Full Heat: A Brothers of Mayhem Novel (14 page)

Mary Jane watched Storm over her reading glasses as he paced across her patio. He was smoking and talking on his cellphone. Every few steps, he punctuated his words with a jab of the joint in the air. Most men would have a beer or a tumbler of whiskey to calm down, but with Storm’s intolerance to liquor, marijuana normally did the trick. But from what she could tell, the drug was doing him no good.

A week had gone by since the warehouse had burned down. His father had stirred up trouble by saying it was Storm’s incompetent leadership that resulted in the Thirty-Second gang burning down their clubhouse. Then last night the Thirty-Second had shot at two Mayhem Brothers in front of the bar. They were getting too bold for Storm to avoid a face-off any longer.

The sheriff’s department had called and said no more evidence had turned up on Jimmy’s case. It hurt to think no one would be punished for his death. Storm had promised he wouldn’t give up and would continue to search for the Thirty-Second members responsible.

Under the watchful eye of the Brothers of Mayhem, she’d rearranged her motorcycle shop’s businesses. She’d decided to shut down the two shops in the Thirty-Second territory. She reasoned it made good business sense seeing as they weren’t showing much of a profit anyway.

When Storm’s head jerked around and stared at her through the glass, she knew someone had just informed him of her decision. She looked down at what was left of her drink. The tequila had gone sour in her stomach. She hated confrontation. Throwing the marketing file she’d been analyzing to the side with her glasses, she prepared herself.

Damn. She’d hoped to break the news to him tonight. Of course, her business was her business, but he would take it as a sign he wasn’t doing his job to protect her and her company properly. No matter what he thought, he wasn’t God and couldn’t protect everything all the time.

The patio door slid open and then closed firmly. Without looking his way, she knew he was glaring at her.

“What the fuck are you thinking, closing down the First Avenue and Petty Lane shops?”

“I believe they are sound business decisions.” She refused to back down.

The stone cold look he gave her said it all. He wasn’t happy, but he wouldn’t argue, for the moment. He walked away without a word.

Since the clubhouse’s destruction, he had been a bear with a sore paw. Snapping and growling at everyone who dared to get near. He stayed gone most of the time with club business, leaving Wolf or Cutter to guard Mary Jane. Though Storm stayed each night, he ignored her, sleeping in another bedroom. The corners of her mouth turned down. Deep inside, she missed the old Storm.

She’d taken it on herself to buy him some jeans, shirts, underwear, and the necessities of living each day. He protested until she’d pointed out he couldn’t live in the few clothes he’d packed for their trip. He finally accepted after he said he would deduct the amount from the club’s fee for guarding her.

That night after watching TV until late in the hope he would seek her out—she wanted him in her bed again—she walked into the kitchen for a drink. He was slumped over the table with his chin resting on his forearm. Eyes hooded, he watched as she crossed the floor to the cabinets. Her stomach twisted. She missed him. Sure, he was there physically in the room with her, but he never touched her or came on to her like before. It was as if she had lost her sex appeal. And damn it, she’d gone to the doctor and got checked out, and was now on birth control.

“Hey,” she said and wasn’t surprised when he didn’t respond.

Pulling a glass from the shelves, she went to the refrigerator and poured a small amount of orange juice. She wasn’t much of a milk drinker, and she enjoyed the luxury of orange juice, something that they rarely had at the commune. Apple juice had been the norm. Pretending that he wasn’t following her every move with his eyes, she downed the drink and then rinsed out the glass, placing it inside the dishwasher. Another luxury she loved.

“Do you have a thing for jerseys?” he asked.

She jumped. Storm stood next to her, crowding her. Funny how she’d forgotten how much taller he was than her. His body heat pulled at her.

“They’re comfortable. I love football.” She tugged at her University of Tennessee jersey. The hem reached her knees. “Jimmy said I needed to own one from the state I grew up in.” Counting on her fingers, she said, “I also own one from the University of Georgia, Alabama, and Auburn, along with the Seahawks and Predators.”

