In such a volatile state, she didn’t trust him to make the right decision. So, she put it off for a bit longer by reaching for his belt buckle and saying, “So, what’ll it be? The dresser again?”
“Huh?” he gulped, shaking his head, blinking rapidly.
“It just seems to me,” she whipped off his belt and started in on the buttons of his fly, “that you’re a bit partial to dressers.”
“I—”
He stopped talking, his eyes rolling back in his head when she reached into his pants, into his boxers, and wrapped her fist around the hard, hot, pulsing length of him.
“Mmm,” she murmured, stepping up to him, thrilled by the warmth radiating from him as she pressed a kiss to his delectable Texas tattoo. “I’ve missed this.” She grabbed his hand and placed it on her breast, simultaneously licking the flat brown disk of his nipple, delighted when the little nub sprang to life against her tongue. “Have you missed this?”
“God, yes,” he admitted, his fingers plucking at her, causing a liquid ache to build and throb between her thighs.
When her hand slid to the end of his shaft and she felt a silky drop of moisture waiting there, she couldn’t help herself. She dropped to her knees, simultaneously dragging his jeans and boxers down his large thighs.
Mary and Joseph, just look at him…
So unapologetically male. So big and…and angry looking, all red, violently veined skin and shiny, plump head. Saliva pooled on her tongue. She leaned forward to kiss the tip of him, to clasp his shaft in a hard fist just as he’d showed her, to cup his tight, warm balls in her free hand.
“Delilah!” Her name was barely discernible his voice was so guttural. And when she opened her mouth and swallowed the head of him, drank in the salty essence of him, he was reduced to nonsensical syllables.
Both his hands were fisted in her hair. His hips moving slightly, the muscles in his thighs twitching as if he were struggling to keep himself from thrusting forward violently. The feel of him against her tongue was amazing. Such soft skin covering such unyielding hardness. His veins were bumpy. They pulsed rhythmically when she pressed her lips against them.
In and out.
In and out.
He tasted good. Like male. Like sex. Like Mac…
“God, Delilah,” he gasped, pulling from her mouth, from her hands. “You’ve gotta stop, darlin’, or you’re gonna make me lose it.”
“So lose it.” She smiled up at him, past the impressive jut of his shiny erection, past the corrugated muscles of his flat belly, past his big chest and shoulders to his beautiful, sparkling eyes.
She could see him hesitate, could see that he was tempted. But he shook his head, the muscles in his five-o’clock-shadowed jaw clenching. “No. I want to come inside you,” he growled, grabbing her by the shoulders and hauling her to her feet. His callused hands spanned her waist, and the next thing she knew, she was airborne…
***
Delilah landed on the mattress with her silky thighs spread wide, and Mac couldn’t strip out of his boots, socks, and pants fast enough. Launching himself atop her…ah, God…she instantly wrapped her legs around him, her slick channel welcoming the length of his aching erection as he pressed it against her.
He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Knew it flew in the face of the vow he’d made himself. Knew that it was incredibly dangerous. Was this how it’d been between his parents in the beginning? Would it end for him the same way it’d ended for his father? Would—
Delilah fisted her hands in his hair, hungrily claiming his mouth, and every single thought in his head slid out through his ringing ears.
“Mac,” she gasped against his lips, her breath hot. “Make love to me.”
And it would be love. Because he did love her, and by God, he believed her when she said she loved him, too. Reaching down between them, he tested her readiness with two fingers. When he found her hot and wet and pulsing, he grabbed his shaft and teased his head against her opening.
“Yes.” Her thighs rode high against his sides. “Yes. I want you inside me.”
Her hands skimmed down his back. Her fingers digging into the muscles of his ass as she pulled him close.
“Delilah…” he breathed, slowly sinking into her tight, sultry body, ducking his chin to suck the peak of one rosy, hard nipple into his mouth.
“Unnnhhh.” She arched into him, trying to seat him to the hilt. He had to pull out slightly and press in again before he could accommodate her, before her body finally yielded to his, before his heated balls slammed against the warm curve of her ass.
Right…
That’s how it felt. Right in a way that it’d never been before with any other woman. It thrilled him almost as much as it scared the living shit out of him.
