by Anne Malcom
“And now, I’m the one that’s going to give it to you,” he declared. “That answer your question?” he asked.
“I think that answers that question and any question I could have about anything anywhere in the universe… ever,” I said stupidly.
Hansen grinned. He kissed my head gently and went back to the grill.
My fantasy turned reality stayed firmly in place as he cooked us a delicious breakfast, which we ate on his patio. It then continued after we finished said breakfast and had sex on his breakfast bar. And sofa.
The whole day was spent discovering each other’s bodies, whispering stupid jokes—me, and laughing at stupid jokes—Hansen. Despite a nagging headache, which Hansen was very vigilant about, it was almost the best day in my life to date. Actually, it was the best day of my life to date. Period.
That’s why, late on Sunday afternoon, I was loathed to break the spell. A lot of it was because I really didn’t want to go back to my chicly decorated but shabby house and sit in front of a computer screen for the next four hours. I wanted to cuddle up to a warm yet firm body and continue to spend time in Hansen’s sparsely decorated but decidedly not shabby house. I also didn’t want to leave this house. I was terrified of doing so, I’d break whatever spell we were under and reality would come hurtling back in, or maybe Ashton Kutcher would come running in with a camera crew declaring this whole wonderful day an elaborate trick.
I reasoned my emotional trauma would make for great television. As would Hansen’s abs.
I trailed his pec, touching the light puckered scar marring an otherwise smooth and perfect torso. “What’s this from?” I asked quietly, giving myself five more minutes until I let reality back in.
“Bullet wound,” he said in a distracted voice, his hands drawing light designs on my back.
I lifted my head to rest my chin on his chest, horrified. “Bullet wound?” I repeated.
He nodded nonchalantly like a bullet wound was something akin to a paper cut.
“You’re telling me that this…” I touched the scar lightly, “…is evidence of a bullet tearing through your chest?” I asked, slightly hysterical.
“Missed anything major, babe. No biggy,” he replied, eyes on me.
“No biggy?” I repeated. “The man classifies a gunshot wound as ‘no biggy’ and he thinks I’m crazy,” I addressed the empty room.
Hansen’s chest vibrated as he chuckled. He lifted me so my body was fully on top of his and my face was almost touching his.
“Long time ago, Mace. Another life,” he said, more seriously. “One that made me who I am. One that taught me a lot of shit. And one that I’m glad to be out of, on account of the high probably of getting shot.”
I chewed all of this over. I imagined Hansen, big, strong, unflappable Hansen getting plowed down by a bullet. My stomach clenched tightly at the thought. I couldn’t imagine him in a hospital bed.
“Please tell me you didn’t dig the bullet out yourself, rub some dirt on it and run that beautiful butt right back into whatever situation got you shot in the first place?” I said with a hint of seriousness, but mostly joking.
Hansen smiled again. “No. I let someone who wasn’t bleeding from the chest take the bullet out, and it took me a few weeks to get back on my feet.”
“A few weeks? Geez okay, Clark Kent. I’m pretty sure it would take months to get back on those glorious legs if you were anything less than superhuman,” I teased.
“Glorious legs?” he repeated with a full grin.
I shrugged my shoulders. “You obviously don’t skip leg day.”
Hansen’s face turned serious and he shook his head. “Christ, I’m a stupid fuck,” he said. “Missing out on a woman who can make me laugh about a fuckin’ gunshot wound and make me hard as stone at the same time,” he muttered to himself. His hand trailed my collarbone. “Been missin’ out, Mace, which means I’ve gotta lot of time to make up for.”
I blinked away the slight prickling in my eyes at that statement and let myself wonder how such a switch had been flicked in the last twenty-four hours to turn Hansen into this. Soft eyes, smiles, heartfelt declarations littered with profanities.
I decided not to question it. When you looked too closely at things, you usually found out shit that you didn’t want to know.
“Can you make up for it after you drop me home and let me chain myself to my computer?” I asked lightly, hating that his jaw turned hard at my request. “I’m on deadline for a couple of projects that need to be done by tomorrow,” I told him apologetically. As much as I wanted to stay, I also had to eat. And buy shoes.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Don’t like you in that neighborhood, babe,” he said, repeating his sentiments of the other night.
