Wanting It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 3) (6 page)

“No.” If he promises to be in my bed every night, to be there when I call, I know that he’ll keep those promises. “What if it doesn’t work out? If might get ugly, especially since you’re trying to bring the clubs together.”

“It’s going to be ugly anyway.” His brief smile doesn’t soften the iron determination in his eyes. “But you and me? That’ll work. Because you let me in this far. Now I’ll do anything to keep you here.”

Where I would have everything I want. I just need to take it.

I just need to risk my heart. Not so easy to do.

This man could destroy me—and I don’t think he knows it. I’m afraid to let him know it. So I simply stare up at him, hope and fear waging a painful battle within me.

Hope begins to win when he suddenly grins.

“I see I’ll have to convince you.” Swiftly he kisses my mouth and links his fingers through mine, tugging me off the counter. “So let’s ride.”

I balk a little when I see Saxon’s motorcycle. I’m looking forward to riding with him, but my panties are soaked and this little skirt isn’t going to protect me from the grit of the road or the heat of his engine. Saxon doesn’t blink when I say that I need to drive up to the house and change my clothes. He just nods and starts up his bike while I climb into my truck. There’s no counting how many times I’ve heard guys—bikers or not—argue against a woman taking a few extra minutes to get ready, dismissing it as trivial or time-wasting. But Saxon doesn’t even ask me to explain why or try to convince me that the clothes I’m wearing are fine, and I appreciate that when I tell him there’s something I need to do, he just waits for me to do it.

Such a simple thing, but it matters. Because if Saxon and I give this a shot, there will be many times when I’ll have things I need to do: taking care of my dad and working at the brewery, just to start. And we know a lot about each other, but we don’t know the little things like this—and as far as I can tell, it’s often those little things that make or break a couple.

My dad’s bike is gone from its usual spot in front of the house. Since nothing is settled with Saxon, my dad’s absence is a relief. I’m not really sure what I would tell him.

I invite Saxon in, but he waits outside with his engine idling. From anyone else, that might have been a subtle hint to hurry me along; from Saxon, it’s simply respect. This isn’t just my place, but also belongs to the Steel Titans’ president. Whatever agreement they’re working out between the clubs, this is still Titan territory. Even though Saxon is here by invitation, parking his bike and coming into the house is too close to declaring that he’s pushing my father out, so I know he’ll hold off until the invitation comes from my dad, instead.

He’s frowning down at his phone when I come out wearing jeans, my riding jacket, and gloves. His dark gaze skims down my length, stopping at my feet. The cuffs of my straight-cut jeans cover the top of my red cowboy boots. With a round toe and wooden heel, they were designed with another type of riding in mind, but they’re great on a motorcycle, too.

He meets my eyes. “Nice boots.”

“They’re good for kicking ass,” I say, but despite the bold words, I’m suddenly nervous. My anxiety doesn’t escape his notice.

“You’re not used to the idea of me being at your place.”

“I’m not used to the idea of
any
guy being at my place,” I retort.

His smile is wide and slow. “I shouldn’t like that answer as much as I do,” he tells me, then gestures to the short stretch of seat behind him, inviting me to sit. “Your cell reception out here is shit.”

Worse than shit, usually. I pull on my helmet. “And it’s even shittier at the clubhouse’s end of the property. Is that a deal breaker?”

I’m teasing him, but his response is swift and serious. He snags my belt and pulls me close. Even though he’s seated on his bike, our eyes are almost even.

“Nothing’s going to break this deal, princess.
Nothing.
” He waits a second to let that sink in, then lets go of my belt and smacks my ass. “Now get on. And scoot up real close, because your legs in those jeans are the sexiest I’ve ever seen, and I want them holding me tight.”

I grin and swing my leg over the back. My nervousness melts away. I’m suddenly glad I’m behind him and that he can’t see my face, because the emotion that replaces the anxiety is warm and full, and would reveal far too much.

It
is
strange to have him here. But it also feels
so
right.

God, and his abs are like steel when I slide my hands beneath his kutte to grip his sides. I’ve never seen him without a shirt but my fingers tell me that when I do, I’ll be looking at slabs of muscle and a six-pack that could make angels weep.

“You know,” I call to him as he slowly opens the throttle, “we could just head upstairs to my bedroom!”

I can’t hear his laugh but I feel the rumble of it join the vibration of the engine. His big hand comes down to squeeze my thigh before returning to the handlebar. Thanks to my helmet I can’t get as close as I want, can’t lay my cheek against his strong back and close my eyes. Oh, but I want to. I could easily ride like that for so long.

