2. Candy
CHAPTER TWO
CANDY
P enn “Butch” Lawson, one of the technical specialists on the crew, fills in the entire width of the closet doorway. I blink to adjust my focus, seeing him more clearly.
He stares down at me with heavy, pinched brows, shadowing his hazel eyes.
Did Butch just speak to me?
Surprised, my mouth gapes like a fish out of water. Have I stepped into the Twilight Zone?
In my two years in this club, Butch has not once addressed me directly. In fact, I can count the few times I’ve heard him utter a word to his biker brethren. He keeps mostly to himself, speaking only when necessary.
When Butch joined the club shortly after me, I originally thought him shy, since he was quiet. That was until I saw the jagged scar across half the width of his throat. I assumed the old wound was the culprit for his lack of communication.
Curiosity had me asking Ziggy—Butch’s best friend in the MC and tech comrade—what happened to him.
My mind drifts back to that conversation…
“It’s not a pretty story, Candy. Are you sure you want to know? ”
“I’m not unfamiliar with the ugliness of this world, Ziggy.”
Ziggy shakes his head with a resigning sigh. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Al-Qaeda ambushed Butch’s SEAL team while on a mission in Iraq. While under heavy fire, one of the enemies’ men snuck up behind Butch and attempted to slice his throat open with a Bowie knife.”
A gasp escapes me, imagining the horror Butch endured.
“Right? Scary shit. The fucker got him good, too, nicked his vocal cords on one side of his throat. But Butch was fast to react. He got his hand in-between the dude’s arm, preventing him from slicing clean through his neck. My bro is lucky no arteries were severed during the attack, or he would’ve bled out right there on the ground.”
“Christ! That’s awful,” I say, with a pain in my heart for the silent biker.
Ziggy’s lips curl upward on one side of his face. “Not as awful as what Butch did to the terrorist piece of shit in retaliation.”
“Retaliation? How on Earth could Butch retaliate when he was suffering with a knife wound to the throat?”
“We’re SEALs, Candy. We don’t go down without a fight. Butch wasn’t about to let the enemy sneak up on his remaining team members like he did him. He figured if he was a goner, he was going to take the rat bastard with him. He twisted the fucker’s hand until he released the blade, swiped his legs out from under him, and butchered him with the dude’s own knife. By the time Butch was through with him, there wasn’t a distinguishing feature on him for his terrorist buddies to use for identification.”
My ears buzz at hearing this horrific story. A normal person would be terrified to learn the man they’re fixated on is a gruesome murderer. But all I feel is pride for Butch dishing out a punishment far exceeding what he received.
Enlightenment smacks me in the forehead. “Oh! Butchered? Is that why you guys call him Butch?”
“You got it,” Ziggy says, with a wink .
I blink the memory away, returning my focus to the massive biker standing before me.
His chiseled outline is as sharp as cut stone. The way his arms and thighs push out away from his body, from the mass of hard muscle surrounding them, has me biting back a deprived sigh. With arms bigger than my thigh muscles, I can imagine the damage he could do in a fight, and the protection he could give to someone like me.
Safety.
He’s utterly perfect.
With how intensely Butch gazes back at me, a rush of heat sweeps low in my belly. It’s a regular occurrence to grow wet between my thighs when I’m in the presence of this man. Can’t blame me for my bodily reaction when the man has the face of an angel and a body built for sin.
Butch is one of the few in the club I’ve not been intimate with. Most of the guys have initiated a hookup with me if they were interested in getting their dick wet. However, Butch never has tried with me or any of the other bunnies in the club. He’s a pariah within the MC of horny bikers.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed his lack of interest in sex. His biker brethren questioned if Butch was asexual, since none of them witnessed him hooking up with another person.
The crew’s theory would carry more weight if it weren’t for me, catching Butch’s dreamy eyes on me often. It was a common occurrence to find him staring at me with a heated gaze, one that caused my stomach to flutter like some lovesick teenager. In all the times our gazes connected across the room, never once did he start a conversation with me, let alone suggest sex.