As much as I liked his concern, I also felt slightly miffed at the unspoken fact that I, as a woman, couldn’t take care of herself because suddenly I was attached to a macho biker.
I reared back slightly, Hansen’s hands made it impossible to completely move off him.
“I feel like we had this conversation the other night. The neighborhood may not be winning any awards for the friendliest street in New Mexico, but no pipe bombs have been detonated there lately either,” I retorted with sharp sarcasm.
“We had that particular conversation when you weren’t mine. You are now,” Hansen replied with a frown.
I narrowed my eyes. “Me becoming yours does not automatically transform me into a helpless damsel unable to function in the real world without an alpha biker at her back,” I told him. “I’ve navigated the real world pretty darn well for twenty-four years. I’m tougher than I look,” I finished. I wasn’t too hot on telling him all the grim details of my bleak experience of the horrors of the real world, so I left it at that.
Hansen’s face hardened. “Yeah babe, I don’t doubt it. Being mine doesn’t mean you can’t handle the real world, just means now I can try my fuckin’ best to protect you from it,” he told me with determination.
I softened slightly. I couldn’t help it. “How about you try and protect me from it, and also get right with the fact that doesn’t include lecturing me about my zip code,” I said gently, but firmly.
Hansen stared at me a moment. “You got beer at your place?” he asked weirdly.
I nodded.
“Cable?” he continued.
I nodded again.
“Right,” he said, knifing up, and taking me with him.
He set us both on our feet and turned to his dresser.
I watched his back, confused. Then I got distracted at the fluidity of the movement of his defined muscles, making the rider on his tattoo look like he was alive.
He turned after he had yanked on some faded jeans. Commando.
I licked my lips.
He stepped forward, grabbing my hips tightly. “You can’t do that shit, Mace,” he murmured.
I looked up at him. “What shit?”
“Kind of shit that makes me want to throw you back on that bed and bury myself in your pussy,” he replied in a gravelly voice.
I swallowed. I so wanted him to do that. I struggled to remember why he couldn’t.
“You got deadlines, remember?” he reminded me. “Now, I don’t give a fuck about deadlines…” he continued, pulling my body flush to his, “…but you seemed mighty concerned about them before.”
“Yes,” I said shakily. “They’re important.” I was talking to myself more than him.
“Get dressed then,” he ordered softly, turning back around.
“You don’t need to get dressed,” I pointed out, moving to locate my clothes. “I’m quite capable of driving myself.”
Someone had dropped off his bike earlier today, I wasn’t sure who, since Hansen had met them outside and I’d stayed in bed under his orders. Not that I could have moved at that moment, my body had been turned to jelly after too many orgasms.
“Don’t want you driving babe, not after last night. Reaction times are delayed after
any blow to the head,” he told my back. “I’m drivin’ you.”
He was the medic, I guessed. “How will you get home?” I argued, yanking my cami over my head.
“Not planning on going home,” he told me, slipping on his boots.
“You’re not?” I repeated.
He shook his head. “Haven’t got my fill of you yet, baby, not for today at least. So I’ll drink some beers, watch the game, you do what you need to do. After that, I’ll fuck you, then we’ll go to sleep,” he told me.
I stared at him, hoping he couldn’t see my belly doing backflips. “Okay,” I finally choked out. “Sounds like a plan.”
“You’re fucking shitting me?” Arianne screamed into the phone.
I held it out from my ear a second. “I’m as serious as chlamydia,” I whispered, once the ringing in my ears had subsided.
“Holy fuck,” she muttered, quieter this time, which was good news for my ear drums.
“I know,” I agreed.
“Like, holy fuck,” she repeated.
“I know,” I agreed again.
I was in my living room the next morning, still in Hansen’s shirt, he was in the shower. I had taken this moment to call my best friend and give her the lowdown of the past twenty-four hours. She obviously knew how I felt about Hansen. About how I had pined for him, while trying not to picture him when the men from the club had me in their bed.
