CHAPTER 3
LAIKEN
Is this asshole for real? I’m almost in disbelief that this guy is really standing on my porch while looking at me like he’s about to eat me alive and also being pissed at me because I’ve been staying at my house. Again, my house. Mine.
Who does this guy think he is? He can’t come in here and talk to me like I’m a child who can’t make good decisions for myself. It’s not like he found me with half of my leg through a rotten board on the porch or anything.
Not only is he looking at me with a mixture of pissed off beyond belief and pure want, but he’s the hottest man I’ve ever met. I don’t like it. Not even a little bit.
It feels like my heart is in my throat and my body isn’t entirely my own.
Maybe it’s just that it’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone, and now I’m being faced with this super fucking hot guy and it’s taking me down.
Is that even possible? I don’t know, but I can’t say I’m a huge fan of feeling like I don’t have control over my body.
Tripp.
That’s what he said his name is. I do have some questions, though. Why is he called Hammer? Who calls him by his nickname? Why can’t I?
It feels big, momentous almost, that he wants me to call him Tripp. I just have no idea why.
Nothing about this makes sense.
Not the way my body reacts to him. Not the way I want to press against him. Not the way I desperately want his calloused hands to run all over my body.
Tripp.
I can’t help but look him over again. He’s tall, much taller than he has any right to be, at least 6’3”. As if his height isn’t enough, his hair is cut short which accentuates his beard covered jawline, the pout of his lips, and the way his dark eyes are boring into me.
Fuck me, and the man is covered in tattoos. The skin from the edge of his shirtsleeves down to the tops of his hands are covered. They also peek up out of his shirt and cover his neck. It makes me wonder just how much of him is without ink.
If I had to hazard a guess, there probably aren’t a lot of places where I wouldn’t find a tattoo. Talk about a game I would love to play.
With my tongue.
And my lips.
His kissable lips tug up into a smirk as I give him just as much sass as I can muster up while my pussy floods with arousal and my nipples harden in a way that looks like a fucking invitation. Damn it. Nothing about my reaction to him says step back or stay away.
But I shouldn’t be interested. This is the guy I’m most likely going to hire to do the work on the house and mixing business with pleasure is never a good idea.
Even though I know there would be far more pleasure than I’d be able to handle.
“Why can’t I call you Hammer?” I scrunch my face up a little before I can’t help but ask, “And what kind of nickname is that?”
Tripp takes a step closer, the distance between us disappearing to the point where one good, deep breath would have our chests brushing. Am I tempted to do it? You better fucking believe it.
He tilts his head slightly while looking down at me. It makes me feel like I’m prey and the predator has locked onto me. I don’t exactly hate the feeling.
Does it make me want to run? A little, but only because I know I’d be caught. Quickly. By Tripp.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
My eyebrows shoot up as my eyes roam over his face. What the fuck is he talking about? What don’t I know?
When I don’t say anything, a genuine smile tips up his lips, and my heart starts to hammer in my chest. He looks fucking gorgeous when he smiles which is not something I’ve ever thought about a man before.
Strange.
“Devil’s Construction?” He questions me and looks at me like he’s waiting for some sort of connection to magically be made in my mind.
He’s shit out of luck because I have no fucking idea what he’s talking about. He gives one decisive nod before pulling up one arm of his shirt and exposing a tattoo of a devil’s skull hovering above some sort of mechanical part and the words ‘Devil’s Saints Motorcycle Club’ underneath it.
“I’m a patched brother in the New Orleans Chapter of the Devil’s Saints Motorcycle Club.
The club owns the construction business as well as other businesses throughout town.
We do a lot of good in our city, and it is ours.
While we do a lot of good,” when he pauses my gaze comes up to meet his, “but people know not to fuck with us and ours.”
“A motorcycle club?” The question slips from my lips dumbly and he nods in response. I’m not sure why this revelation was the last thing I was expecting, but as I really look at the man in front of me, it makes perfect sense. “Okay?”
Tripp’s smile grows on his face and the sight of it sends a shiver down my spine.
“My road name is Hammer,” he says as if his words explain anything.
