Chapter 10 #2
I didn’t wait for her to argue.
I started walking, arm still locked around her, and she fell into step beside me. Her body was stiff again, but she didn’t pull away. Not yet.
The night felt a hell of a lot quieter now.
We didn’t talk the whole way to her place.
I kept my arm around her waist like it belonged there.
She stayed stiff at first, then gave up and matched my stride because fighting me on the sidewalk would’ve drawn even more eyes.
I knew exactly where she lived—same apartment complex I’d dropped her at a week ago after the ride from hell.
She knew I knew. The eye roll she gave me when we turned into the lot said it all.
I followed her up the stairs. Her keys rattled loud in the quiet hallway.
The second the door shut behind us her anger filled the whole damn room like smoke.
She paced three steps, spun, paced again.
Low angry hums kept slipping out of her throat—half growl, half mutter—like she was trying to curse me in a language her brain hadn’t invented yet.
I leaned back against the closed door, arms crossed, and watched her.
“You sound just like that damn cat of yours,” I said. “Spitting and meowling in pure rage.”
Her head snapped toward me. Eyes narrowed. “You have some nerve—”
She didn’t finish. Instead she marched straight across the living room, flung open the guest room door, and pointed inside like she was releasing the hounds.
“Bandit! Attack!”
For half a second nothing happened.
Then the cat exploded out of the room like he’d been waiting his whole miserable life for this moment.
He screeched—high, pissed, ears flat—and shot across the floor in a gray blur.
Claws skittered. Tail puffed to twice its size.
He hit the side table first and sent a stack of mail flying.
Then he launched at the kitchen counter, knocked over a glass of water, and kept going.
In under three minutes the place looked like a small tornado had moved in.
Dolores—the tiny barrel cactus she’d bought for the windowsill—went over next.
Pot cracked. Dirt scattered across the floor like brown confetti.
Bandit didn’t even slow down. He ricocheted off the couch, hit the coffee table, and finally skidded to a stop in the middle of the rug, chest heaving, eyes wild.
Sienna’s face changed. “Oh no. Bandit—”
Too late.
The cat’s eyes narrowed to razor slits. He looked straight at the brand-new couch she’d clearly just bought, crouched low, and started sharpening his claws on the armrest like it owed him money. Rrrrip. Rrrrip. Long, deliberate strokes.
I didn’t move.
Just stood in the doorway, arms still crossed, and took it all in. The scattered dirt. The spilled water. The very angry scientist. The very satisfied cat turning her new furniture into ribbons.
A slow grin tugged at the corner of my mouth before I could stop it.
Sienna whirled on me, hair wild, cheeks flushed, looking like she couldn’t decide whether to kill the cat, kill me, or both.
I just lifted one shoulder.
“Guess he missed you too.”
Sienna whirled on me, hair wild, cheeks flushed, looking like she couldn’t decide whether to kill the cat, kill me, or both.
I just lifted one shoulder.
“Guess he missed you too.”
She glared at the fresh claw marks on her brand-new couch, then glared harder at me. The air between us went thick enough to chew. I could still taste lime and chocolate on my tongue from the sidewalk kiss, and the way she was breathing—fast, shallow—told me she hadn’t forgotten it either.
I glanced down at the dried blood on my shirt, then quirked an eyebrow at her. “You gonna help me get this blood out of my new shirt?”
Her middle finger shot up before I finished the sentence.
I grinned slow. “Spicy scientist. I can work with that.”
I reached back, grabbed the collar of my Henley, and pulled it off in one move.
The cool apartment air hit my skin, but the heat rolling off her more than made up for it.
I crossed the small living room, stopping right in front of her.
She was still breathing like she wanted to argue, but her eyes dropped to my chest and stayed there.
“Your mouth was hanging open, darlin’,” I said, lifting her chin with two fingers so she had to look at me.
She slapped my hand away. Hard.
That was all the invitation I needed.
I backed her up until her ass hit the small kitchen counter.
The second her hips met the edge I crowded in close, caging her there with my body.
Hands, lips, tongue—everywhere at once. I took her mouth like I’d been starving for it since the stash house.
She gave it right back, teeth nipping, tongue sliding against mine, fingers digging into my bare shoulders.
