Property of Riot (Kings of Anarchy: Alabama #2)

Prologue

Kelly

Riot’s mouth is on my throat, hot and possessive, and God help me, I melt for him every single time.

The dim light of my apartment flickers from the hallway lamp, casting shadows across his shoulders as he pins me gently—yes, gently, as if he’s terrified of pushing too far—against the wall.

His hands bracket my hips, warm and rough, sliding up my sides like he already knows the way to unravel me. Because he does.

“Kelly…” he murmurs, voice low and sinful, his breath brushing my ear.

My fingers lace around the back of his head, tugging him closer. It’s instinct now, muscle memory, a gravitational pull I pretend I don’t understand. He kisses me like he’s starving. Like he hasn’t had his mouth on me every chance he gets.

The heat between us sparks fast, too fast, the kind that should terrify me, but instead makes my knees go weak. I feel myself arch into him, feel the quiet growl he gives back. The promise in it. The warning of the intensity yet to come.

This—whatever this is between us—always burns bright, always feels like the beginning of something neither of us will admit out loud because it might just fizzle out if we accept it.

That’s why I have to say it.

I drag my mouth away from his, breathing hard, my heart slamming against my ribs. His forehead rests against mine, his breath ragged, his hands still gripping me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Riot…” I whisper, swallowing the emotion trying to rise. “Don’t fall in love with me,” I remind him like we haven’t been doing this same dance for months.

His eyes open slowly, dark and unreadable. There’s a flicker—hurt, surprise, something warmer—before he masks it with his familiar broody calm.

“We said we were keepin’ it simple,” he mutters, brushing his thumb over my hip. “I remember.”

“No strings,” I say, trying to sound stronger than I feel. “Just… fun.” It’s more of a reminder to myself, but I’ll never tell him this.

He pauses.

Just a beat.

His jaw ticks.

But he nods. “Fun,” he repeats, though the word sounds like it tastes wrong on his tongue.

He lifts me easily, carrying me toward the bedroom with that slow, controlled confidence that always makes my stomach flip. My legs wrap around him automatically, a soft gasp escaping me when his body presses to mine.

“Long as we’re clear,” he says, voice low and rough as he lays me back on the bed. “This is what we agreed.”

I give him a smile that feels thinner than I want it to. “Good,” I lie, because it’s safer that way. “We’re on the same page.”

He studies me for a second too long, like he’s searching for something I’m not ready to give. Something I’m terrified he’ll see. Then he kisses me again, slow at first, deepening until the world goes warm and blurry and beautifully uncomplicated.

His hands slide over me, steady, tender in a way I crave. He moves against me like he knows every thought I haven’t said, every place I need him most. And as our breaths tangle and the room fades around us, I almost forget the rule I insisted on.

Almost.

Because the way he says my name?

The way he touches me like it means something?

The way my heart stumbles in my chest?

If either of us falls first, it’s going to hurt.

So I close my eyes, hold onto the heat, the closeness, the illusion of safety.

Just fun.

Just once more tonight.

Just us.

Not love.

Definitely not love.

No emotions, not even fondness. Physical connection.

Release.

That is what I’m holding onto.

Even if—somewhere deep down—I already know I’m lying.

As he enters me, his thick shaft stretching me in the most amazing way possible, I have to get my head and heart out of this.

My body takes over, desire, want, need even taking over as all thoughts of how good this is and how much better it might be if I dared to let it go away as my body climbs higher and higher with every thrust.

Riot

Three Days Later

Kelly tastes like sugar and feels like trouble in my hands. Familiar and unique at the same time. Then again, this is our song and dance. The one we repeat regularly.

Her back hits the wall with a soft thud, her soft little gasp punching straight through my chest. I’ve had her like this more times than I should admit—pressed between my body and something solid, nowhere for her to go but closer—but it never hits my gut any less.

Every time feels like a first time. When has it ever been like this for me?

Never.

Her fingers curl into the leather of my cut, tugging me down to her. She kisses like she does everything else in life—full send, no hesitation, no halfway. Her mouth opens, warm and sweet, and for a second I forget who the hell I am.

For a second, I’m just a man who gets to have her.

“Ledger…” she breathes against my lips, my name a whisper that sounds like a prayer I have no business hearing.

Yeah. That right there? That’s the problem.

When she calls me Riot, I feel it straight to my cock. When she says Ledger, that pulls at an unfamiliar place deep inside me.

I drag my mouth along her jaw, down her throat, feeling her pulse kick under my tongue. My hands slide up from her hips, memorizing curves I already know by heart. I shouldn’t know her this well. Shouldn’t crave her like this.

