Chapter 2 Austin #2
Her gaze darts toward the tree line, her chest heaving under that knit wool as she tries to find air I’m not already breathing. I can smell her arousal now, a concentrated wash of musk and lavender that makes my pulse jump and heat the pull of desire against my denim.
"It’s just coffee, Austin. Don't read into it."
"I read into everything." I lean in until my chest brushes the swell of her tits, my voice dropping to a low, possessive growl. I take the coffee from her hand, my calloused fingers dragging slowly across hers to ensure she feels the heat of my skin.
Her skin is warm. Soft. Mine is rough, calloused, stained with dirt and work. The contrast makes my blood pound.
Courtney shivers and retreats, trying to outrun the tension by backing up the porch steps, but I’m on her in a heartbeat.
I trap her against the doorframe, my massive frame cutting off the morning light and her only exit. She stands there, caged between the rotting wood and my body. I take a sip, never taking my eyes off her. "Sleep well?"
"No," she says sharply. "I slept in a house that makes noises like it’s dying, on a mattress that smells like mothballs, knowing there’s an arrogant biker lurking in the woods."
"I didn't lurk in the woods. I lay in my bed. Thinking about you in yours."
Air catches in her throat. Her pupils dilate, swallowing the hazel of her irises. "Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Stop... doing that. Flirting. Threatening. Whatever this aggressive alpha routine is."
She tries to shrink away, but there is nowhere to go with her spine already pressed flat against the doorframe.
"I am here to sell this house, Austin. James—my attorney—says the market is hot. I just need to patch it up and get it listed. Then I’m gone. Back to Chicago."
"Chicago." I say the word like a curse. "Too many people. Too much concrete. You don't belong there."
"I have a life there! I have a career."
"You have a job," I correct her. "Or maybe you pretended to live someone else’s life."
Her eyes widen, flashing with indignation. "How dare you!"
"I’m just stating facts here, Court." I step closer, invading her personal space until I can smell the lavender on her shampoo and the warm, musky scent of her sleep-warm skin.
"And after coming back here, to the life you left behind, I can see that the city had nothing to offer you, after all.
Safety, maybe. Financial security. But here you are, no husband. No boyfriend, either."
I capture her left hand. My thumb sweeps over her ring finger. Her hand is small in mine. Delicate. I could crush it, but I hold it with a reverence that borders on worship.
"There isn't," she whispers, voice trembling.
"No," I agree, my voice dropping to a low, rough timbre. "Which means you’re fair game."
"I am not game, Austin. I’m not one of your club girls."
"You're right. You're not." I release her hand and slam my palm flat against the rotting wood of the doorframe right beside her ear, leaning down until she’s trapped between the house and my heat. "Club girls are for a night—easy, disposable holes to scratch an itch. You? You’re the infection in my blood, Courtney. The fever that’s been burning through my veins for ten long years, and I’m done trying to sweat you out. "
She stares up at me, lips parted. I can see the pulse hammering in the hollow of her throat. She’s scared, but standing her ground. That’s the key. She’s not running.
"I have to work," she says weakly, trying to salvage her resolve. "I have... I have to clean the parlor. The wallpaper is peeling."
"Good. I'll help."
"No. You're fixing the porch."
"I work fast." I push off the peeling wall, finally giving her an inch of space, though it costs me everything to pull my body away from hers. "I'll finish the steps by noon. Then I'm coming inside to finish what we just started."
"To help?" she asks suspiciously.
"To do whatever needs doing." I turn back to the lumber, picking up the saw.
I look back at her over my shoulder, catching her staring at the flex of my back muscles.
"Go inside, Court. Get out of my sight before I decide to take a break and eat that pussy for breakfast right here on these rotting boards. "
She makes a strangled, needy noise and retreats into the house, slamming the door between us.
The sound echoes, vibrating through the porch and straight into my boots, but it doesn't shut me out. We both know that door is nothing but rotting wood and rust. I could kick it off the hinges with one shove and take what’s mine.
But I won’t. I don't need to break in. I’m going to dismantle her defenses piece by piece, just like I’m dismantling this porch, until she realizes the only structure left standing in her life is me.
By the time the sun is high and burning through the fog, the stairs are solid. I test them with my full weight, jumping on the treads. Solid oak, reinforced with steel brackets. They’ll hold.
I wipe the sawdust from my face with my shirt, pulling it back on. It clings to my damp skin. I grab a bottle of water from the truck, downing half of it in one go, then head inside.
The house is cool and smells of dust. I follow the sound of movement to the parlor.