Seeing him in the doorway with the same smoldering look in this handsome face has my insides melting into a puddle of warm goo. I need to get a grip on my arousal before it gives me away.
For months, I’ve sworn off all men. Jo joining the crew as Atlas’s woman caused a shift in the club dynamic. What was once your stereotypical biker MC with wild parties and orgies became a thing of the past. The crew still likes to party, but the scene has mellowed. Sex happens behind closed doors these days.
When I realized having sex with the guys wasn’t necessary to stay in the club, I pulled away altogether. Grateful or not for the crew’s help in my life, I wouldn’t continue sleeping with any of them, especially when I wasn’t finding fulfillment from it.
Doesn’t mean I haven’t fantasized about what sleeping with Butch would be like. He’s the highlight of my nightly dreams.
Would he be domineering, like most of the men in the club? Would he be generous in his pleasure giving? Adventurous? What would it feel like to run my fingers through his short, brown hair, to run my hand along his sharp jawline? Would his muscles quiver underneath my fingertips as I trail them over his shredded muscles?
Feeling my cheekbones burn with blush, I bite my lower lip, imagining it’s Butch’s heavy lower lip on his heavenly mouth. The things I would love to do with his mouth…
I bet he’d be amazing in bed, giving plenty of aftercare, like any good dom should. Something I would do if the roles were reversed. I wonder if he would object to me taking the lead in bed, riding him hard until we both explode.
The abrasive sound of Butch clearing his throat has me snapping out of my ogling.
Shit, am I drooling? I wipe at the corners of my mouth, in case I was, as I rise from the floor.
Butch observes me, waiting for an answer to his question. His posture is still, like he’s uncomfortable confronting me.
“Why are you in here hiding?” he repeats, his voice jarring and deep. “Are you okay?”
“Oh. Um. Yeah, I’m fine, sort of.” My voice comes out all squeaky, showcasing my nerves. I swallow, attempting to compose myself. “How did you know I was in here? Were you…watching me?”
Not going to lie. The thought of this gorgeous man smitten enough to keep tabs on me is hot—stalker vibes and all .
Yeah, I know. I have a few screws loose. But this is Butch we’re talking about. The man is swoon worthy.
Butch rubs the back of his thick neck, like he’s unsure how honest he should be with me. He looks over his shoulder, possibly making sure we’re alone. Seeing no one is watching, he looks back at me. The taut muscles in his neck strain as he swallows.
“May I join you?”
Why is he asking to join me? In a closet, of all places?
My confusion must be apparent on my face as Butch adjusts his rigid features into something more friendly. His lips tip upward in a shy smile, making his alluring dimples to pop. It makes him seem boyish and less severe than he normally appears. The dude has no clue how inviting he is by being himself—strict and all.
“If you say no, it’s okay,” he says in a grating whisper, something that would send chills down the spines of most people.
However, his voice has the opposite effect on me. It causes my insides to fill with warmth and spread to the extremities of my body, knowing he’s chosen to speak to me when he hardly speaks.
Though I’m not used to hearing his voice, it’s apparent he’s trying to speak gently. His damaged vocal cords inhibit how his tone comes across.
Poor biker boy. It makes me want to reach out and run my fingers over his scar, to soothe him from the outside.
“I thought maybe talking in the closet would be easier for you.” Looking unsure of himself, he rubs at the back of his neck again. His eyes drop to the floor between us. “Honestly, it may be easier for me to talk to you in the closet, too.”
Surprised, I ask, “Easier for you how?”
Looking deep in thought, his lips and eyebrows pucker, like he’s trying to find the right words to say. “’Cause no one else will hear me except you.”
There’s sadness in his voice. It may be hard to discern through his rough tone, but I hear it. Or maybe I feel it in his words. My heart clenches, guessing why he’s embarrassed to speak around others has a lot to do with how he sounds to others.