She’s not mine.

She’s never been mine.

We agreed.

We are adults who have open communication. She’s the only woman who has ever been fully up front and stood by it. No fuss, no games, she’s here for the orgasms and neither of us are to get caught up in anything more than release.

Still, I find myself holding her like she belongs in my arms.

“Don’t fall in love with me,” she whispers, the words so quiet I almost miss them.

But I don’t.

They land like a punch to the ribs. Once again the words come like she says most times we fuck and each utterance cuts me a little deeper. I freeze for half a second, my forehead resting against hers, my breath rough. Her eyes search mine, big and bright and braced like she expects me to argue.

Maybe she wants me to argue. There is something unspoken in her gaze.

She’s scared.

Not of me.

No her fear is of us.

I understand it. Don’t fall in love that is the rule. Easy, this should be easy.

My chest tightens.

Too late, sunshine. I’m in deep even when I know better.

I swallow it down, shove the feeling where I keep all the other shit I don’t deal with. I smooth my thumb over her ass before I cup her cheeks like it’s no big thing, like my heart didn’t just buck against my ribs.

“No feelings to be had,” I remind her, my voice low, steady. Safer than the truth. “I remember.”

Her chin tips up. “Just,” she hesitates with a heavy inhale, “fun.”

There it is. The line in the sand she thinks will keep her safe.

Fun.

Right.

I roll the word around in my head, then nod once. “Fun,” I echo, even though it doesn’t sit right.

Never has.

I pick her up without warning, her legs wrapping around my waist like they’re meant to be there. She laughs, breathless and surprised, the sound lighting something warm in my chest I don’t deserve.

Her lips brush my jaw as I carry her toward the bedroom. Her hands around my neck, her body soft against mine. Every step I take feels like I’m walking right off a cliff I swore I’d never get near.

“Always clear,” I mutter with a groan, because I have to. Because if I don’t remind us both what this is, I might start pretending it’s more. “This is exactly as it has been.”

She gives me a smile I don’t buy. It’s too bright at the edges, too thin in the middle.

“Good,” she whispers. “We’re on the same page.”

No, we’re not.

Same book, same chapter, maybe.

Different page.

I lay her back on the bed, standing and removing my clothes before bracing myself over her. I had her clothes off back in the living room right after I walked in her place. This is us.

She is naked under me and I feel alive for the first time since I left her in this bed last night. Each day the same torment of putting her to bed with the sated bliss of a good fuck to go back to my life existing until the evening comes and I make my way here yet again.

The way she looks at me—wide open and trusting and a little nervous—makes something inside me go quiet. Makes the noise of the world fall away.

I shouldn’t look at her like this.

Shouldn’t touch her like this.

Shouldn’t come back, over and over, when I know damn well I can’t give her anything real.

But when her hands slide up my chest and her body arches into mine like I’m a habit she can’t break?

Yeah. I’m gone.

I kiss her again, slow and deep, dragging it out. If all I get are these moments, I’m going to embrace every last second out of them. Her fingers curl at the back of my neck, her sigh spilling into my mouth, and I swear I feel it all the way down my spine.

She makes a soft, needy sound, and I answer it without thinking, my hands moving over her, relearning what I already know. What makes her gasp, what makes her cling, what makes the world narrow down to just us.

She says don’t fall in love with me.

What she doesn’t understand is that it isn’t a choice.

Somewhere between her smart mouth in Ally’s bakery and her anxious hands twisting in mine when she couldn’t catch her breath, I started falling.

Quietly.

Stupidly. All the ways a man like never should.

I won’t tell her that.

Won’t tell anyone the power she holds over me.

I let my body speak instead of my mouth. I show her in every touch, every look, everything I’m not supposed to feel. I let myself pretend, just for tonight, that this could be more than an agreement.

My cock aching, I slide inside her tight cunt. Her body molds around me like we are two pieces of some puzzle fitting together in only a way we can. Every thrust she matches my pace, my energy, my damn desire.

No strings.

Just fun.

That’s the deal.

I tell myself I can live with it.

I tell myself I don’t want more.

I tell myself I’ll walk away before it gets bad.

But with her heartbeat steady against my chest, my cock limp inside her covered in her release and my own, I fight this unseen battle inside myself.

For the first time in a long damn time, I hold her against me knowing the lie is thick between us. Because the feelings are real.

And when this blows up—and it will—it’s not going to be her left wrecked.

It will be me.