“Please,” she begged, squirming beneath him, hips bucking, urging him to move. And move he did, pulling out only to plunge home. He set a rhythm that drove them both to the edge within minutes, a slow, pumping, in-and-out slide that had her writhing and mewling and begging, and him gritting his teeth against coming too soon. Then, suddenly, she detonated. Just like he knew she would. Taking him with her in the process. Her body milking his orgasm from him in pulsing, greedy tugs.
Long seconds later, after they’d both managed to catch their breath, after he rolled onto his back, she threw a leg over his, twirling her fingers in his chest hair. Then, she said the words that simultaneously thrilled him and chilled him. “I love you, Mac. And I know you love me, too, even if you haven’t said it.”
He wanted to say it. Knew he probably should say it. That’s what normal folks did when they loved each other. They said it, right? But the words stuck in his throat like a damned cocklebur.
“And I’m never going to leave you like your mother left your father,” she continued, kissing his shoulder. “I’m never going to break your heart like your mother broke your father’s. I’m in this thing until the end,” she said, her voice husky as one more poignant, promising kiss landed near his Texas tattoo. “And when you’re lying on your deathbed at the ripe old age of one-hundred-and-ten, and you’re calling my name in the darkness,” damn Zoelner and his big fucking mouth, “I’m going to be right there holding your hand. We’re Notebook-ing it, you and I. A real-life Allie and Noah. Staying together until we go together.”
Sweet God, he couldn’t stand it. He wanted that to be true so badly…
Crying like a fucking baby, that’s what he was doing. Unwelcome tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, wetting his hair and the pillow beneath his head. His chest shook. His stomach trembled. He hadn’t cried like this since the night his father died. Since the night he sat vigil by the man’s bed, holding his hand, trying to lend comfort but knowing he wasn’t enough as his father yelled for Jolene. Jolene, where are you? Jolene, come back!
“I’m s-scared to death,” he admitted on a hiccupping sob, embarrassed to let her see him like this but unable to stop the strangled tears catching at the back of his throat.
She lifted her head from his shoulder, placing the gentlest of kisses on his lips, her breath the sweetest he’d ever tasted. “Shhh. It’s okay,” she told him, smiling softly, her eyes bright. “I know you’re scared. I’m scared, too.” She pressed soft kisses to the corners of his lips, his cheeks, his eyes. “Love is a risk for everybody.” And that was the understatement of all time. “But, like I said, we’re going to take this slow. One day at a time. But we are going to take this, we are going to give this a chance.”
That wall he’d built up around his heart began to crumple beneath her words, beneath her delicate caresses. Could he do it? Was he brave enough to take the chance on her? To take the chance on them?
“Because I’ve lost a few people I’ve loved during my life,” she continued, “and this is what I know. In the end, the love we withhold, not the love we give, is what we wind up regretting. I don’t want to die with regrets, Mac. Do you?”
“No,” he told her, pulling her close, kissing th
e top of her head when she laid it on his shoulder. “No, I don’t want to die with regrets. And I do love you, Delilah.” Another sob shook him, cracking his voice. “I swear to God I do!”
“Shh.” She hugged him close. “I know you do, Mac. I know you do.”
He nodded, his heart full to bursting. The wall he’d built around the organ decimated by the love of one flame-haired temptress. Then a thought occurred to him and everything inside him stilled. “Zoelner told you I’m buyin’ back the ranch, right?”
“Yes.” He felt her nod.
“It’s my legacy,” he stressed. “Even if I didn’t love it, which I do, I’d still have to go back there. I’d have to take back what’s been in my family for—”
“Mac.” She pushed up on one arm to frown down at him. “I’m delighted you’re going to buy back the ranch. It’s the right thing to do. And I can’t wait to own a pair of cowgirl boots.” She bit her lip, winking. “And maybe some of those shirts with the fringe and rhinestones.”
Yeah, she thought it was romantic now, from afar. “Ranchin’ is hard,” he warned her. “And it’s lonely. You’re used to all the fun and excitement of Chicago. You’re used to fifty people a day comin’ into your bar to flirt and banter and—”
She placed a finger over his lips, clucking her tongue and shaking her head. “And there you go again. Comparing me to your mother.”
“I—” He tried to talk around her finger but was forced to stop when she used it along with her thumb to squeeze his lips together.