“Geez, who knew, all you needed was a good whack on the head to stir some masculine sense of protection in that pretty head of his and bam! He’s yours,” she said in amazement.
“Or I’m his,” I said, chewing it over in my mind.
“Is there a difference?” she asked in confusion.
“Oh yes,” I told her firmly. “There’s a difference.
Arianne was only a visitor in the club world, coming and going as she saw fit. Granted, I was no expert, but I’d spent a lot of time there over the past two years. I saw old ladies come and go. Not frequently, ‘go’, but a few. A few who didn’t understand the life completely didn’t understand that in front of the club, they were meant to seem submissive to their men. They were property. In a lot of MCs, I knew this was a bad thing. But with the Sons, it wasn’t. It just meant that you needed to re-evaluate how you defined a relationship. And wear the pants behind closed doors.
“Who gives a shit amount semantics babe, just ride the wave. Be happy. You deserve it…” she paused. “Much as I withhold judgment over the life you’ve lived the past year, hell I’ve partaken, not to mention my line of work. But, that label, that life of being passed around that wasn’t you, babe. You suit the life, don’t get me wrong, but not that part of it,” she said quietly.
I wasn’t offended, but I was surprised. Arianne never pulled punches, and never shied away from telling the truth, whether it was ugly or not. The fact she thought that for two years and didn’t say anything, troubled me. Also, the fact that everyone seemed to think I didn’t belong in a life I had felt the most like myself in troubled me slightly.
I didn’t get the chance to question her on it, on the account of a hot biker that sucked up all the oxygen in my small, but kick-ass living room.
“Gotta go,” I said to the phone.
“Hot biker in front of you?” Arianne guessed.
“Yep,” I replied, watching him as he stalked toward me.
“Please tell me he’s naked,” she said. “And if so, find a way to send me a picture.
“Goodbye Arianne,” I said as Hansen stopped in front of me.
I hung up and looked up at him. “Arianne says hi.”
He grinned and hooked his hands under my arms to lift me up. I automatically wrapped my legs around his waist. I loved that he manhandled me like I weighed nothing. I may have been petite, with small hips and a small ass, but I weighed something. Especially with the boobs God had graced me with.
“You look hot as shit in my tee, still shakin’ off sleep, in your fuckin’ ridiculous living room,” he murmured against my mouth.
“My living room is not ridiculous,” I argued. “It’s awesome.”
Hansen raised a brow, apparently not worried about having this conversation while I was wrapped around his waist. Not that I was complaining.
He looked at my green velvet couch, which had been a great score from a second-hand shop. It had bright pink printed cushions stacked on it, plus a fluffy pink afghan. I had also found a matching armchair, which was beside it. My coffee table was wooden and had a vase of flowers sitting in the middle. I didn’t think he was talking about my awesome decorating skills on a budget. I think he may have been referring to my various Lord Of the Rings paraphernalia which included figurines scattered around my television, a jewelry stand which had the ‘one ring’ hanging from a chain, and a framed and signed picture of Viggo Mortensen, AKA Aragon on the wall. Not to mention my extended DVD set sitting in its rightful place, lording its brilliance over my other, lesser movies.
“You cannot tell me you’re not a fan of Lord of The Rings, we’d have to break up,” I said semi-seriously. I didn’t think even the dislike of the three greatest movies of all time would make me want to break up with him. Shit was serious.
Hansen regarded me. “Never seen them,” he said.
I opened my mouth in shock. “How is that possible?”
Hansen grinned. “Babe, those movies are three hours long,” he stated like this was a problem.
“And?” I probed.
“And, you see me sitting on my ass watching roughly nine hours’ worth of anything on television?” he asked.
I chewed my lip. No, I couldn’t exactly see Hansen vegging out in front of the television, consuming his body weight in food, wearing a shirt that said ‘What about second breakfast?’ like I did.
“We’ll have to change that if we’re to remain... whatever we are,” I trailed off on labeling us.
Hansen’s hands tightened and his nose rubbed against mine. “You’re mine, that’s what you are,” he said firmly. “And if you want me to watch nine hours of anything, you better be prepared to at least give me a blow job while watching it,” he joked.