As it is, the road flies by and I’m barely aware of it. Today was a hot one. Even though it’s heading into evening the air is still heavy with the smell of baked dirt and pine, yet it’s Saxon’s scent that seems to fill my every breath. The leather of his kutte, the fragrance of freshly laundered cotton—as if he pulled a clean shirt straight out of the dryer before coming to see me. And he’s so big. So solid. My heart feels tight just being this close. My body feels even tighter, my breasts pushed up against his back and my inner thighs gripping his hips.

All I can think is that it won’t be long until he’s inside me. Fucking me.

God, I hope it’s soon. My pussy is already soaking wet again. I don’t know where we’re going. If I’m lucky, it’ll be straight to his bed, but I’d be just as happy if he stopped on the side of the road and dragged me onto his lap.

But as we ride through town I realize we’re headed to the Hellfire Riders’ clubhouse—maybe because of whatever message he was trying to respond to on his phone. Though I’d have liked to leave thoughts of the Titans and the Riders behind us for a few hours, I can’t be upset. I’ve got my stuff to take care of and Saxon has his, and I know exactly how much time a club demands from its president.

He told me that he wants me for himself. That this need between us is just about him and me. I don’t doubt that. A man’s dick doesn’t give a shit what colors anyone wears. But I can’t pretend for a second that the club won’t always be right there with us.

That’s not so bad. My mom told me once that a club can be like in-laws. Sometimes easy to get along with, and sometimes you just want to kill them. And they might put strain on a relationship, but if a couple is solid, they’ll get through it.

I’ve seen a lot of the Titans’ relationships fall apart, and almost every single time, someone blamed the club. But the club wasn’t really at fault; it was just the excuse. Sometimes the guys were dickheads and used the club as the reason to avoid other responsibilities—their jobs, their families. Sometimes they took advantage of easy pussy and cheated. Sometimes the old ladies and girlfriends were jealous of every second their men spent away from them. Little things multiplied into big things and soon they were splitting up.

The club is already a big thing for Saxon, just as my dad and my brewery are for me. If I want to be with him, it’ll mean never trying to force him to choose between me and the Riders.

I can’t imagine that I ever would. Now that he and my dad are working something out, the Riders aren’t a threat to me or to anyone that I love. And I can’t imagine Saxon avoiding responsibilities. If I ever need him, he’ll make time for me.

He’ll be there for me. The question is whether his heart will be there, too.

Mine is. Right here, exposed and raw. He intends to persuade me into taking a chance on him, but the truth is, there’s no other choice for me. He wants to call me his—but I already am. The only thing I can do is go into this with my eyes wide open. So before I tell him my decision, I’ll take a few days to collect all the little bits about Saxon that I didn’t know before, and make sure that my heart is prepared for everything that comes next.

For now, though, I simply savor the feel of him against me.

My hold on him tightens as we approach the clubhouse. I know where it is, of course—although I don’t come this way often, this is a small city. So I’ve seen the place before. Decades ago, it was a car lot on the outskirts of town, until the owner moved his business up to Bend. Tommy Burns took the property over and established it as the Riders’ base. At the time, there wasn’t much out this way except empty fields and a few farmhouses. Now a chain-link fence is all that separates the clubhouse parking lot from the neighbors on both sides—a self-serve frozen yogurt shop and a laundromat. Across the street, a Starbucks shares a building with a local pizzeria and a taekwondo dojang. A little farther down, the street is lined by long rows of midsize houses with tiny brown lawns.

The bike slows as we turn into the parking lot. The old car dealership used to have big front windows, but those probably hadn’t lasted long. Now the front of the clubhouse is walled in. Though only a single story, it’s a big and boxy structure, resembling a warehouse. Almost a dozen motorcycles are lined up outside the building. Each door of a big three-bay garage is up, and there’s a small crowd around the entrance to the first bay.

When Saxon rolls in, all eyes turn our way. That’s to be expected. Acknowledging the club president’s arrival is standard protocol. But their gazes linger on me, until the focus of the entire group has shifted away from whatever they’d been gathered around.

A motorcycle, I realize—and my lips part on a horrified gasp when I see the state of it. The chrome pipes are beat to shit and the tires slashed. It looks like someone took a sledgehammer to the tank and the front of the frame. And I know that bike. It’s Lily’s. Jesus jumping Christ. That’s not just a
bike
but a custom chopper Lily ordered from Wheels Up a few years ago. Whoever fucked it up hadn’t just destroyed a motorcycle but a freaking work of art.