Still confused as to why he’s asking for permission to join me, I wave him into the small space.
He steps into the closet, shutting us both in the dark. I hear the flick of a light switch before a little overhead light floods the space with a soft glow.
The supply closet becomes a lot smaller with a six-foot-two giant practically bumping chests with me. He tries to create space between us by leaning against the back of the door, like he’s attempting to honor my personal bubble. Hard to do when the man is a solid wall of towering muscle and thick limbs. Besides, I like him filling the once vacant space surrounding me. It chases away some of my loneliness.
Having Butch within touching distance has a zing of excitement running through my bloodstream. It’s a little dizzying.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
All I do is gape at the quiet giant, unable to think clearly as his smoky clove scent invades my senses. It’s a pleasant smell, reminding me of cozy, peaceful bonfires on a fall night. I want to bury my face against his chest, breathing him into my lungs.
My tongue involuntarily dips out of my mouth to lick my bottom lip, hoping to taste his scent in the shared air between us. I bet he tastes as earthy as the spice he smells like.
Gaaawd. I want to lick him like a lollipop, from head to toe. See if he tastes as good as I imagine.
Butch’s eyes follow my tongue. He swallows, hard. I watch, transfixed, as his Adam’s apple bobs against the puckered outline of his scar.
“I’m always watching you,” he slowly answers in a gravelly voice.
Say what, now?! Did I hear him correctly?
My heart takes off sprinting, giddiness fizzing like soda in my nerves.
Sure, some women see men spying on them through cameras as a major red flag. With me, red flags seem pointless to wave about when red is my favorite color. Had I known he was watching, I would’ve put on a little show, get him revved enough to throw himself at me.
If this biker is watching me, it could only mean he’s interested, right?
He dips his head, the floor of the closet suddenly holding more interest. I want to stomp the floor with the heel of my shoes out of jealousy for breaking his eye contact.
“It’s kind of my job as tech security to monitor club members’ whereabouts,” Butch further clarifies.
My insides deflate at his words.
“Ah,” I mutter, fighting my face from expressing disappointment while my heart sinks like a ball of lead into my gut. Perhaps the stomach acids will do this useless organ in, ending my suffering and humiliation.
Stupid me for thinking he wanted to watch me. And of course, he’s monitoring the cameras located around the club when he sees me slip inside the supply closet like some recluse weirdo.
Ugh! Can fate give me a break for once? Geez.
It’s ridiculous I considered Butch may be interested in me at all, and I’m disappointed with myself for getting my hopes up for someone I have no chance of being with.
What would I bring to the table?
Butch’s a hot mercenary biker with an IT background who takes down bad guys each day with the work he does in the club. I’m an ex-call girl with no other work skills or education. Not to mention, I betrayed the club a few short weeks ago. I’m not exactly exuding fantastic character.
He’s an all-around ten. I…let’s be honest. I probably don’t register on his scale factor.
Biker boy probably came to check on me, making sure I wasn’t up to no good. What sensible person would sneak into a closet? I’m sure I looked sketchy as fuck on his computer monitor, hiding away under the stairs. How stupid was I for not recalling the cameras in the hall around the closet ?
Gah! How many times has he seen me shuffle into this space?
I groan internally, shaking my head at my foolish self.
“But…” he clears his throat, his hazel eyes finding mine again, “I watch you while I’m off the clock, too.”
Lord, come get me. Pretty sure my soul has left my body from Butch’s confession.
“Why?” I blurt, bewildered.
A solid minute passes with Butch looking into my eyes, his jaw shifting from side to side like he’s contemplating his answer.
Finally, he clears his throat, saying, “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No. Is it because I crossed the club? Did Atlas tell you to monitor me?”
“Nobody told me to track you, nor was anyone ordered to keep tabs on you. I?—”
Voices in the hall outside the closet have me throwing my hand over Butch’s mouth to silence him. It’s embarrassing enough having Butch find me hiding in a closet. I don’t need anyone else in the crew finding out where I sneak off to. One biker questioning my reasoning is quite enough.
