Chapter Twenty-One
Thin lines of sunlight filtered through the window shutters as Rags stepped out of the bathroom, steam from the shower trailing behind him.
He gazed at Casey and smiled, memories of their night together flashing through his mind.
She lay on her side, her face half-buried in the pillow, her untamed hair strewn over her shoulders.
A slow smile spread across Rags’s mouth at the memory of his fingers tangled in those silky strands while thrusting into her hard and fast.
His gaze roamed over her, landing on the swell of her breasts and the slight glimpse of puckered nipples as the sheet slipped down.
His groin twitched, and he sucked in a breath.
Casey touched something deep inside him, stirring feelings he didn’t want.
It was more than the way she fused with him during sex, or screamed out his name.
More than her sexy curves and bewitching eyes.
It was the way she laughed, frowned, tossed her hair when she was pissed.
It was her.
A soft moan anchored him back to the room. Sleep-heavy, a puff of breath slipped through her parted lips. He shuffled over to the bed and bent down, ready to slip his tongue inside her sweet mouth, when his phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen and groaned: Hawk.
Straightening, he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
“What’s up?” he asked, leaning against the back of the couch.
“Banger’s calling church at noon,” the vice president said.
Rags checked the clock on his phone: three hours. He sighed. He’d planned on spending the better part of the day with Casey.
“Anything going on?” he asked, knowing something had to be up to meet three days before the club’s regular church.
“Yeah. We’re gonna discuss the Devil’s Reign’s annihilation, for one, and we got a problem with some dirtbags intimidating our loan customers. I’m thinking they’re in with the Devil’s assholes, but we’ll get into it today.”
Rags ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
“I figured you didn’t know since you’re not at the clubhouse.”
Rags heard the chuckle in Hawk’s voice and tensed. “Gotta go. See you in a few.”
Clutching the phone, he shuffled back to the bedroom.
Casey was still sleeping, so he shrugged on his clothes and went to the kitchen.
His stomach grumbled while he opened cupboards, looking for anything that resembled coffee grounds.
Spotting a bag, he grasped it and searched for a coffee maker.
Soon the rich notes of molasses followed by a bitter edge filled the room.
Rags opened the refrigerator and spotted a carton of eggs, a container of mushrooms, a jar of roasted red peppers, and a bag of onions.
He pulled everything out along with a bag of shredded cheddar, then searched for a frying pan.
Pouring the coffee into a mug, he took a sip and relished the warmth and bold flavor sliding down his throat.
“What’re you doing?” Casey asked.
He spun around.
She stood there in a short purple robe that wrapped around her luscious curves just right.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, walking toward her.
“The coffee smells good.” She smiled, glancing over his shoulder. “You don’t need to make breakfast. I will.”
“No way, baby. You relax while I whip up the best omelet you’ve ever had.”
“I’ve never had a guy cook for me. I feel like I should be doing something.” She padded across the hardwood floor, grabbed a mug, and filled it with coffee.
“You can just sit your sweet ass on the stool and look sexy and inviting while I make some chow for us.” He tugged her to him and planted a slow kiss on her full lips.
She hummed against his mouth, warm and sleepy, her hands running up his chest.
“You’re spoiling me,” she murmured.
“Damn straight,” he said, brushing a finger along her velvety cheek. “Get used to it.”
She let out a small, breathless laugh and leaned back against the counter, her gaze tracing the line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the shape of his brows, as if committing him to memory.
Rags turned to the stove, cracking eggs into a bowl, but he could still feel her eyes on him, heavy, warm, crawling under his skin in a way that had nothing to do with sex.
It was domestic… and dangerous as hell.
The butter hissed when it hit the pan.
Casey sat on one of the stools and tucked one leg beneath her, cradling her mug in both hands. Steam curled around her face, softening her features.
“Do you cook a lot?” she asked, then took a sip of coffee.
“Not really,” he said, tossing the diced onions and mushrooms in. “I’ve got a few specialties but that’s about it.”
“And they are?”
Tilting his head toward the pan, he said, “Omelets, killer barbecue ribs, and a mean chili.”
She smiled. “Do you cook for the clubhouse?”
“Not really. Just for me and a couple close friends.”
She laughed, the sound low and tender, and his chest hitched, catching him completely off guard.
“I never would’ve pictured you domestic,” she said.
“I’m not,” he muttered. “Don’t go spreading any rumors.”
