Chapter Fourteen
Lula
Given what Raff told me about Zayn, I’d gone with a general ‘sexy’ vibe for my dress. But with a classy edge. Tight, black, a little sparkly, but no tits hanging out, no worries about flashing the whole bar if I raised my arms over my head.
For my hair, I went with natural. Partly because it felt more appropriate than a slick-back bun. But also partly because I liked how much Raff seemed to like it.
I packed all my remaining jewelry for the road trip—too paranoid to leave anything worthwhile behind in a motel room—so I slipped on some small, chunky gold hoops and an understated gold necklace.
Then I applied my makeup, spritzed on some perfume, slipped into the new heels I bought which I knew were going to leave blisters if I stood for too long, then made my way toward the door.
I’d just stepped into the hall upstairs when I heard the chorus of male voices.
Among them, my mind seemed to immediately isolate Raff. But there were maybe three others.
The sister club bikers.
I was only halfway down the steps when a tall, wide, bearded guy—bringing serious lumberjack vibes—spotted me and inclined his chin.
Seeing that, the others turned.
There was a guy in all black, with dark hair, gauged ears, and a quiet air about him.
And then there was another guy—younger, tattooed, easy smile—who sort of reminded me a bit of Raff.
Then, of course, there was Raff himself.
Gone was his usual uniform of jeans and tees (or board shorts and tank tops). In its place was a pair of pressed black slacks, a tucked-in black button-up, and loafers. All of it was well-tailored—not too loose, not too long.
His messy hair was slicked back.
There was an expensive-looking white gold watch on his wrist.
Desire was a punch to the gut, making me want to fold forward to ease the impact.
My feet refused to move as his gaze raked over me, taking me in while I stayed transfixed by his transformation.
Raff moved forward, offering a hand that I was helpless to take since I no longer trusted my feet not to trip over themselves and send me face-planting onto the landing.
At the touch, a sizzle coursed up my arm, wrapped around my throat, and settled in my chest, my stomach, lower.
“You clean up nice,” I said, my voice just for the two of us as my feet hit the lower level.
“You walked in here, and I forgot my own fucking name,” he murmured back, his voice soft.
My belly flipped.
“Guys, this is Lula,” he called to the group. “Lula, this lumberjack here is York. The guy with the gauges is Velle. And that is Dixon Cider.”
I almost choked on my spit.
“What?” I looked between the two men, searching for a hint of a smirk, some sign that he was joking.
Because who names a child Dixon Cider?
“I got a brother named Caymen.”
“No, you don’t.”
“He does,” Raff confirmed. “No need for road names with real names like that.”
“Looks like the car just pulled up.”
“The car?” I asked.
“Zayn sent a stretch SUV,” Raff explained, shaking his head. “He’s a little over the top.”
“This is a man who once filled a hot tub with top-shelf champagne,” Velle said. “This is pretty tame by comparison.”
“Let me just grab my wallet and phone and we can go,” I said, walking over to my purse. I barely got it in my hand before Raff whipped it out, flipped it open, removed my ID, slipped it into his pocket, then dropped it back on the table.
“You don’t need that.”
That was… almost unbearably hot. My damn knees felt a little wobbly.
“Want me to carry your phone too? You’re lacking in the pocket department.”
I had no one to call anyway, so I handed it over.
With that, we made our way outside, where Raff opened my door and waited for me to slide in before joining me on the sideways seats.
There was plenty of room, but he sat close, our bodies brushing from shoulder to knee. Each inch ignited, the flames licking through my whole body until the heat felt nearly unbearable.
I was so distracted by his nearness that I didn’t notice the pop of the cork or glasses being filled until Raff held a flute of champagne in his hand.
He turned toward me, his chest brushing my arm, his arm sliding behind my neck on the seat.
“Champagne?” he asked, his voice velvet-soft.
“Sure,” I agreed, my own voice paper-dry.
“I’m going to need you to stop doing that,” he said, close enough for me to feel his warm breath on my neck.
“Doing what?” I asked.
He leaned down, just a little, almost like he was thinking about pressing his lips to my neck.
“Looking at me like you’re curious.”
His head dipped.
My heart stopped.
But then he turned away, saying something to one of the other guys while I tried to remember how to breathe.
I raised the flute to my lips and sipped, pretending to listen to the men as they spoke while what I was really doing was trying to convince the goosebumps that had raised on my skin at Raff’s words to flatten back out.