“Predators?”

“Hockey. Jimmy took me to a game, and I had so much fun.”

“Hmmph.” He moved closer and leaned down. “You smell like pure sweetness.”

Desire to sway and rest her body against his fought with her pride. He needed to touch her first.

“Probably my soap. It has a honey base.” What the freak was she saying? He didn’t care about her toiletries.

“I love honey. Maybe that’s why I want to lick you.” He stepped around and lifted her chin so she could look into his gray eyes. “Do you miss me licking that sweet pussy?”

Oh, man. Her insides melted at his words. She’d been craving his touch each night. After he’d ignored her for so long, she was shocked to see the intensity in his eyes. It told her for the moment he was interested, but maybe something else was up. She wanted to ask. She should even push him away, but she wasn’t stupid. She wanted one more night with his cock pounding into her.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He hissed. He grabbed her upper arms and crushed her against the refrigerator. His mouth covered hers as he thrust his tongue alongside hers.

She’d forgotten how good it felt.

His teeth pulled at her bottom lip and then he stroked it with his tongue.

“Let’s get rid of those jeans,” he said, his voice deep and soft.

A prickle of need between her legs evoked memories of how difficult it had been to go to bed without his touch. She wanted him so bad, but could she handle him pulling away again? As his fingers unsnapped and then slowly unzipped her jeans, she clasped his wrist.

She needed to tell him how much he meant to her.

He looked up with a question on his face.

“Storm, what happened to you in prison has nothing to do with you and me. The best thing you can do is move on. That’s the perfect revenge for what happened.”

Anger flashed across his face.

“You’re right. Move on. It’s so simple, isn’t it? Just like an alcoholic can simply put the bottle down and quit drinking.” He lifted her by the arms and pressed her to the cold metal behind her. “Or a drug addict can quit craving his next fix. Simple.”

She heard the hurt seeping in between each sarcastic word.

“Those are addictions.” Dying to touch him, she was somewhat unhappy his hold was stopping her. “Are you saying your inability to let it go is an addiction?”

She really wanted to understand. She cared deeply. Maybe never being abused kept her from understanding the need to rehash something horrific that had happened in the past and was unlikely to ever happen again.

His hands opened one finger at a time, carefully releasing her, making certain she had her footing before he stepped back. He glared at her.

“Sure as fuck not addiction, but it’s something I’ve been trying to live with. At first, I blamed myself. I thought there was something wrong with me. No man would let that happen. Fighting back helped. I taught those who hurt me what hell I would rain down on them. But there is no way I can forget!” His shout rattled the dishes.

He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling as if regretting his outburst. With a long, deep sigh, he regained control. His palms rasped as he rubbed the scruff on his face. His gaze darted her way, but he remained quiet. From the way he held his shoulders, stiff and so straight, he acted as if he expected her to attack.

She waited. He needed her patience if nothing else, but she had so much more to offer if he allowed it. She understood deep inside it wasn’t his masculinity he worried about, but his sexuality. Somehow he needed to realize she’d never met a more heterosexual male in her life. But his self-worth had been damaged by the torture he went through in prison.

“I’m my father’s son. I’ve done terrible things to survive,” he finally said, still not looking at her.

“You were protecting yourself,” she said with confidence. “With everything you went through, I believe what you had to do to survive bothers you more.”

Brow furrowed, he looked at her with surprise.

“What makes you think that?” he whispered, his gaze searching hers.

“Your conscience bothers you. That proves you’re really a good man. An evil person wouldn’t let any of it bother him.”

He drew nearer.

“How sure are you that I’m a good man?”

“I would never want to be with a bad man.” She smiled. The desire to cup his cheek and offer comfort had her fingers twitching.

Heat radiated off his body.

Her breath quickened.

“Oh, I have a feeling you like walking on the wild side.” He backed her against the refrigerator again.

“With you. Only with you.” She stretched on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.

