Chapter 3
Chapter Three
A s the morning light creeps through the slit in the curtains, I sit up, the thin blanket pooling around my waist. Blaze is already perched on the edge of the bed, his back to me. He’s checking a gun—one that Iron left in the saddlebags for him. The metal gleams, and the muscles of his shoulders ripple as he works.
When I clear my throat, he glances over his shoulder at me.
“Morning, princess.” His voice is gravelly. “Sleep well?”
I ignore the flutter in my stomach.
“Like a baby.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
Blaze holsters his gun at the small of his back. He tosses the baseball cap at me and wiggles the scissors in the air.
“If you think I’m chopping my hair, you’re insane.”
He sets them down on the dresser. “You wanna rob a costume store? ’Fraid there aren’t many this far west of Crown City.”
My thumb brushes over the cap’s frayed edge. We’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but gas stations, dive bars, and…
I sling the cap back at him, a plan forming. “No. But there’s a strip club up in the mountains I’ve passed on club rides.”
Blaze raises an eyebrow. “A strip club? You serious?”
My joints pop as I stand. “You got a better idea? It’s early; they’ll be closed. We’ll be in and out.”
He considers this for a moment then grabs his shirt from the back of the chair, pulling it on. “Strip club it is.”
Get it together, Vina, I think, fussing with my boots and trying to unsee the way his abs flexed.
We’re avoiding our cuts and leather jackets, so I grab a sweatshirt that Iron brought, shrugging it on. It still smells uniquely like Blaze. I inhale deeply and mentally shake myself.
Blaze waits by the door, hand on the knob. “Ready?”
I steel myself to climb back into the bitch seat with his rock-hard body resting between my thighs. “Let’s do this.”
Outside, the air is crisp. The motel parking lot is almost empty, save for a few beat-up cars. Blaze’s replacement bike waits at the end of the row—all sleek black and chrome.
Blaze kick starts the engine and plants his feet while I swing my leg over the seat. Sitting, he revs the engine, the sound echoing off the motel walls.
“Hold on tight,” he calls over the noise.
I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing myself against his back. Even through his shirt and mine, I can feel his heat. We ride out of the parking lot, gravel spraying behind us. The wind whips my hair as we fly down the highway.
Blaze leans into the turns, the bike tilting precariously. I grew up riding, but he’s making it impossible to not hold him in a death grip. It’s a rush, the speed, the danger. And maybe, just maybe, the man in front of me.
We ride for miles, putting distance between us and the motel. And Crown City. And our old lives. After the better part of an hour, a neon sign appears on the horizon, glowing pink against the sky.
The Candy Cane.
Classy.
Blaze pulls into the lot. A few cars are in the lot, but the place looks deserted.
My legs are unsteady when I dismount, and I pace a few steps to get them back in shape. Blaze swings off, stretching. His shirt rides up, revealing a strip of tanned skin, and I look away quickly, scanning the building.
It’s rundown, and a faded poster hangs crookedly on the door, advertising “Live Girls!”
“As opposed to dead ones?” I joke.
Blaze chuckles. “Not your usual scene, princess?”
I glare at him. “Shut up.”
We approach the back door cautiously. It’s unlocked, the knob turning easily in Blaze’s hand. He pushes it open. The odor hits me first—a nauseating mix of stale beer, cheap perfume, and something else I don’t want to identify. The carpet squishes beneath my boots, sticky with God knows what.
Dim red lights line the stage, illuminating a solitary pole with a lone stripper and two patrons in sniffer’s row. Upended chairs on vacant tables clutter the shadowy recesses, but around the stage, glitter sparkles on the floor.
“Thought they’d be closed.” Blaze scratches the scruff on his jaw. “Looks like a twenty-four-hour club.”
“I feel like I need a shower just standing here,” I whisper.
Blaze smirks. “You mean you don’t want a private dance?”
I elbow him in the ribs. “Focus.”
We move further into the club, toward a door marked Dressing Room . It’s ajar, and I push it open with my fingertip, not wanting to touch more than necessary.
Inside, the room is a chaos of sequins, feathers, spandex, and more, ranging from schoolgirl plaid to dominatrix leather. Vanities are cluttered with makeup and half-empty glasses of flat champagne.
I wrinkle my nose. “Reeks like desperation.”
Blaze chuckles, rifling through a rack. “These costumes better be worth it.”
I pick up a G-string between my thumb and forefinger, dangling it in the air. “What do you think, Blaze? Your color?”
He glances over, his eyes sparkling. “Depends. You modeling for me?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks and I toss the scrap of lace aside. “In your wildest dreams.”
“Every night,” he quips.
I roll my eyes, but a small smile tugs at my lips. Who knew the golden boy of the Crown City MC had a sense of humor?