Parts of me were still thrumming with interest as the stretch pulled up at the curb beside the club, with no words on the sign, just a green viper—fangs exposed—on an inverted triangular sign.
The line was wrapped down the block, and for a split second, I worried about my feet in the pinching heels until I realized if Zayn sent a stretch SUV for us, surely we would bypass the line.
The men slid out, and Raff’s hand was there waiting to help me out. As soon as I was on my feet, he pulled my hand up to his mouth and pressed a quick kiss to my knuckles before releasing it.
There was a split second of disappointment before I felt it slide across my lower back instead, making a shiver work its way through me.
When a group of drunk guys stumbled out the front doors, chased by a linebacker dressed as a bouncer, Raff’s hand curled around my hip, pulling me closer.
As predicted, the guys rattled off our names, and without even checking our IDs, the rope was opened for us to move inside, making the next group of people in line groan.
I stiffened as we stepped inside, the decibel level climbing to a point that had my shoulders inching up near my ears. Had clubs always been so loud? Were my ears too old for this now?
Raff, likely feeling my tension with our bodies so close, gave my hip a reassuring little squeeze as he guided me to follow the other guys through the first crush of people, then up toward a staircase to a balcony that seemed to be defying physics as it hung over half the club with no visible support beams—just suspended from some thick cables from the ceiling.
“This is insane,” I told Raff as I slid into the leather booth, blocked on both sides by bikers.
Below us, the dance floor was full of bodies moving together as the music blasted from the speakers, the bass forcing my heartbeat to thud in tune.
More champagne appeared, and I took another flute without thinking, needing something to take the sharp edges off my desire as I became acutely aware of each infinitesimal shift of his body.
It was often enough that I started to question if he was doing it on purpose, even if I knew he was just leaning forward to be heard over the music or throwing his head back to laugh.
And the way his arm would casually slide behind me on the top of the couch? Diabolical.
I was completely and utterly overwhelmed by him—his movements, his voice, his smiles, the coconut-lime-rum scent of him.
I’d never felt anything like it before—the way the whole world narrowed to just him. Everything else became background—the other men at the table, the lights, the music.
The rational part of me wanted to blame the alcohol. But even for a very occasional drinker, two small flutes of champagne weren’t going to alter me that much.
When a glass of something red was pushed into my hands, and Raff whispered a “Trust me,” so close to my ear that his lips brushed the shell of it, I immediately brought it up to sip.
The familiar taste of cran-apple-raspberry, mixed with the tang of vodka, exploded over my taste buds.
My head whipped over, and he shot me a knowing smile as he raised his rocks glass to take a sip of something amber.
Moisture glistened on his lower lip afterward, and I had the immediate urge to lean over and lick it off.
Seeming to sense my focus, Raff’s eyes swept over, roamed down me, then back up again.
Gaze still on me, he tipped up his glass, drained it, then settled it on the table.
“You want to dance?”
“You dance?”
He leaned closer, his breath on my cheek. “Does that not fit in with the idea you have of a biker?” he asked.
“I… don’t know.”
I was starting to wonder if I knew anything about myself anymore. This road trip had uncovered parts of me that not only had been long buried, but ones I hadn’t known existed.
And this intense, all-I-could-think-about attraction to Raff was making it difficult to breathe right, let alone focus.
He reached out, touching the bottom of my glass and tipping it up.
I followed the silent instruction, draining my own glass, only to have him take it from me, settle it on the table, stand, then extend his hand toward me.
The sliver of rational thought that still existed tried to convince me that I planted my hand there only because our VIP section was getting a little crowded by gorgeous women the other bikers had literally pointed at, then crooked their fingers at to invite them up.
But I knew it had nothing to do with them. And everything to do with Raff.
The air felt thicker as he pulled me deep into the crowd on the dance floor. It was impossible to tell if it was all the people, or the way his body moved behind mine. The people around us forced him so close that I felt my ass press against his pelvis.
His hand released mine, sliding up my arm. The movement had his sleeve sliding up just a bit to reveal the bracelet I’d made him still around his wrist.
My heart twisted.
Before I was even aware of my brain telling me to do it, my hand was lifting, tracing my finger over the tiny little beads. My head angled backward, glancing up to find him already watching me, something so intense in his gaze that my belly swooped.