Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Skull kisses my head, my cheek, my neck. He gathers my arm up and presses his warm lips to my wrist—right on the angry red marks I made when I was trying to get loose.
“Why am I going to be mad at you now?”
He hesitates, his nose pressed into my hair. A half-groan rising in his throat.
“Feel that hot river dripping down your thigh?”
“Lordy, yes. We made quite the mess.”
I realize what I’ve said as soon as it’s out.
“Oh! Oh my goodness. That’s from you!”
“We didn’t use a condom,” he confirms and I can’t read the tone of his voice. “What would you think of having my baby?”
I freeze. What would I think of that?
He’s so still, he’s not even breathing and for a few seconds I’m the same.
“I want you to stay with me, Katie. Here. Or somewhere else. I’ll leave the club if that’s what’s best.”
“But your life is the club…”
He strokes back my hair, resting his scruffy jaw against my cheek. “Now my life is nothing without you.”
Oh lord. My heart cannot take this.
I have to force it to slow down.
“Who knew you were such a romantic wrapped up in all those scowls and leather.”
He chuckles softly, in the most intimate way, and the sound warms me from toe to crown.
I’m in love with a mean, ruthless, gun-toting, Harley-riding, protective biker.
And it happened in hours.
“I’ve never thought about a family, life has just been too hard,” I say, choking up a little.
He wraps both arms around me, tight. “Not any more. I want you to think about it. I’d love for you to be the mother of my children.”
Okay. That knocks my mind for a big, happy loop.
A single rapping knock hits the door.
“Give me a minute,” growls Skull…Max.
What do I even call him?
He eases out of me, and uses a paper-towel from a rack by the work bench to clean me up.
His eyes are warm, but his brow is creased.
“For a man who just filled his woman up with baby batter, you look unhappy.”
When he looks me in the eyes, I know trouble’s on the horizon. “We’ve got some things to deal with before I can relax,” he says. “The important thing is you’re not mad at me for locking you to the bed any more.”
“Am I not mad at you?”
“Well… you did yell my real name while we had sex.”
Oh. The devil.
With a huff, I jerk my jeans on, shaking my head, but I’m smiling. He’s such a bad boy.
When he’s sure I’m covered and his glistening, half-erect cock is tucked away in his jeans, he opens the door.
“I gave you thirty,” Slider says, chuckling.
“Let’s get this done.” Skull ignores him, flipping on the overhead lights to reveal a mountain of boxes and furniture. It takes a second to register exactly what I’m seeing.
“This could take a while,” Slider says as he opens a box.
“That’s if you don’t know where to look for things like this.”
They’re going back and forth and I’m gaping at the mound of belongings. It’s my stuff. Mine. I knew Skull had gotten some of the things back, but this looks like everything.
The handcuff bracelet jangles as I rush to one of the boxes.
I’m almost giddy when I pull out my favorite pair of shoes, the cute ones with the pink and black stitching that never, ever hurt my feet when I was waiting tables. “No way! I never thought I’d get this stuff back. I can’t believe you did it in less than two hours.”
Skull’s scowling now, all the playfulness and heat gone from his eyes. “He had all your things because he’s looking for the deed, too.”
I do a double-take. “What are you talking about?”
“Your brother’s after the money that would come from the property.”
“I told you, I don’t have a deed. And I definitely don’t have any money.”
“You’re about to have both.” He holds up an old painting, shaking it. It’s a knock-off of some famous artist that ended up in my apartment, leaning against the closet wall after mom passed.
Using his switchblade that looks suspiciously like it has blood on it, Skull slices open the paper on the back.
“Oh, yeah.” He flashes a cocky grin. “Well, looky here.”
An envelope slides out into his hand as he explains, “It’s not the first time I’ve looked for things people hide. Usually because I’m collecting debt.”
Slider flips open a box and pulls out some books, scrunching his nose at the romance covers as he says, “People used to hide shit in the back of art all the time. Or in books.”
“How did I not know this?” I ask them.
“Because you’re a nice girl.” Skull flashes me another grin. This one is full of dirty meaning. When he flicks open the envelope and pulls out an official-looking piece of paper, he whistles.
“Just like he said, this is Twenty-two hundred Wharf Street.”
Slider tosses down the book he was holding and closes the lid. “Her mom’s name on it?”
“Millie Morgan.”
I blink at him, still shocked, as Slider says, “That piece of paper’s worth a fuckton of money. If she didn’t leave it to anyone in her will, you get at least part of it.”