I grinned. “I can do that.”
His phone dinged in his pocket. “That’ll be Jagger,” he said. He kissed me soundly, in a way that made me forget all about Viggo Mortensen, and even the existence of Aragon. And Legolas. No easy feat.
“Take it easy. Rest and nothing else,” he commanded, depositing me on the couch.
I saluted him. “Yes, sir.”
He rolled his eyes and grinned.
“See you, baby,” he said softly.
“Bye,” I told the rider on his back as he walked out of my house.
I sunk back into my pillows, trying to let the events of the past day and a half sink in. Hansen had driven me home last night, smirked slightly at my house, namely the LOTR and Star Wars paraphernalia and then got himself a beer, put his feet up on the coffee table and turned on a sports game of some sort. He had, of course, kissed me firmly before this.
I stared at him a moment, in my house, in my space. Relaxed, like he belonged. Then it hit me, he did belong. For however long, he belonged to me. Or like I’d told Arianne, I belonged to him.
Then I’d shaken myself out of it, glued myself to my computer screen and banged out the projects I needed to get done. After giving myself an even bigger headache from being glued to the computer screen, I ordered us some takeout, which we ate in front of the television, then promptly passed out on Hansen’s lap. I had awoken when he was carrying me to my room, just in time for him to fuck me senseless.
This morning was the same deal. Although this time, he’d woken me up with his mouth between my legs, suffice to say, it was awesome.
And now I was left alone to process all of this. I didn’t exactly know how to process a relationship that had gone from zero to ‘you are mine’ in the space of a day. Nor did I want to dwell too much over Hansen’s apparent indifference to the fact I’d slept with his broth
ers. I wasn’t ashamed exactly, I was comfortable with the life I’d chosen, happy with the family it came with and the sex hadn’t been bad either. But there was this niggling part of me that wondered if, in the back of his mind, he’d always think of my past as a club whore. Or maybe by some miracle, he wouldn’t. Who’s to say the men, who I mostly loved and adored wouldn’t struggle with this transition. It certainly wasn’t normal, not in this chapter anyway.
The fact this had happened so quickly had me searching for the catch. The hidden trick. There had to be one. As much as I wanted this to be what it was, I doubted I’d get exactly what I wanted without some sort of condition.
“Stop fidgeting,” Hansen ordered as we walked into the clubhouse. It was a big concrete structure on the street downtown. It had a sign over the door, ‘Sons Of Templar, New Mexico.’ The part of town was mostly industrial, and the garage that the boys owned was just down the street. This functioned as sleeping quarters, which were upstairs since the place had three levels. It also had an enormous common area and bar as you walked in, complete with stripper pole and pool table. There was a kitchen and dining area further back and a massive courtyard with picnic tables and fire drums out back. I didn’t know what was on the third story. That was strictly members only business.
“I’m not fidgeting,” I snapped.
Hansen stopped us just before the doors. He turned me to face him and put his hands lightly on my hips.
“Wanna tell me why you’re so nervous?” he asked.
I paused. “I’m yours, right?” I started uncertainly.
Hansen’s grip on my hips tightened. “Right,” he confirmed firmly.
“Well,” I started, looking at my hands. Hansen gripped my chin so I had his eyes.
“Well?”
“Who I’ve been, what I’ve been to the club isn’t exactly something a man would want his Old Lady to be. The guys might not treat me the same as, Amy, for example.”
Hansen’s face went hard. “Sometimes I forget, you see the world with your own glasses, babe. Those glasses mostly mean you see goodness and happiness in everyone you meet and find a way to joke about even the darkest of shit,” he started tightly. “Those glasses obviously also stop you from seeing that, ‘cause of who you are. Every single man in there…” he nodded his head to the doors, “…would risk their life, same as they did for Amy. In a heartbeat. Just ‘cause of who you were to them doesn’t make you any less than her, babe…” He paused. “You also should know, every one of those men would’ve killed to be in my shoes, claim you as their Old Lady. Only thing they’re gonna be feeling is stupid for not realizing it sooner. And I’m gonna be feeling proud as shit.”