Moving to another rack, I flip through. Nurse, cop, firefighter … every male fantasy represented. Nothing subtle or practical for blending in.
Behind me, Blaze lets out a whistle and drawls, “Dayum. Vina?”
I spin around to find him holding up a skimpy French maid outfit, complete with a frilly white apron and a feather duster.
“Excuse me?” I put my hands on my hips, cocking an eyebrow. “What exactly are you implying?”
A mischievous grin playing on his lips, and he lifts one shoulder. “Nothing. But the way you’re digging into these outfits seems like you know your way around.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Please. I’m not the one who zeroed in on the sluttiest costume here.”
“Oh, you’ve been looking?” He takes a step closer, the maid costume dangling from his fingertips.
I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze head-on. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Me?” He presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I’m not the one eye-fucking the lingerie.”
My mouth drops open. “I was not?—”
But before I can finish, Blaze closes the distance between us, backing me up against the vanity. The edge digs into my spine as he plants his hands on either side of me. The maid outfit flutters to the floor, forgotten.
His face is inches from mine, his breath hot on my skin. The air between us is alive.
“Vina,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?”
I swallow hard, my pulse pounding, and my voice is shaky when I try to cut through this haze. “Rifle through strippers’ clothes?”
A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face as he slowly shakes his head. “Nah. This.”
His mouth is on mine, like yesterday, hot and demanding. I gasp into the kiss, and he takes advantage, his tongue sweeping in. We managed to pretend there weren’t sparks between us overnight, but right now, I can’t fathom why. He tastes like sin, and I can’t get enough.
My hands fist his shirt, drawing him closer. His body is hard against mine, all lean muscle and coiled power. He groans into the kiss, his fingers digging into my hips.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Blaze rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
“I’ve wanted to do that since high school,” he admits, his voice rough. “Seeing you with the emo crowd, dark eyeliner and fuck-off attitude.”
I blink at him, stunned. “You had your herd of jocks and cheerleaders.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t give me the time of day,” he says, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “The dark princess of the Blue Throttle MC, slumming it with lowly jocks. What rumors would’ve flown?”
I remember the younger Blaze—popular, charming, cocky swagger. He’s right, I wouldn’t have looked twice at him in school. But now…
“No idea,” I mumble.
“You never wondered?” His thumb traces my bottom lip. “What it would be like, you and me?”
My mind is reeling. Have I wondered? Only in my deepest, darkest fantasies. The ones I’d never admit to anyone, least of all myself.
But with his body pressed against mine, his scent surrounding me, those fantasies come rushing to the surface. I remember the planes of his torso and imagine what he’d feel like moving above me, inside me.
“Blaze…” I breathe.
It’s all the encouragement he needs. His mouth slants over mine, and this time, there’s no hesitation. His kiss brands me, claims me. I surrender to it, to him, pouring all my pent-up desire and the years of ingrained hate into the press of my lips, the slide of my tongue.
His hands roam my body, slipping under the hem of my sweatshirt. I arch into his touch, my skin burning with every contact. I slide my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, eliminating the space between us.
The kiss turns hungry, desperate. All the denied hateful attraction pours into every stroke of tongue and nip of teeth. Blaze’s hands skim up my ribcage, his thumbs grazing the undersides of my breasts. My body bows against his, seeking more.
He cups my breasts, kneading gently. Pleasure zings through me, pooling hot and heavy in my core. I moan, the sound swallowed by his kiss. His fingers find my nipples, already pebbled and straining. He plucks at them, rolling the sensitive peaks, sending sparks of sensation racing down my spine.
I scrape my nails down his back, feeling his muscles flex beneath my touch. He growls against my lips, a primal sound that sends a shiver through me. His hips surge forward, grinding his hardness against me, hot and insistent.
Blaze tears his mouth from mine, ripping my sweatshirt over my head. My hair cascades over my shoulders as he returns his mouth to me, trailing scorching kisses down the column of my throat. I let my head fall back, giving him better access. He nips at my pulse point, soothing the sting with his tongue. His teeth graze my collarbone, then lower to sink into the swell of my breast.
I’m lost in sensation, drowning in the feel of his hands and mouth on my body.
Blaze’s fingers find the button of my jeans, popping it open deftly. He drags the zipper down, torturously slow. I lift my hips, helping him shimmy the denim down my legs. Cool air washes over my heated skin, quickly replaced by the warmth of his hands as they smooth up my thighs.
He hooks his fingers in my panties, but pauses, lifting his head to meet my gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown with desire, but there’s a question there too. He’s asking for permission, giving me an out if I want it.
But I don’t want out. I want all of him, consequences be damned.
I lift my hips again in silent invitation, and he drags my panties down my legs, baring my pussy.