Chapter Four
Wren
Iwoke to sunlight slicing through cheap blinds, warming my face in strips of shining gold.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was.
The unfamiliar ceiling above me was cracked in places, water stains forming continents in the corners.
Then I felt the weight of an arm across my stomach, and memories of the night before crashed back like a very pleasurable wave.
Rocky. The bar. The ride. The fucking incredible sex that had left me sore in the best possible way.
I turned my head to find him still asleep beside me.
Without the intensity of his gaze, he looked different.
Younger maybe, or just less… harsh? Guarded?
His face relaxed in sleep, the hard lines around his mouth softened.
His hair stuck up at odd angles where I'd run my hands through it last night.
The sheet had slipped down to his waist, exposing his torso.
Holy shit, the man was built like a fucking god.
Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, heavy muscles defined without being overly bulky.
But what really caught my attention were the tattoos.
They covered his chest and arms in a patchwork of ink that told stories I could only guess at.
Sure, the men at Bound in Blood were all built solidly.
Some from their military or law enforcement days, others from prison, but for some reason, this man was worlds above all of them.
Scars decorated his body almost as much as the tatts. I had to wonder what kind of life this man had led. Likely just as rough a life as most of the people I knew. Each mark represented a chapter in his life.
His eyes opened suddenly, catching me staring. I expected him to flinch or turn away. Didn’t most guys get weird the morning after, especially when they found you staring at them? Instead, he smiled. A real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"Morning, little lioness," he said, voice rough with sleep. "Like what you see?"
"Maybe," I said, not willing to give him the satisfaction. "Your ceiling could use some work though."
He laughed, a deep rumble I could feel where our bodies touched. "Yeah, landlord's a cheap bastard. Coffee?"
"God, yes."
Rocky untangled himself from the sheets and stood, stretching his arms overhead.
The movement pulled his back muscles taut and the ink across his shoulders rippled, making my mouth water.
He grabbed his jeans from the floor and pulled them on sans underwear, leaving them unbuttoned and hanging dangerously low on his hips.
"Stay put if you want," he said over his shoulder as he padded barefoot toward what I assumed was the kitchen. "Or come watch me work my magic." He winked at me over his shoulder.
The apartment was small, every surface was spotlessly clean but sparse, like he'd just moved in or might leave at any moment. No photos, no personal touches.
The whole place smelled of him. Leather and gasoline, and now the scent of coffee joined the mix as I heard the gurgle and spit of an ancient coffeemaker starting up.
I slipped out of bed, scanning the floor for my underwear. Finding them, I pulled them on, then grabbed his discarded T-shirt from last night and tugged it over my head. It hung to mid-thigh, which was decent enough for breakfast.
When over to him, Rocky had his back to me, digging through a nearly empty fridge. "Hope you like bacon and eggs," he said without turning around.
I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms as I watched him pull out a carton of eggs and a package of bacon. "Works for me."
Rocky grabbed a cast iron skillet from a hook on the wall and set it on the stove with practiced ease. He tossed the bacon in the pan before breaking several eggs and setting them aside.
"You cook often?" I asked, surprised by his apparent comfort in the kitchen.
"Every day." He laid strips of bacon in the pan, which hissed and popped as they hit the hot surface. "Can't stand takeout."
I moved closer, drawn by both the delicious smell and the chance to study his tattoos up close. I traced my finger along Italian script on his shoulder. "What's this one mean?"
He tensed slightly under my touch, then relaxed. "La famiglia è tutto. Family is everything." He cracked four eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a fork. "Got it when I was eighteen."
"Close with your family?" I asked, continuing to trace the tattoos on his back.
"Was." He poured the eggs into a second pan where he’d melted a generous portion of butter. "Like I said last night, it's just me now."
My fingers found a small, crude tattoo at the base of his neck, barely visible above his collar when he wore a shirt. A simple cross with a date. "And this one?"
"My mom." He stirred the eggs, his movements never pausing despite the personal nature of my questions. "The day she died."
"Sorry," I murmured, not sure what else to say.
He shrugged. "Long time ago."
The bacon sizzled, filling the kitchen with its mouthwatering scent. The coffee maker finally stopped its death rattle, producing what I hoped was drinkable caffeine.
