Chapter 11
JOSIE
I’m ready to commit murder.
Not literal murder—I’m a lawyer, I know how that ends—but the kind of murder you fantasize about when you’ve been stuck in a guest room with nothing but pain meds, daytime television, and the constant parade of well-meaning bikers checking to make sure I’m still breathing.
You’re fine, Josie. You’re healing. You’re definitely not going slowly insane.
I push myself up from the bed, ignoring the twinge in my ribs. The burr holes in my head have scabbed over nicely—Maggie changed the dressings this morning and declared me “on the mend”—but my head still throbs if I move too fast, and my wrist itches constantly under the cast.
The worst part isn’t the physical pain. It’s the waiting.
Waiting for my body to cooperate. Waiting for news about Summit. Waiting for Stone to get his act together and come kiss me again.
Seriously? Way to give a girl blue bean.
That kiss—or kisses, plural, because we lost ourselves for a good ten minutes before Hawk interrupted—has been replaying in my mind on a constant loop. The heat of his mouth. The way his hands felt cradling my face. The rough sound he made when I bit his lower lip.
And then... nothing.
Oh, he’s been attentive, checking on me every few hours, bringing me meals, sitting with me while I pretend to watch TV and he pretends to review club paperwork. But he hasn’t kissed me again. Hasn’t even tried.
It’s driving me absolutely insane.
Maybe he’s having second thoughts. Maybe the kissing was a one-time thing. Maybe—
“What’s got you frowning?”
I jolt, nearly dropping the water glass I’ve been clutching. Stone stands in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, watching me with those unreadable gray eyes.
“I’m not.”
“Oh, so your forehead always gets this little crease when you think?” He pushes off the frame and crosses toward me. “It’s been there for the past ten minutes.”
“You’ve been standing there for ten minutes?”
“Five.” His mouth curves. “I was enjoying the view.”
Heat floods my cheeks. Dammit. I’m a forty-year-old woman with a law degree and a four-figure body count of corporate executives I’ve destroyed in courtrooms. I should not be blushing like a teenager because a man says he enjoys looking at me.
“Shouldn’t you be doing president things?” I manage.
“Took a break.” He stops at the edge of the bed, close enough that I can smell leather and soap and that indefinable scent that’s just him. “Thought I’d check on my favorite patient.”
The way he’s looking at me does things to my chest that I refuse to examine too closely.
“Stone.” I set down the water glass, meeting his gaze. “We should talk.”
“About?”
“About the kissing.” I force myself to be direct. It’s the only way I know how to be. “And the not-kissing. And the—” I wave a hand vaguely. “Purgatory of passion that we’ve created.”
He snorts. “That’s certainly one way to put it.”
I wave a hand breezily. “I nearly died. I reserve the right to be as dramatic as I want.” I point at him. “Now, let’s talk about the kissing.”
“You want to talk?” He moves closer, and suddenly the room feels very small. “Or do you want me to?”
My breath catches. “Stone—”
“I’ve been trying to be a gentleman, Josie.” His voice drops, rough and low. “Trying not to be the asshole who takes advantage of a woman recovering from serious injuries.” He stops right in front of me, close enough to touch. “But if you’re telling me you want more...”
“I—yes. Obviously yes.”
His expression shifts, the careful control cracking to reveal the heat underneath.
“Okay.” He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “But first, we talk. Cards on the table. Because I’m not interested in a one-time thing with you, and I need to know you understand what you’re getting into.”
“And just what exactly am I’m getting into?”
“Me. The club. All of it.” His gray eyes hold mine. “I want you, Josie. I’ve always wanted you. But if we do this, it’s not casual. Not for me.”
Oh.
It’s such a Stone answer—turning my inside out once more.
His words land deep in my chest, expanding as I absorb his meaning. They take up space I didn’t know was empty.
Part of me wants to run. To make a joke, deflect, protect myself. His admission is terrifying, but it’s also everything I’ve wanted to hear someone say to me.
If I say yes—if I let myself have this—there’s no going back to safe. No more hiding behind professional distance and pretending I don’t feel what I feel.
Courage, dear heart.
“And if I say it’s not casual for me either?”
His eyes darken. “Josie...”
“I’m serious.” I shift closer to him, ignoring the twinge in my ribs. “I’ve been around the club, I get how this works. You’re the go-to guy. You’re the one they come to and rely on.” I place a hand on his thigh. “Maybe I want to be the one you need.”
