Chapter 9 Miles
Nine
Miles
I don’t tell her everything at once.
Some things deserve space. Time. The slow stretch of miles unspooling beneath us instead of sitting heavy between two plates and a flickering candle.
When I pull up in front of Raff’s place, I head to the door and knock like I’m a damn teenager.
She answers and takes my breath away. Simple outfit, loose but nice, satin type material shirt.
It’s red. Bare arms. Hair down. She looks like she’s put a little time into the style but stayed true to herself, and it hits me right in the chest. She’s in a pair of black jeans that fit like a second skin making my dick hard because the woman has an ass meant for grabbing.
I resist the urge to pull her in and cup that ass because we need to do more than me take her over my shoulder to the bedroom and fuck her senseless. Even though, I really want to.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I answer, and suddenly the world feels quieter. “Look fuckin’ beautiful, babe.”
I hand her the helmet. She hesitates, just a beat, then takes it before I take her by the hand giving a nod to Raff and guiding her to my bike. When she swings her leg over the bike and settles in behind me, her hands hover for half a second before resting on my waist.
That touch, light, careful, nearly undoes me.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “Just tell me what to do.”
I smile to myself taking her hands in mine, pulling her close so I feel the swell of her tits against my back. Then I settle her hands firm against my stomach. “Hold on. I’ll take care of the rest.”
The engine comes alive beneath us, a familiar vibration that usually sets my nerves humming for escape. Tonight, it does something different. It steadies me. Like I’m not riding away from anything, just moving forward, enjoying the ride.
She leans into me as we pull onto the road, her body following mine instinctively, trust settling between us without words. By the time we clear the city limits, her grip tightens, fingers flat against my abs. I feel it everywhere.
The road stretches out, smooth and dark, the kind of night that is pure peace with every inhale of pine. I don’t push the speed. I don’t need to. This ride isn’t about outrunning anything.
It’s about sharing.
When we pull into the lot outside a small place I know, it’s quiet, nothing fancy, she slides off the bike and pulls off the helmet, hair falling loose around her shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright.
“That,” she states, breathless, “was intense.”
I laugh softly. “Good or bad?”
She meets my gaze, something heated and honest there. “Very good.”
I smile. After a quick dismount tucking away the helmets, I take her by the hand, lacing our fingers together and lead her inside.
Dinner is easy in a way that surprises me. No games. No awkward silence. She asks real questions and listens like the answers matter. When she laughs, it’s unguarded. When she goes quiet, it’s thoughtful, not distant.
Halfway through, she tilts her head. “So. Miles.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s not actually your name, so where does it come from?”
I don’t dodge it. I never wanted to. She waits, patient. I smile probably a little too proudly. “Because even when I was a prospect, I rode more than anyone else. Put more miles on my bike than most full patches. It stuck.”
She nods slowly. “I like Dixon.”
I shrug. “Most people don’t use it.”
“Maybe I will,” she challenges, and something about that feels dangerous in the best way.
The conversation drifts, deepens. Eventually she asks about my time in service, and I don’t deflect like I usually do. My military life was good, I don’t have regrets, it just isn’t something I talk about often.
“I was medically retired,” I explain. “Spine injury.”
Her eyes soften immediately. “What happened?”
“I got blown up,” I state simply. “Broke my neck. C5, C6. They put pins in. Took a long time to walk again.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t flinch.
“I thought that was it,” I continue. “At first I wasn’t sure I would walk. Then I did. Thought I’d never ride again. Never do much of anything. I had some trouble with the changes and the fear of what the future may become.”
“But you did,” she says quietly.
“Yeah,” I share. “I learned how. Again.”
She reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. No pity. Just presence.
“I’ve never been married,” I add, because it feels right to say it here. “No kids. My mom died four years ago. She was all I had before the club.”
“And now?” she asks.
“Now the MC is my family,” I state. “All of it. The Hellions are my life and I like it that way.”
She squeezes my hand once. “That makes sense.” She doesn’t pry or press me for more which is refreshing.
