Chapter 22 #2
He batted my hands away with a simple brush of his fingers, his opposite arm wrapping around my waist in order to pull me back against him. I sucked in a breath, trying to ignore the way it felt to have his solid frame behind me—and then I smelled it.
Moss. Fresh rain. Leather.
Why did he have to smell so good?
“You’re done here. You’re comin’ with me,” he stated plainly.
“Oh, yeah? Says who?”
His lips grazed my ear as he replied, “Your husband.”
I fought the irritatingly strong urge to melt at those two words and tried to pull away from him instead. Unfortunately, my efforts amounted to nothing as he tightened his grip around me.
Lowering his voice to a possessive growl, he warned, “Angel, you want me to make a scene and carry your ass out of here, I will. Findin’ a spot for us last minute fuckin’ Labor Day weekend was a nightmare.”
I stopped resisting as I played back what he said, trying to make sense of it.
He was taking me somewhere.
Me.
Not Cherry.
Not some other woman who didn’t ice him out all night, but me.
It was stupid. It was so totally stupid—but I wanted to know where.
“What spot are you talking about?” I asked with all the attitude I could muster.
“Come with me, and you’ll find out.”
I twisted my neck enough to catch a glimpse of him over my shoulder. “Tell me and maybe I’ll come.”
“It’s cute how you keep talkin’ like you’ve got a choice. I’ll say it one more time, babe—get your purse. Let’s roll.”
I didn’t relent right away. As I hesitated, his grip tightened around my waist, signaling he had every intention of picking me up and carrying me out of there, just as he warned.
With an eye roll, I yanked at my apron and grumbled, “Fine.”
He let me go, strutting toward the exit without a backwards glance, and I pulled in a deep breath.
A smarter version of me would have told him no. I wasn’t his puppy or his beckon call girl. He couldn’t have me whenever it was convenient for him. I was angry at the man, and he hadn’t done a thing to work his way back into my good graces.
Then again, how I felt toward him paled in comparison to how I felt about myself.
It pissed me off how easily I fell for him.
I was angry for putting myself in this position again.
But the worst part was how I couldn’t deny how badly I wanted to climb on the back of his hog and go wherever he wanted to take me.
“Here,” said Viv, pulling me from my thoughts as she nudged me with my purse. “Get gone before business picks up again and I change my mind.”
Unable to deny my curiosity, I took my purse, shoved my apron inside, and headed for the door. Pistol was already astride his Road King upon my approach. Like I’d grown accustomed, I stowed my things in one of his saddle bags and then climbed on behind him.
Reaper barked in excitement, Pistol revved his engine, I circled my arms around his middle, and then we were gone.
We hit I-90 going south, and with every mile, I found myself melting around my husband a little more and a little bit more.
For hours we rode—the ride a conversation in and of itself.
Much as I didn’t want to give in, I couldn’t help it.
The journey we were on was one we shared.
The wind in our hair, the rumble of his hog between our legs, the road over which we sped, it all amounted to the bits and pieces of a language he and I both understood.
Without a word spoken between us, I was reminded how we found our way into our marriage at the same breakneck speed.
Neither of us planned this. Hell, less than a month ago, we didn’t even know the other existed.
Whatever we were, whatever we were going to be, it was never going to be anything other than messy.
More than that, stupid as it was for me to fall for him, I accepted the fact that it was inevitable. He was everything I dreamed I wanted since I was twenty-one years old. Men like him—rebels down to their bones—were always heartbreakers. Now, I had to decide if I was going to let him break mine.
I didn’t know if giving me time to think was part of his plan, but we rode for nearly three hours before we stopped for fuel.
Even then, Pistol didn’t open the door for much conversation.
He squeezed my thigh before I could move to dismount and stretch, his touch as affectionate as it was possessive.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” I answered honestly.
I didn’t tell him I’d be content to ride at his back forever.
“How much longer?”
“Thirty minutes. Forty, tops. If you’ll take Reaper to do her thing, I’ll top off and we’ll get gone.”
“Sure.”
Ten minutes later, we were back out on the road, cruising deep into Big Sky, through the Madison Range—the peak of Lone Mountain getting closer and closer. It felt like we were a million miles away from home, lost in one of the most beautiful places I’d ever been.
And then we were there.
Pistol pulled his Road King into the driveway of a two-story house easily twice the size of his.
The street was lined with similar homes, each facing a big empty field, offering a sense of seclusion in spite of their neighbors.
From where we were parked, I could see the foothills covered in trees was practically in the backyard.
“Climb off, angel. This is our stop,” he said from over his shoulder, pulling me from my daze.
I did as I was told, still taking in the details of our surroundings. It was after he lowered the kickstand and dismounted himself, after he unclipped Reaper and took off her goggles, that I had the wherewithal to ask, “What’s going on? What are we doing here?”
He didn’t bother looking at me as he unbuckled one of his saddle bags and extracted a small duffle. “Thought that much was obvious, babe. Stayin’ a couple days.”
“A couple days?” I felt my eyebrows disappear underneath my windswept bangs as I gaped at him. “But I didn’t even pack anything.”
He lifted the duffle as he made his way toward me and replied, “Got us covered.”