“Everyone uses it, but there is one person who will never call me by my road name. That’s the woman who will wear my property patch and has a place on the back of my bike—my Old Lady. ”
My face scrunches up, and I parrot, “Old Lady?”
Tripp’s hand comes up and the tips of his calloused fingers brush against my cheek in a touch so light that I’m not entirely sure I’m feeling it or not. It sends a feeling through me I’m not used to and have never really felt before—a sense of belonging and of being seen.
“It’s a term filled with importance in my world.
It’s the biker’s ride or die. The woman who can handle the weight of the leather we wear and the roughness of the world we occupy.
Being claimed as an Old Lady is important in my world, it’s akin to being married and recognized in the same way without the paper or the ring. ”
“Then you don’t get married in your world?” The question slips out before I can stop it; I should not be asking about marriage considering I just met this guy.
“Most of the brothers still marry their women, but it’s not a requirement in our world. My brothers are just possessive assholes and want to claim their women in as many ways as possible,” he explains with a smirk.
“Okay,” I hold the word out as my mind processes everything he’s dumped on me. “And you want me to call you Tripp and not Hammer.”
His eyes darken when I call him by his road name. Before I can take my next breath, his arm shoots out and wraps around my waist to haul me flush against his chest.
“As sexy as it is to hear my road name on your lips, I want you to call me by my name. I need it,” his voice drops an octave, and my heart is pounding so hard in my chest that I’m sure he can feel it against his own.
“Um,” my brain stutters and I’m not sure if it’s because of how close we are or how fucking good it feels, “whatever.”
Yeah, that’s as good as it gets. Talk about inadequate, but it’s all I’m capable of right now.
The moment stretches between us as his dark eyes move from my eyes down to my lips and back again. Is he going to kiss me? Do I want him to?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Instead of kissing me, Hammer squeezes me against him a little tighter before releasing me slowly. Even with not being pressed up against him, the connection between us sparks and zings. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before with anyone else.
“How about you show me around and tell me what you have in mind for your death trap,” there’s a teasing in his voice with his suggestion which seems to be right on the edge of a command.
I narrow my eyes, my anger spiking which is better than lust trying to take me down. “If you aren’t interested in working on my death trap just let me know and I’d be happy to make more phone calls to construction companies.”
“Oh, my little Mischief-maker,” he sighs as if he thinks I’m adorable, “you won’t find anyone else who can do this renovation like I can.”
“Big words,” I mutter under my breath, only mildly shocked by his audacity.
“Just telling the truth,” he tosses back with a shrug.
I roll my eyes and huff out a breath at his ridiculousness before turning away to head deeper into the house.
The foyer is grand and filled with custom woodwork, some of which is in okay shape, but most of which needs to be replaced and made to match what is already in place.
It’s where the charm of this old place begins and I want to preserve as much as possible.
Over my shoulder, I throw out, “Are you coming or not?”
The growl that comes from Tripp is the only answer I really need. As much as my pussy begs me to throw myself at him while begging him to take me, I resist.
Instead, I start the tour in the foyer and point out all the original details and charm I want to ensure aren’t lost during this whole renovation process.
As we move through the rooms on the lower level, Tripp writes on his notepad furiously.
I should probably be concerned with the number of pages he’s going through.
When we step into the kitchen, I’m taken, again, by how small the room is. “This needs to be bigger. So much bigger.”
“Of course,” he agrees. He looks around with a knowing look on his face. “Kitchens weren’t designed for comfort when this house was built. The servants used it which meant it needed to be functional and not flashy. As the way homes are used has shifted, so has home design.”
As he walks into the rooms adjacent to the kitchen, including the butler’s pantry, the formal dining room, and the ballroom, I can’t keep my eyes off him. He moves with a fluid grace that just isn’t fucking fair. How can one man have so much magnetism?
Why am I so attracted to him? It’s not fucking fair and being in this house with him for so long hasn’t helped.
When he walks back into the kitchen, his eyebrows pull together as he sketches something on his notepad. I find myself moving closer without even realizing it.