Chapter 16 #2
Something flashes in his eyes—dark, hungry, possessive. His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, tracing the neckline of my tank top before settling on my chest. His eyes darken, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.
“You wore a bra.”
My skin prickles beneath the fabric, my nipples tightening in response to his attention.
“Didn’t want to anger my boss,” I whisper, my tone somewhat breathless.
The corner of his mouth twitches, and he returns his focus to the road, but not before I catch the way his grip tightens on the steering wheel.
He parks in front of a small diner on Main Street and kills the engine. The sudden silence that follows feels heavy, charged. A restless energy simmers in the pit of my stomach—the kind that occurs when a woman is desperate for an orgasm.
I reach for the door handle, but before my fingers can close around it, Lucifer’s hand covers mine. His body leans across the center console, his chest brushing against my arm. The heat of him seeps through my tank top, and I freeze, my breath catching.
“Don’t.” His voice is rough, commanding. “You wait for me to open the door for you. Got it?”
I turn my head, and his face is inches from mine. His eyes are burning into me, and I can see the flecks of gold in the brown.
“Didn’t peg you to be such a gentleman,” I murmur.
Something dangerous flickers in his gaze. He leans closer, his lips nearly brushing my ear.
“You wouldn’t be calling me a gentleman if you knew the shit going through my mind right now.”
Then he pulls back and exits the truck, slamming the door behind him. I sit there, my thighs clenched together, my pulse racing so fast I’m lightheaded. My skin is on fire where his hand covered mine, and I can still feel the ghost of his breath against my ear.
I’m a fucking needy mess.
I watch him round the front of the truck, painfully aware that even the arrogant way he walks turns me on.
When he reaches the passenger side, he yanks the door open and steps into the space between me and the doorframe.
His hands find my thighs, and he swings my legs toward him, spreading them apart as he steps between them.
My breath hitches.
His hands slide from my thighs to my ass, and he pulls me forward until I’m at the edge of the seat, my body flush against his. I can feel every hard inch of him through the thin fabric of my sweatpants, and my fingers curl into the leather of his cut, holding on for dear life.
His hands slide back down my thighs, slow and deliberate, his fingers tracing the seam of my sweatpants. The touch is barely there, but it sends sparks shooting through my entire body. His eyes are locked on mine, and I can see the same hunger I felt last night—the same barely contained need.
He’s torturing us both, and he knows it.
Then he brushes my hair away from my shoulders, and his gaze falls to my neck. “I hate that these will fade,” he growls.
“You can always add more.”
He licks his lips. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll decorate this pretty neck with something else.”
“Like what?” I rasp.
His finger trails down the column of my neck, and his gaze flits back to mine.
“A pearl necklace.”
Then he steps back, putting a few inches of space between us. He holds out his hand, palm up, and I slide mine into it without hesitation. His fingers close around mine, and he helps me climb out of the truck, steadying me.
He doesn’t let go of my hand.
Instead, he leans down, his lips brushing the top of my head, right where my hair parts. The gesture is so unexpectedly tender.
“Let’s eat,” he murmurs against my hair.
He releases my hand but keeps his palm pressed against the small of my back as he guides me toward the diner entrance. His touch is possessive, and I don’t hate it.
Not even a little.
I let him lead me inside. He pulls out my chair, then moves to sit across from me in a vinyl booth. His knee presses against mine beneath the table, and when the waitress comes to take our order, I watch the way his eyes never leave me—like I’m the only thing in this diner worth looking at.
Physical therapy kicks my ass. There’s no other way to describe it.
My new therapist works me through a circuit that leaves me drenched in sweat and shaking like a leaf.
Lateral step-ups, balance drills on a foam pad, resistance band exercises that make the muscles in my thighs scream.
By the time we finish, my left leg has gone numb twice, and my right is trembling so badly I can barely stand on it.
Lucifer sat through the entire session.
He didn’t say a word. Didn’t offer encouragement or sympathy.
Just sat in the corner of the room with his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set, watching with an intensity that made the air feel thick.
Every time I stumbled or hissed in pain, I caught the muscle in his jaw twitching.
Every time the therapist pushed me to do one more rep, his knuckles turned white where his fingers gripped his biceps.
Now, as he pulls the truck into the compound and kills the engine, I’m still catching my breath. But despite the exhaustion, there’s a restless energy buzzing beneath my skin.
I reach for the door handle, but Lucifer’s hand covers mine again—the same move he pulled at the diner. This time, his touch is gentler, almost cautious.
“Hold on.” I turn to look at him. “You need to sit for a minute,” he says. “Catch your breath.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. I just watched you be tortured for forty-five minutes straight, Jess. It’s okay to give yourself a minute to recover. The grand tour of the pigsty can wait.”
“Fine,” I relent, settling back against the seat.
He watches me for another moment, his eyes scanning my face as if he’s checking for pain. Then he nods and climbs out of the truck. This time, when he opens my door, he doesn’t step between my legs. He just holds out his hand and waits patiently for me to take it.
I slide my palm into his, and he helps me down, his grip firm and steady.
My legs are still trembling from the session, and I lean into him more than I intend to.
He doesn’t seem to mind. His arm slides around my waist, and he holds me against his side as we make our way toward the clubhouse entrance.
The compound is quiet this morning. A few Harleys are parked in the lot, but there’s no one milling around the yard. The stripper pole from last night is still standing in the corner, the paper fans hanging limply in the still morning air.
Lucifer pulls open the heavy wooden door and gestures for me to go ahead of him. I step inside, and I’m hit by the scent of stale cigarette smoke. My eyes adjust to the dim interior, and I stop dead in my tracks.
The clubhouse looks like it’s been hit by a tornado.