I strain my ears to hear if the voices are moving down the hall or staying put.
With my attention preoccupied, I nearly jump out of my combat boots when Butch’s much larger hand covers mine over his mouth. My eyes snap back to his fine-looking face, seeing him caress my wrist with his fingertips. Delicious goosebumps erupt across my skin from his tender touch.
He’s touching me. Oh, my God! Butch is touching me.
Butch closes his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. His shoulders drop an inch, relaxing, almost like my touch has brought him some sort of inner peace.
What. Is. Happening?
Why is he smelling my skin? Christ! He’s smelling me—me!
Of all the women I’ve seen throw themselves at Butch, he’s not shown a hint of interest. No one seemed to capture his attention, and plenty have tried to win the heart of this quiet biker. So, why is he being affectionate with me? How am I different?
Overwhelmed, I stand in front of Butch, transfixed on the sharp lines of his diamond-shaped face. His prickly, stubble-covered cheeks tickle my palm. He’s the closest he’s ever been to me, and I won’t waste a second focusing on anything other than him.
My insides tingle with a foreign sense of serendipity mounting higher with each second we remain connected. I dare to hope this moment means something more than two people physically touching. The intimacy alone is unlike anything I’ve experienced before. Sweet and easy.
The voices in the hallway grow louder before fading as they pass the supply closet, disappearing until there’s nothing left but me and Butch.
At this point, I couldn’t care less if the owners of those voices stopped and opened the closet to find us. I’m too fixated on the fact that my palm is covering the velvet pillows that make up Butch’s lips.
And then I feel it. The lightest press of his lips against my skin.
A kiss from Butch to me.
The moment is beyond tender. I can’t help leaning into his touch, absorbing as much of this precious contact as I can. Having been alone for far too long, I want to feel more—need it.
Though I’ve had my fair share of consensual sex, it was only that—sex. No emotions, no hope for anything more than a quick release.
This gentleness Butch gives is what I’ve been neglected. And it quickly becomes a drug.
His eyes open, darkened with a look I’m all too familiar with seeing in men’s eyes. But this time, I don’t mind the man desiring me. I crave his eyes on me. I want to demand his attention stay on me, to see nothing and no one else other than me.
Slowly, I pull my hand back from his mouth. Butch continues to hold my wrist. My heart thunders in my chest for the many probable reasons he won’t let go. Hoping he wants something more with me seems too surreal to be a choice. Though I can’t help wanting it to be true.
He swallows before asking in a lower voice, “Does that explain it?”
“No,” I admit in a whispered breath. “Could you clarify?”
It’s a big ask when the man doesn’t like to speak.
He cocks his head. “You want me to be more straightforward?”
“Directness would help.”
“You like giving directions,” Butch clarifies, with a hint of amusement in his tone.
I shrug, unabashed. Yes, I can be pushy. I’m a Scorpio, after all. “That, too.”
“I love that.”
Hearing him use the word love causes my brain to short-circuit. It’s rare when I find myself rendered speechless. Years of verbal abuse from Johns taught me always to be on my toes, expect the unexpected. Butch has literally spoken a dozen sentences to me, catching me off guard multiple times since opening the supply closet door. It’s disorienting. It takes me a hot second before my thoughts regroup.
“Okay. I’m demanding, and you like when I’m demanding. So…give it to me straight. Why are you watching me?”
That small smile of his reappears, curling his lips in the corners of his mouth and bringing his dimples front and center. “Is that an order?”
Is he teasing me? It’s hard to tell, since this is our first official interaction with each other. Yet I have a hunch he’s toying with me. Biker boy is hinting at something, and I don’t enjoy being in the dark.
“Sure,” I say, fighting to stop my impatience from slipping into my tone.
My stomach does a somersault with what he does next.
Without saying a word, Butch holds my stare, sinking to the floor on his knees.