He nodded toward a small sugar bowl on the counter. "Milk's in the fridge if you want it."
"Black is fine." I poured myself a cup, breathing in the steam. "Who taught you? Too cool.”
"My uncle. Same guy who taught me to wrench." Rocky plated the bacon and stirred the eggs again. "What about you? Ghost teach you to ride?"
"Yeah. Got my first bike at eighteen." I sipped the coffee. It was surprisingly good for coming from such a decrepit machine. "Nothing fancy, but I fixed it up with Ghost. Loved that thing." I felt a smile tug my lips as I remembered that time in my life.
"How long you had your bike?"
"Ghost gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. I customized the hell out of it."
Rocky nodded appreciatively as he divided the eggs between two plates. "Thought I recognized quality work. You do the purple paint job yourself?"
"Every inch." I couldn't help the pride in my voice. That bike was my baby.
We ate standing at the counter, hip to hip, the casual domesticity of the moment striking me as strange. I barely knew this man, yet here we were, sharing breakfast like we'd done it a hundred times before. Had to admit, it beat the hell out of the whole awkward morning after scenario.
"You're different in the morning," I said, studying his profile.
He raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
"I don't know. Less… intense. More..." I gestured vaguely with my fork, not sure how to explain it.
"Normal?" He offered with a half-smile.
"Yeah. Normal. Like a regular guy who makes great bacon instead of..." I trailed off.
"Instead of the guy who fucked you senseless last night?" His grin turned wicked.
I felt heat rise to my cheeks but held his gaze, trying to act like I did this shit all the time.
He likely believed I did and I was OK with that.
The less of a big deal I made out of the situation the better.
Especially when the thought of not doing this — whatever this was — again made my chest ache.
So far, I genuinely liked this guy and wanted to see him again, even if was only for sex. "Something like that."
Rocky chuckled, and I found myself laughing with him, the moment light and easy in a way I hadn't expected. As I watched him eat, those skilled hands that had mapped every inch of my body now handling a fork with casual grace, I realized I was in danger of liking this man far more than was wise.
After we finished eating, I knew I couldn’t put off leaving any longer. Much as I hated giving up Rocky’s T-shirt, I also couldn’t ride a bike in what I currently had on. Pants were essential.
I scooped up my dress from the floor, then whipped off the T-shirt and pulled my dress over my head.
I grimaced at how the fabric clung in all the wrong places.
The second biggest hazard of a one night stand?
The morning-after walk of shame in last night's clothes.
I tugged at the hem, trying to straighten what was now permanently wrinkled.
At least until I washed and ironed it. Or just got it fucking dry cleaned.
"Need help with that?" Rocky leaned against the wall, watching me struggle with the zipper. His jeans still hung low on his hips, and he hadn't bothered with a shirt. The sight of his bare chest made me consider staying a little longer.
"I got it." I turned, giving him my back. "But you can zip me up."
His fingers brushed my spine as he pulled the zipper closed in a slow, deliberate movement. His fingers lingered at the base of my neck and I suppressed a shiver. "You sure you gotta go?" His voice was low, a rumble against my ear as he stepped closer.
"Ghost will be looking for me." I pulled away reluctantly, scanning the floor for my boots. "And I'm not in the mood for a lecture about disappearing all night."
Rocky nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Ghost sounds like a protective type."
"You have no idea." I spotted my boots under the edge of the bed and sat down to pull them on. "He once tracked me for three days when I took off after an argument. Found me two states away. Didn’t matter I was twenty with my own bike and my own money. The phrase ‘daddy’s girl’ was thrown around by him several times before I gave in and came back.
" I stuck my finger up accusingly. “For the record, he guilted me into coming back. He did not manhandle me back to the compound.”
Rocky chuckled. “He totally manhandled you back to the compound.” I gave him what I hoped was a death stare. He didn’t look the least bit intimidated. "That's some serious dedication." He didn’t bother to hide his smile.
"That's Ghost." I stood, feeling more like myself with my boots on. My club vest lay draped over a chair, the patches catching the morning light. I slipped it on, the weight of it familiar and grounding.
"Suits you," Rocky said, watching me adjust the vest. "The whole badass biker chick thing."