Chapter 7 Sasha
SASHA
The textbook lies open on my lap, but the words blur together as I stare at the same paragraph for the tenth time.
It’s been a month since Dad died, and focusing on anything—especially Intro to Psychology—feels impossible.
But I promised myself I'd try. Online classes are my only connection to the normal life I'd planned before everything fell apart.
I shift on the bed, adjusting my tank top where it's riding up. The clubhouse runs warm, and I've given up wearing anything but shorts and tanks when I'm in my room. I highlight a sentence about cognitive behavioral therapy, determined to absorb something today.
The door swings open without warning.
I jolt upright, heart hammering as Havoc fills the doorframe. His silver hair catches the light, and those intense blue eyes sweep across my exposed legs before snapping up to my face.
"Shit," he mutters. "Should've knocked."
"It's fine," I say, my voice embarrassingly breathless as I tug my top down. I'm suddenly painfully aware of how little I'm wearing. "Did you need something?"
He steps inside but leaves the door open, like he's ensuring propriety despite the hunger I sometimes catch in his gaze when he thinks I'm not looking.
"You good in here?" he asks, his deep voice carefully controlled. "Ruth said you skipped lunch."
"Just studying." I gesture weakly at my textbook. "Or trying to."
Havoc nods, his expression softening slightly. "Got something I wanna show you. Something of your mom's."
My heart skips. Every piece of my mother I discover feels like finding a missing part of myself. "What is it?"
"Not what. Who." A rare half-smile touches his lips, and it's devastating. "Ever hear your dad talk about Bluebell?"
I frown. "I don't think so. Who's Bluebell?"
"Your mom's horse." His eyes never leave mine. "She's been with Bone's cousin since your dad left. Thought you might wanna meet her."
A horse. My mother had a horse. Another piece of the woman I barely remember slides into place.
"When?" I ask, already setting my textbook aside.
"Now, if you want." He gestures at my outfit. "But you might wanna put on some actual clothes first."
My cheeks burn hot with embarrassment. I manage a quick nod, unable to form a coherent response.
"I'll wait outside," Havoc says, stepping back into the hallway. "Take your time."
The door clicks shut, and I press my palms against my flaming cheeks.
God, what is wrong with me? My father died a month ago, and here I am getting flustered over his best friend—a man more than twice my age.
I shouldn't want him to look at me. I shouldn't feel this electric current whenever he enters a room.
But I do.
I toss the psychology textbook aside and slide off the bed, heading to the small dresser that now holds my clothes. My fingers hesitate over a pair of jean shorts, then move to a pair of loose-fitting jeans instead. Something unrevealing.
Ever since I arrived at the clubhouse, I've noticed Havoc's eyes lingering when he thinks I'm not paying attention. Those intense blue eyes always track my movements, occasionally dropping to my legs or the curve of my waist before snapping back to my face.
I pull on the jeans, trading my tank top for a simple T-shirt that doesn’t hug my figure too tightly. Does he find me attractive? Or is he just keeping watch over me, fulfilling whatever obligation he had to my father?
Sometimes the way he looks at me... there's hunger there, something primal and barely restrained. Then guilt shadows his eyes, and he turns away, putting distance between us. Or perhaps I'm imagining it all because I have an embarrassing crush on him.
I brush my hair and step into sneakers. My heart beats a little faster knowing he's waiting just outside. I shouldn't care what I look like. I shouldn't be trying to appear put-together for him. But I do anyway, taking a deep breath before opening the door to face him.
I find Havoc leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He straightens when he sees me, and there it is—that flash in his eyes, a quick darkening before he controls it. Even in these plain jeans and a T-shirt, something about me affects him.
"Ready?" he asks, voice slightly rougher than before.
I nod, following him down the hallway. His broad shoulders fill my vision, the Wicked Sinners patch stretching across his back. I notice the way his silver hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck, and my fingers twitch with the urge to touch it.
When we reach the front door, he stops at a closet and pulls out a worn leather jacket and a glossy black helmet.
“You'll need these,” he says, holding out the jacket.
My stomach drops. "We're taking your motorcycle?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"
I've avoided motorcycles since arriving. Carol always drives me in her SUV when I need to go somewhere, and I've never had to face this particular fear. Not the motorcycle itself—but what it means to ride with Havoc. Being pressed against his back, my arms around his waist, my thighs hugging his...