Tension has turned Saxon’s muscles to iron, but his manner is easy when he brakes at the edge of the group. Lily’s crouching beside the ruin of her bike. The red around her eyes says that she’s been crying. I’d bet anything that not one Rider has seen her shed a tear before, not when she knows they might call her weak for it. But some of the guys are looking a little weepy themselves and no one is going to blame her for crying over this.

Saxon touches my knee, letting me know that it’s safe for me to get off. As soon as I do he snags my wrist and pulls me close again. He’s still straddling his motorcycle, his booted feet flat on the ground, and now I’m all but sitting in his lap. Everyone is staring. Casually I unbuckle my helmet and try to pretend that the way he’s stating his claim without saying a word is nothing, and that my heart isn’t thumping through my ribs.

His arm circles my waist, but his focus is on Lily’s bike. “I’m guessing you didn’t take a bite of the road, Zoomie.”

“No, boss.” Lily stands and her gaze flits to my face for only a second before returning to his. “Not unless I bit it while riding in the hangar at Tucker’s field.”

The airfield where she works. “So you were up in the air and it was locked away?” Saxon asks.

“I was. And it was.”

“And you didn’t see who did it.”

Her jaw firms and her eyes are like flint. “I wouldn’t be here if I knew, boss. I’d be busting some fucking heads.”

Saxon nods. “We’ll find out. You got a ride in the meantime?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Talk to Blowback if you can’t. He’ll hook you up.”

For just an instant, the flint in her eyes sparks, as if she might tell Saxon to shove that suggestion right up his ass. But whatever set her temper off, she quickly swallows it. “I will.”

“All right. If you see my veep, send him up to the Crib. I’ll be there until I’m gone,” Saxon tells them, then gives my ass a little smack, a signal for me to get up again.

He seems to like spanking me. I don’t really mind it, either. In front of everyone, it’s not really a turn-on—it’s just kind of fun, and I love that he’s treating me as if I’ve been hanging around the clubhouse longer than five minutes. As if it’s completely natural for me to be there and there’s no reason for everyone to keep staring.

Threading his fingers through mine, he leads me through the garage. Not a bolt or a tool is out of place. The concrete pads practically gleam.

“Are you the hard-ass in here,” I ask quietly, “or is someone else?”

He grins. “I would be. But I don’t need to. Blowback gets on them if they leave shit lying around.”

The Hellfire Riders’ vice president, Jack Hayden. I know him by sight, but I don’t think we’ve ever exchanged a single word. I’m not really sorry for that. Saxon looks big and mean; his veep is just big and scary, built like a tank and always wearing an expression that said he’d just as soon kill you as look at you. “Why is he called Blowback?”

“Because he’s the hell that rains down on your head when you fuck up.”

“Has he ever rained on your head?”

He glances at me. “A few times. But that’s what veeps are for.”

Uncle Thorne does the same for my dad. Never in front of the other club members, always in private—and my dad lets him because he trusts Thorne over any other living man. I suspect that Blowback is the man Saxon trusts.

“He’s kind of terrifying,” I say as we enter the main building. “Is he really like a giant, gentle puppy on the inside?”

Saxon’s deep laugh echoes through the big, open room. “Not even a bit.”

That’s good to know. But I don’t reply, because curiosity has taken hold and I’m looking everywhere at once. The outside of the clubhouse tips toward the side of ugly, but they’ve got a nice setup inside. There’s a couple of seating areas with plush leather couches and big screen televisions. A galley-style kitchen with stainless steel counters and a well-stocked bar take up one wall. A pair of pool tables stand at the far end, and through an open partition is a weight room filled with equipment. Doors in the back wall probably lead to bunks or showers.

There’s a pair of women sitting at one of the dining tables. A blonde and a redhead. I recognize their faces but don’t know their names. They both fall silent as we come in, their mouths rounded in surprise and their eyebrows raised high. Saxon doesn’t look that direction at all but I give them a little wave and smile. Even if I’m not around the clubhouse much, starting off wrong with the old ladies is a guaranteed way to make my life a living hell. It’s a relief when they grin and waggle their fingers at me in return.

Everyone else seems to be gone. Probably outside crying over Lily’s bike or over at the Wolf Den drinking their Saturday night away. Saxon leads me to a staircase built against the south wall. The clubhouse is only a single level, but they’ve constructed a spacious open loft over the weight room. The Crib, I’m guessing—and probably off-limits to everyone but the club’s officers and the people they’ve explicitly invited up.