Courtney stands on a stepladder, stretching to reach the top corner of a strip of ancient, floral wallpaper. Her sweater has ridden up, exposing a strip of pale skin at her waist and the curve of her hip in those tight jeans.
I stop in the doorway, just watching her.
She has the kind of hips that make a man think of primal things. Wide. Soft. Built for cradling. Built for bearing. The image lands like a punch to the gut—her, heavy with my child, her belly round and swelling under my hand, safe inside a house I built for her.
The need to put a baby in her is so sudden and violent it nearly doubles me over.
This goes beyond lust. It’s a biological imperative.
The Gunnars have held this mountain for three generations, and I need a son to hold it for the fourth.
Looking at her, struggling with a scraper and a spray bottle, I know there is no other woman on this earth who can carry my legacy.
"You're doing it wrong," I say.
She jumps, nearly losing her balance on the ladder. I cross the distance before she can fall, hands gripping her waist to steady her.
Her body feels firm and soft all at once. My thumbs dig into her hips, feeling the bone beneath the flesh.
"Don't sneak up on me!" she gasps, gripping my forearms.
"I walked in the front door. Not my fault you're distracted." I don't let go. I keep my hands on her waist, looking up at her. Being this close to her center, with her elevated above me... dangerous. "You need to score the paper first. Steam it. Otherwise you're just tearing the drywall."
"I don't have a steamer," she says, breathless. She looks down at me, her eyes locked on my mouth.
"I have one in the truck. Industrial grade."
"Of course you do," she murmurs. She tries to step down, but I don't move. I block her path, standing between her legs as she stands on the second rung.
"Austin, let me down."
"In a minute." I slide my hands around to the small of her back, pulling her slightly toward me. Her thighs bump against my chest. "Tell me you feel this."
"Feel what?"
"The pull. The gravity." I press my face against her stomach, inhaling the scent of her sweater. "You didn't come back to sell the house, Courtney. You came back because you were tired of running away from where you belong."
Her hands hesitate, hovering over my shoulders, before settling there. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my t-shirt. "It's been ten years, Austin. We aren't the same people."
"No. We're not." I pull back to look at her. "I'm bigger. Meaner. And I have a hell of a lot less patience. And you... you're not a scared little girl anymore. You're a woman." I drag one hand down her thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh. "A woman who needs a man who can handle her."
"I don't need handling," she argues, though her voice lacks any real bite.
"Everyone needs something to lean on." I step back, finally letting her descend. As her feet touch the floor, she stumbles slightly, legs jelly. I catch her arm, steadying her. "I'm going to get the steamer. You go to the kitchen and drink some water. You look faint."
"I'm fine," she insists, smoothing her sweater down. But her cheeks are bright red.
"You're overwhelmed. The house is a wreck. You're in over your head."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I didn't come here to boost your ego, Court. I'm here to fix the problem." I walk toward the door, then pause. "Oh, and James the attorney?"
She stiffens. "What about him?"
"I called him. Told him to pull the listing paperwork."
She draws in a sharp, jagged breath. "You what? You have no right! That is my attorney! You can't just—"
"I told him the property is undergoing significant structural renovation and won't be market-ready for at least six months." I turn, giving her a dark, satisfied smile. "Which is true. Because I’m going to take my sweet time fixing this place up. Room by room. Inch by inch."
"Six months?" she shrieks. "I can't stay here for six months!"
"Then stay at the clubhouse. Or stay in my cabin." I shrug. "But you aren't leaving Pine Valley. Not while there’s work to be done."
"This is kidnapping! Or... or coercion!"
"It's construction," I drawl. "I'm saving you from a lawsuit. You sell this place as is, the roof collapses on the new owners, you're liable. I'm doing you a favor."
She stares at me, mouth agape, vibrating with impotent rage. She knows I’ve outmaneuvered her. She knows that once the Broken Halos MC decides a project is theirs, no one in this town—not even her fancy attorney—will interfere.
"You're impossible," she seethes.
"I'm thorough." I wink at her. "Get water. I'll be back with the steamer. We're doing the master bedroom next."
"Why the master bedroom?"
"Because," I say, my voice dropping to that low, vibrating growl that makes her tremble, "if you're going to be sleeping here for the next six months, I want to make sure the bed is sturdy enough to handle... everything."
I leave her standing there, flushed, her heart pounding loud enough for me to hear from the hallway.
The hunt is over. The trap is sprung. She just needs to stop fighting the cage and realize it’s the safest place she’s ever been.