He curses. “You’re pushing my buttons, sweetheart.”
I chuckle. “Good. Does that mean you’re giving into my feminine wiles?”
He leans over me, hesitating. “You’re still recovering. This can’t go far.”
I fist his shirt in my hands. “I’m not made of glass, Stone. I’m a little banged up, sure. But I know what I want. And what I want is you.”
“Your ribs—”
“Are healing nicely.” I hold his gaze, letting him see the truth of what I’m saying. “I’m not asking you to throw me against a wall. I’m asking you to stop treating me like I’ll shatter if you touch me.”
I watch as raw, hungry need washes over his face.
“Josie.” His voice is rough, strained. “I need you to be sure. Because once I have you, I’m not letting go.”
“I’m sure.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before he’s kissing me.
It’s not like before—not gentle or questioning. This kiss is a claiming. His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back so he can take my mouth at exactly the angle he wants. He tastes like sin, and I want to fucking drown in him.
His lips are firm, demanding, coaxing mine open so his tongue can sweep inside. The scrape of his stubble against my chin sends shivers down my spine. He kisses like he does everything else—thorough, intense, completely focused on the task at hand. Like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
I moan into his mouth, my hands clutching at his shoulders, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the bunch and flex of muscle beneath my fingers. He swallows the sound and makes one of his own—a low growl that vibrates through me and settles somewhere deep in my belly.
“God, the sounds you make.” He breaks away just long enough to speak, his lips brushing mine with every word. Then he nips at my lower lip, a sharp sting that makes me gasp, before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue. “I’ve been imagining them for months.”
“Is the reality better?” I manage, breathless.
“Infinitely.” He trails kisses down my jaw, my neck, finding the sensitive spot below my ear that makes me gasp. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
“Nothing hurts. Don’t stop.”
He eases me back against the pillows, careful of my injuries even as his mouth does sinful things to my collarbone. His hand slides under my shirt—his shirt, actually, since I’ve yet to head home—and I arch into his touch.
“You’re wearing my clothes,” he murmurs against my skin. “Do you know what that does to me?”
“Tell me.”
“Makes me want to see what’s underneath.” His fingers trace up my side, leaving trails of heat in their wake. “Makes me want to mark you. Claim you. Make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”
I should probably object to the possessiveness. Instead, I find myself saying, “Then do it.”
He lifts his head, those gray eyes burning into mine. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Maybe not.” I pull him back down, kissing him with everything I have. “But I want to find out.”
He takes his time with my shirt—each button freed with deliberate slowness, his mouth following to press kisses to every inch of newly revealed skin.
When he reaches my cast, he pauses, easing the sleeve over it with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
By the time he pushes the fabric aside, I’m trembling.
“Beautiful.” He traces the edge of my bra with one finger. “So fucking beautiful.”
“It’s just a plain cotton bra—”
“I don’t care about the bra.” He meets my eyes. “I care about what’s underneath it. About you.”
He reaches behind me, unclasping it with practiced ease, and I have a moment of self-consciousness—I’m forty, my body bears the marks of time and gravity—but the way he looks at me erases every doubt.
“Perfect,” he breathes. “Absolutely perfect.”
“Boone—”
The use of his real name makes him groan. “Say it again.”
“Boone.” I arch into his touch as his hands cup my breasts. “Please.”
“Please what?” He brushes his thumbs across my nipples, and I whimper. “Tell me what you want.”
I tug at his shirt, desperate suddenly. “Off. Take this off.”
He pulls back just long enough to yank it over his head, and then he’s back, and oh God, the feel of his skin against mine. Warm and solid and real.
I run my free hand over his chest, his shoulders, the hard planes of his stomach. Memorizing him. Grounding myself in the fact that this is actually happening—that he’s here, that he wants me, that I’m allowed to touch him like this.
“Josie.” His voice is strained, his muscles twitching under my fingertips.
“I needed to make sure this was real,” I whisper. “That you’re real.”
A soft, fierce look flickers across his face. He catches my hand, presses a kiss to my palm.
“I’m real,” he says. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
My throat tightens. I pull him back down to me.
“I want your mouth on me.”
He obliges immediately, drawing one nipple into his mouth while his hand works the other. The sensation shoots straight to my core, and I cry out, my good hand tangling in his hair.
“So responsive.” He switches sides, lavishing the same attention on my other breast. “I could do this for hours. Just watch you come apart.”