“Too late. I’m telling everyone you, the tough outlaw, make omelets and kiss women good morning.” She chuckled.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Not women, Case. Only you.”
Her mug stilled midair as she locked eyes with him. She blinked a few times, then brought the cup to her lips, her gaze never leaving his.
He turned back and poured the beaten eggs into the pan.
She cleared her throat. “I have some excellent sourdough bread I can slice. Do you like sourdough?”
“Sure, it’s good,” he replied, without turning around.
For a second it was quiet except for the scrape of the spatula and the faint hum of the coffee maker.
Then he glanced at her.
“How come you haven’t told me you were a biker chick?”
Casey blinked. “I’m not.”
“Bullshit, baby,” he said, pointing the spatula at her. “The way you rode last night? There was no fuckin’ way you’d only been on a bike a few times. You didn’t resist once. No death grip. You were leaning with me through every curve like you’d done it a million times.”
Pink crept into her cheeks. “I just followed you… like you told me.”
“Nah.” His voice dropped, rougher now. “You knew what you were doing. You stayed loose and looked through the turns. Fuck, half the ol’ ladies can’t even do that.”
She took a long sip of coffee, trying way too hard to look unflustered.
“So… whose bike was it?”
“The omelet’s going to burn,” she said, setting her mug down with a thud.
“Shit,” he muttered, pulling the pan off the burner.
“I’ll slice the bread.”
They sat at the breakfast counter, a basket of bread between them, two glasses of orange juice beside their plates.
“This is delicious,” she said, setting her fork down. “Where did you learn to make an omelet like this?”
“It needs some cream, parsley, or chives.” He placed a large bite into his mouth.
“I think it’s perfect. I never could master these. I always end up scrambling the eggs.” She giggled and took another bite.
“My mom’s a great cook, and my dad’s the grill master of all time, or at least that’s what he thinks.” Rags chuckled, lifting his orange juice.
“So your mom taught you to cook?”
“Not really. Just watched her a lot in the kitchen. But like I said, I can only do justice to a few dishes.”
After they finished eating, Casey loaded everything into the dishwasher. Rags snagged her hand and drew her to him. “So… whose bike were you on the back of for so long?”
“Damn. You’re like a dog with a bone,” she said, poking a finger into his side.
“Why don’t you wanna tell me?” His eyes narrowed. “Is it because you’re still on the back of his bike?”
“No. Not all.” She pulled away and walked toward the couch. “I just knew a guy who had a Harley, that’s all. It’s no big deal.” She sank onto the sofa.
“A biker?”
“Duh… he had a bike.”
“You still seeing him?”
“No. That was a long time ago.” She picked at a loose thread on the cushion. “I love the feel of the wind around me, the open space, feeling one with nature.” Her fingertips trailed up his arm. “I loved riding on the back of your Harley last night.”
“I loved having you pressed against me, your arms around me. And I liked that you knew how to ride.”
“Don’t the women you’ve taken know how?”
“I don’t take chicks on my bike unless they’re special.” He clasped her hand and brought it to his lips.
“How many’ve had the privilege?”
“Just a couple. My ex, and a stacked chick one time when I was drunk as hell. That was a long time ago.”
“Your ex must’ve been a good rider,” she said, leaning into him.
“Not really.”
Rags knew she was changing the subject and wondered why. Maybe it was a bad breakup. Maybe something else. He understood that. After Julie, he didn’t even want to hear her name much less talk about her.
He wrapped an arm around her and drew her onto his lap.
“Rags,” she whispered, running a hand through his hair.
“Fuck, woman,” he rasped.
He slid a hand behind her neck and brought her closer to him until their mouths fused in a slow, hungry kiss. A streak of desire shot through him when she twisted his hair in her fingers, pressing closer until there was no space between them.
Rags grasped her waist, coaxing her to lie back while he started pushing off the couch. Instead, Casey leaned away, planted her palms on his chest, and shoved him back.
The surprise of the push was nothing compared to the look she gave him, a look that promised trouble. The corner of her mouth lifted in a slow smirk, her eyes darkening a shade. A sharp, jagged feeling flared in his chest. He reached for her, but she batted his hand away.
“Just relax,” she whispered, running her fingertips over her breasts.
Transfixed, Rags sucked in a breath, tracking her hands as they moved to the robe’s belt and untied it.
“Fuck,” he rasped, reaching out again.