Most women the minute I say the Hellions are my life, they want to compete with taking my attention over.
I’m not that kind of man and most women get their feelings hurt when they face that reality.
My club comes above everything. The right woman understands the lifestyle and respects it.
In turn, she’ll get a life unlike anything she can imagine.
And maybe Danae could be that woman for me? I guess time will tell.
When we leave, the air feels different, charged, electric. I take the long way back, slower this time, feeling the way she presses into me, the way her breath changes when I lean into a curve.
By the time we stop in front of my place, she’s practically humming with it.
She looks at the house, then at me. “You sure?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Inside, it’s quiet. Dim. My space has always been just that, mine. Tonight it feels like I’m letting someone cross a line I didn’t even know existed. She studies everything like she’s memorizing it. She’s fascinated by my tiny corner of the world.
“It’s very clean,” she states and I can’t help but laugh.
“What did you expect? Bike parts all over?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I just, I don’t know. I guess you’re a bachelor and travel a lot. Your space is beautiful and unexpected.” She looks to the mural on the back wall of my living room. “You like art,” she announces directing her gaze to my full sleeve tattoos.
I step closer to her, “I like expression.”
My home is a modest but contemporary design.
Salemburg is full of farms and country roads which are nice for unwinding but inside my personal space is very open and without country charm.
Instead I have white porcelain tile floors throughout my home.
In each bedroom, there is a different rug to cover the flooring but I wanted a concept that didn’t have flooring transitions in every doorway.
My living room, dining room, and kitchen are all open and together.
When entering the front door, the dining space is the right with my all glass table top, black rod iron framing under the glass with matching iron for the chairs with black leather covering the seat cushions.
My walls are done in a satin paint in shade of white with mild hints of gray.
They shine practically from the satin tone.
Where we stand in the living room has a slut red rug in the middle featuring my black table with a glass top similar in style to the dining table.
My black leather couch sits against the far wall with a seventy inch by eighty inch hand painted mural of a woman’s body lying on the beach.
The sun rays casting shadows on her tan flesh, the brown waves of her hair flowing behind the silhouette of her naked frame.
Every curve of her hour glass body is extenuated down to the perfect plumpness of her ass.
As beautiful as the woman on my wall may be, she doesn’t hold a candle to the gorgeousness in front of me.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I give her my honest thought.
She looks up at me, our eyes locking in a way that feels too vulnerable and yet I can’t break away. “I can’t believe you’re real.”
Reaching down, I cup her chin before I drop my head down pressing my lips to hers.
She doesn’t pull back, she lets me lead as I delicately touch her lips to mine again.
Slowly, softly, I swipe my tongue across her seam where her mouth opens for mine.
Cherishing the feel of her here, in my place, I take my time kissing her.
It isn’t long before passion takes over between us.
My hand goes up her shirt finding her nipples rock hard.
She moans as I massage her tits popping them one at a time from the confines of her bra.
Breaking away, I lift her shirt over her head, remove the bra before dropping my head and taking her nipple in my mouth.
Circling and sucking, I relish the soft mews coming from her and the feel of her hands pulling at my hair.
I take my cut off, throwing it over the chair before I back Danae up to my chaise lounge.
Laying her back, I stand up sliding my shirt off before I reach out, taking her boots off, undo her jeans and slide them off her body.
She lays against the cool leather material her curves on display with her lace black panties the only remaining piece of clothing on her.
My dick throbs painfully behind my jeans.
I don’t care though, I drop to my knees and spread her legs.
I kiss my way from her knee up the inside of her thigh before coming to her panties that I push aside.
My thumb slides between her slick pussy lips before I swipe my tongue over her flicking and breathing heavy on her delicate parts.
Licking, lapping, sucking, I eat her pussy like a man starved.
Her sweet juices cover my lips as her hands tug at the roots of my hair and her thighs tighten around my face.
“Give it to me, Danae,” I mutter sliding not one but three fingers inside her stretching her and working her while I suck on her clit finally sending her over the edge as her muscles clinch tightly around my digits.