The monster inside of him wanted out, and Storm was so afraid he would let it loose on Mary Jane. She was everything he wasn’t. A kind, compassionate, funny, and loving person who grew up sheltered by loving parents. His knees shook from the deep-seated desire to fuck her long and hard. He wanted to tie her hands to keep her from touching, not because of his usual distaste for human contact, but because he’d grown to love her caresses and his control was disintegrating with each second. He needed to control the situation. One fact was clear, he was a selfish bastard for giving in to his baser needs. He should leave her alone, but he couldn’t.

He picked her up and walked toward the bedroom. As soon as he reached the bed, he tossed her in the center of the mattress.

“Strip,” he commanded, unable to take his gaze off her.

With graceful movements, she quickly undressed without standing. Her desire for him evident in her quick breaths.

His cock swelled to the point his balls hurt and the skin on his shaft itched from stretching beyond normal. Those lovely hazel eyes watched his every move. Long limbs perfectly formed, shapely torso, and the sweetest small breasts with rock-hard nipples standing up and begging for his mouth to suck on them. Fuck!

He flipped her onto her stomach. She struggled to remain on her back.

“No, Storm. I want to see your face.”

There was no panic in her voice. He liked knowing he didn’t scare her.

“Next time.” His promise sounded like a growl even to him. What little restraint he possessed was nearly to the breaking point.

Unable to wait any longer, he grabbed her hips and lifted them. They were round and firm. She groaned. That was when he noticed his fingers digging into her flesh. He released his grip. The red marks would be bruises soon.

He leaned down and kissed each spot.

By the time he pulled out his cock, the release was double edged. Pain from pressing against his zipper had changed to a sharp ache to sink into her. No thought of tenderly easing into her crossed his mind. He thrust straight into her hot, wet pussy.

She gasped and whimpered. Her need was clear when she pressed back, pushing him deeper.

He pumped harder and faster.

She whimpered again and arched her back as she climaxed.

About to explode from how good she felt tightening and releasing around his cock, he concentrated hard in an effort to control his thrusts to make it last longer. He never felt anything so perfect as her.

His gaze landed on the tattoo across her back, the dragon reminding him of how much strength the woman beneath him had. He grabbed her hair and pulled her head up, carefully twisting so he could lean over her and take her mouth. That was when he saw her eyes were closed, but tears wet her face.

As if his guts had been ripped out, he let her go and staggered back. Achingly hard, he had to fight back the need to weep. Why did her tears move him so much?

He looked down at her again. Her whole body trembled as she cried. An unfathomable depth of sorrow filled her eyes. He raised his hands in surrender. Threading fingers though his hair, he frantically looked around. He’d been rough, but he knew without a doubt that wasn’t why she cried. Why had he told her even a fraction of what he’d gone through?

“Storm,” she said with a quiver in her voice as she sat up. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. I keep thinking about it.”

“Sorry? You have nothing to be sorry about.” He brought his hands down and fisted them at his sides. Every finger ached to touch her, comfort her, but he was the one who’d made her cry. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. His brain swirled with everything he’d said and everything she’d made him feel.

Then he opened them, looking down at the woman he never wanted to hurt.

With her knees bent and legs to the side, her slender back bowed as she swiped at the tears. She was beautiful. All smooth skin and small breasts, she reminded him of a sculpture in porcelain. He looked down at his hands. Callused and scarred, they should never touch anything so delicate.

“I’m sorry that you had to go through such a nightmare. You never deserved that.” Her sweet voice washed over him.

How many years had he waited for someone to say that? For someone to care.

He walked back to the bed and kneeled on the floor.

She moved to the edge and smoothed back his hair. There was no impulse to flinch or to move away. He wanted her touch, wanted to feel her hands on his body. A deep yearning to feel her heartbeat once more against his brought a look of pleading in his eyes as he gazed at her precious face.

“Forgive me,” he whispered and then kissed her wrist where his roughness had lightly bruised the skin. With her knees bent, it was easy to press another one to the side of her foot.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” She gave back some of his words. “No matter how carried away you can get when you make love to me, you’ve never abused me.”