I clench my thighs together reflexively, feeling a warmth spread through me that has nothing to do with the clubhouse heating.
"N-no," I stammer. "Not a problem."
His eyes narrow slightly, like he knows I'm lying. "I can call Carol if you're not comfortable."
"It's fine," I say, taking the jacket from his hands. "I want to meet Bluebell." I slip my arms into it, immediately engulfed by warmth.
Havoc slides the helmet over my head, reaching out to adjust the strap, his fingers brushing my chin. Even that small touch makes my entire body burn.
I follow Havoc into the parking lot, where his gleaming black Harley sits waiting. The motorcycle looks powerful and dangerous—just like its owner.
He swings his leg over the seat with ease and turns to me. "Hop on and hold tight."
I hesitate for just a moment before climbing onto the bike behind him. The seat is smaller than I expected, forcing me to sit tightly pressed against him. There's nowhere else to put my hands but around his waist.
"Hold on," Havoc instructs. "Don't let go, no matter what."
I slide my arms around his middle, linking my fingers over his stomach.
The moment I touch him, I realize this is a mistake.
His body is rock solid beneath my hands, hard planes of muscle tensing under my fingertips.
Through his thin T-shirt, I can feel the definition of his abs, the evidence of years of physical power.
My heart thunders against my ribs as I press closer. He smells incredible—whiskey and pine mixing with leather and something distinctly male. Each breath I take fills my lungs with his scent, making me lightheaded.
The engine roars to life between my thighs, the vibration sending shivers up my spine. I gasp and instinctively tighten my grip, my hands splaying across his stomach.
"You good?" Havoc calls over his shoulder, and I can only nod, not trusting my voice.
We pull out of the clubhouse lot, and the bike accelerates, forcing me to hold tighter. The engine growls beneath us. My thighs clench involuntarily around Havoc's hips as we take a corner, and a strange heat floods through me.
Oh god.
I've never felt anything like this before.
The rumble of the motorcycle between my legs, the solid warmth of Havoc's back against my chest, the way my hands rest against the ridges of his abs—it's overwhelming.
Each bump in the road pushes me harder against him, and I'm suddenly aware of an ache building low in my belly, a pulsing need I can’t satisfy.
I squeeze my thighs tighter, trying to relieve the pressure, but it only makes things worse. Better? I don't even know. My breath comes faster inside the helmet, fogging the visor slightly as we speed down the highway.
This is wrong. This is my dad's best friend. My protector. And he's so much older than me.
But my body doesn't seem to care about any of that. It responds to him on a primal level that bypasses all rational thought. I've kissed boys before—fumbling, awkward encounters in the back of movie theaters or after school dances. Nothing serious. Nothing that made me feel like this.
Nothing that made me want to press closer, to feel more, to discover what would happen if I let this heat consume me.
The vibrations intensify as we hit a stretch of rougher road, and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. My fingers clench against his stomach, and I feel his muscles tighten in response. Does he know? Can he feel how I'm reacting to him and the vibrations?
The thought should embarrass me, but instead, it sends another wave of heat through my body. I'm dizzy with it, lightheaded.
I rest my helmeted head against his back, closing my eyes and trying to breathe through the intensity. But that's a mistake—without sight, my other senses heighten. The rumble of the engine, the heat of his body, the way we move together on the bike—it's all I can feel, all I can think about.
The bike slows as we turn onto a gravel drive, the engine's roar dropping to a rumble. We pass through an open gate and approach a large barn with fenced paddocks stretching out behind it.
Havoc cuts the engine, and the sudden silence rings in my ears. He shifts, waiting for me to dismount first, but I can't move. My body is on fire, my legs trembling, my center throbbing. How can I face him like this?
"We're here," Havoc says, his voice low. "You can let go now, Sasha."
I realize my arms are still locked around his waist, fingers clutching his shirt. Reluctantly, I release him and awkwardly swing my leg over, nearly stumbling when my feet hit the ground. My legs feel like jelly.
"You can take the helmet off," Havoc says, dismounting with easy grace.
I shake my head, grateful for the dark visor hiding my flushed face. "I'm good."
Havoc frowns, stepping closer. "Take it off. Can't meet Bluebell with your face covered. You'll freak her out."