I hissed when her palms roamed over my pecs, tracing every ridge and scar like she was memorizing the map of me.
“Damn, baby,” I growled against her lips. “Your hands feel so good.”
She pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, breath ragged. “Oh yeah? How do my lips feel?”
Then she dipped her head and dragged her tongue across one of my nipples, slow and deliberate, before sucking it into her mouth. Hard.
I hissed again, back arching before I could stop it.
My hand fisted in her hair, holding her there while she licked and sucked and drove me half out of my mind.
Her other hand slid down my stomach and palmed me through my jeans—hot, hard, aching.
She squeezed once, perfect pressure, and my hips jerked into her touch on pure instinct.
“I thought you hated me,” I managed, voice rough as gravel.
She looked up, lips shiny, eyes dark. “I don’t have to hate you to want you.”
The words hit me like a cold slap.
I froze.
Everything in me wanted to keep going—strip her right there on the counter, bury myself inside her until neither of us could think straight.
But the rest of it crashed in fast. Awkward good mornings.
Regan’s new pet project. Sienna wasn’t some club girl who knew the rules and could walk away clean.
She was smart, independent, and already tangled up in our world because of Tank’s old lady.
One wrong move and this would turn into a mess bigger than either of us wanted.
I pulled back an inch, chest still heaving, her hand still pressed against the front of my jeans.
Sienna stared at me, lips still shiny, breath coming fast.
“What?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words she’d just dropped between us—I don’t have to hate you to want you—were still ringing in my ears like a bad engine knock.
I stepped back, bent down, and snatched my shirt off the floor.
The blood had dried in dark streaks across the front.
I carried it to the kitchen sink like it was the most important thing in the room.
Cold water. Dish soap. I worked the stain fast, rubbing the fabric under the faucet before it could set.
She followed me. Close. Too close. Her anger filled the tiny kitchen like smoke from a bad exhaust. I could feel her eyes on my bare back, tracing the scars I knew were there.
“I’m not just a piece of man candy okay? I have feelings,” I muttered without looking up.
She didn’t snap back right away. For once she didn’t.
Instead she went quiet. I can’t believe I just admitted that shit. But I did. Maybe, I’d just been listening to that podcast Regan is always blaring about getting in touch with feelings and shit more than I meant to.
I glanced over my shoulder. She was leaning against the counter, arms wrapped around herself, hair falling across one eye. The fire was still there, but something else had slipped in underneath it. Something heavier.
“My ex—” She stopped. Swallowed hard. “After him… maybe I just needed to know I was still wanted. Desired.” Her voice cracked on the last word, small and raw in a way I wasn’t ready for. “I’m not… I don’t sleep around, Mason. I don’t do this. Ever. I’m just… lonely. And you—”
She pushed her hair off her shoulder, eyes shining like she hated every word coming out of her mouth but couldn’t stop them.
“You kissed me like you meant it. You looked at me like I wasn’t just some inconvenient scientist you got stuck with in the desert.
And for one minute I felt wanted again. Not used. Not discarded. Wanted.”
The water kept running over my hands. I didn’t move.
She let out a shaky breath. “I’m not asking for anything. I swear. I just… after the way he left me, I needed to feel like I still existed to someone. Even if it was you. Even if it was just once.”
The kitchen felt too small. The running water sounded too loud.
I shut the faucet off.
For a long second I just stood there, wet shirt dripping between my fingers, chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with the punch I’d thrown earlier.
“I get it,” I said finally. My voice came out rough, like I’d dragged it over gravel.
“My ex… Rylee. She wasn’t just an ex. She was the one I was gonna marry.
Saved for the ring. Had it in my closet the day she walked out on me for a car that cost six figures and a country club membership.
She wanted a designer nursery and the kind of life that came with it.
And I—” I shrugged, the motion feeling too heavy.
“I’m just me. Bike grease, scars, and a clubhouse full of brothers who bleed for each other. That wasn’t enough.”
Sienna watched me, eyes wide. Then the smallest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Soft. Real.
“I like just you,” she said quietly.
The words landed between us like a match on dry grass.
I wrung the shirt out hard, water splashing into the sink.