I lost sight of him. I watched as he removed his boots so he could rid himself of the rest of his clothing.

Once he was completely naked, I gaped at him.

He’d been inside of me thirty seconds ago, and I couldn’t believe I’d had all of that .

Better yet—he wasn’t done.

He met me in the middle of the bed.

He was on his knees when he reached for my hips and yanked my lower body up off the bed. He slid inside of me, then guided my legs around his hips before grazing his hands down my sides, until he had me at my waist.

As he began to thrust in and out of me, his eyes locked in on our connection.

Somehow—remarkably—that turned me on even more.

Like the first time, he took me hard and fast.

Unlike the first time, I got to enjoy it for a while longer.

I didn’t normally come three times during a single round of sex, but something told me Mustang was a different breed of man, and he was going to get me there. I was still high from the thrill of our ride, and I felt ultra-sensitive everywhere .

When he moved to press his thumb against my swollen clit, I started to lose control again.

He rubbed in firm circles, thrusting inside of me faster, making me crazy.

“Almost there, Tess. You’re gonna come again—so you best get to it.”

He was not wrong.

I was on the verge.

His command to get to it got me that much closer.

I took my breasts in my hands and tugged at my nipples.

Then it hit me. It hit me huge. My whole body was trembling as I came undone.

I cried out with every breath as I writhed.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get better…

“Fuck,” Mustang growled.

He abandoned my clit and slapped the side of my ass before he held on and lost himself in me. I watched as he forsook his rhythm, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed, and he threw his head back while he came.

Obviously—it was incredibly. Flipping. Hot.

When he was spent, he froze inside of me while he worked to catch his breath.

He righted his head, and his hazel-blue eyes found mine.

They were vibrant and wild .

This time, I felt it down to my bones.

He’d break my heart if I let him.

I just couldn’t let him.

After a few breaths, he broke our connection, gently lowering my hips onto the bed. He then leaned down and kissed me—deep and greedy.

When I reached up to dive my fingers into his hair, he cupped my left breast and squeezed.

Before I was ready, he pulled away and mumbled, “Don’t move. Be right back.”

He got off the bed, then snatched up his jeans from the floor. He tugged them on and over his hips, worked the zipper closed, but didn’t bother with the top button as he made his way barefoot toward the door. He then slipped into the hallway and closed me inside.

Feeling both incredibly naked and slightly chilly, I found my way between the sheets I finally noticed were dark gray. Taking advantage of my moment alone, I looked around to see what other details I could find in the room. There wasn’t much to it. The bed was on a frame, but there was no headboard or footboard, it was just pressed up against the back wall. Above it was a giant, faded, American flag.

There was a plain, wooden nightstand to the right, and across the room, on the wall beside the door, was a matching dresser. There was clutter scattered across both surfaces, and a lamp on the nightstand.

The floors were cement, but he had a giant area rug that took up a good portion of the room.

The blanket I assumed belonged on the bed was in a dark green puddle on the floor.

Littered in various spots on the rug were discarded items of clothing.

It was messy, but I’d seen worse.

Not to mention, some of that clothing was mine.

That thought had me flat on my back.

My head hit the pillow, and I stared up at the ceiling.

I couldn’t even last one night.

Curling up onto my side, I closed my eyes and tried to assess how much I’d given him just now.

It was the Harley. I couldn’t resist.

I rewound the night in my mind, taking myself back to the open road—the wind in my hair, the vibration of the bike’s engine between my legs, Mustang the anchor that kept me from flying away.

That was freedom, like I’d never known it before.

Out there on the road, I let go of everything, just because I could.

And I loved it.

That was the last thought I remembered before sleep pulled me under.

I didn’t hear it when Mustang came back.

I didn’t feel it when he crawled into bed with me.

But I slept all night wrapped in his arms.