“I’m only going to say this once, Bryan McMillan,” she declared, her eyes impossibly green, “I’m not Jolene.” And, damnit, there went the waterworks again. “She was a shallow, foolish woman who needed constant attention and adoration from the outside because there was nothing to her on the inside. Sorry to speak ill of your mother”—she made a face—“but from what I understand, it’s true.” He nodded. She was absolutely right. It was true. “I don’t need all that.” She firmed her jaw, her expression daring him to naysay her. “I don’t need adoration or attention from the masses to feel good about myself. I feel good about myself because I’m smart and loyal, caring and kind. And I can mix up a martini that would make James Bond weep.”
It was hard to smile when she was smashing his lips together. Not a shy or a humble bone in Delilah’s body. Just one of the reasons he absolutely adored her.
Reaching up, he tugged her fingers away from his mouth. “Speakin’ of those martinis. Won’t you miss the bar? You love it there.”
She shrugged. “To tell you the truth, it’s lost its appeal since Buzzard died. I’ve been thinking for a while now, especially after the fun I had helping the CIA track down some of Agent Winterfield’s foreign deposits, that I might want to turn forensic accounting into a full-time gig. I’m sure there are telephones and Internet hookups in Texas, right?”
He nodded, tears standing in his eyes even as a smile pulled at his lips. Was it possible? Could he really have it all? The ranch? The girl?
“Don’t you get it, Mac?” she asked, shaking her head. “I just need you. Wherever we go, whatever we do, I’ll be happy because I’m with you. You are my home.”
And with those words, red-hot Delilah Fairchild stopped being That Woman. Because those words gave him the courage and strength to call her His Woman…
Read on for a sneak peek
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In Rides Trouble
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From Sourcebooks Casablanca
Prologue
“We’re definitely changing the name.” Frank “Boss” Knight pulled the Hummer up in front of the sad little pre-fab building and glanced at the hand-painted wooden sign screwed over the front door: BECKY’S BADASS BIKE BUILDS.
“Too much alliteration for you?” Bill Reichert snickered from the passenger seat while unbuckling his seat belt and throwing open the door. The frigid winter wind whipped into the interior of the vehicle, prompting Frank to grab his black stocking cap from the dashboard and tug it over his head and ears before zipping his parka up to his chin.
If this thing actually worked out, Chicago winters were definitely going to take some getting used to. Of course, freezing temps were a small price to pay for a good, solid cover for his new defense firm. And joining Bill’s kid sister in her custom Harley chopper business, posing as mechanics and motorcycle buffs, promised to be a freakin’ phenomenal cover for all the guys he’d recruited away from the various branches of the armed services. Especially considering most of them were bulky, tattooed, and—without regulation military haircuts—just scruffy enough to pass for their own chapter of Hell’s Angels.
He pushed out of the Hummer and had to lower his chin against the gust of wind that punched him in the face like an icy fist. Shoving his hands deep in his coat someone had shoveled in the thick blanket of snow.
Bill applied a gloved thumb to the buzzer, and five seconds later, a familiar noise sounded from the behind the metal door, making the hair on the back of Frank’s neck stand up.
How do you know you’ve been in the business too long? When you recognize the sound of a .45 caliber being chambered from three feet away, that’s how.
“Who is it?” a deep, wary voice inquired from within.
“I thought you said she knew we were coming,” Frank hissed over Bill’s shoulder.
“She does.” Bill grinned. “But she also knows she can never be too careful in this neighborhood.”
And that was no lie. The graffiti tagging every vertical surface for six blocks in each direction announced that they were smack dab in the middle of some very serious gang territory. The Vice Lords ruled the roost, and they wanted to make damned sure everyone knew it.
Raising his voice above the shrieking wind, Bill yelled, “Open the damned door, you big ape! We’re freezing our dicks off out here!”
And that was no lie either. Frank couldn’t even begin to explain to his family jewels why he hadn’t jumped into a pair of thermal underwear this morning and instead opted to go commando.
Big mistake. Huge.
One he sure as hell wouldn’t be making again.
The front door swung open with a resounding clang, and they were met by a giant, red-headed man who looked like he should be wearing a face mask and leotard while smashing a folding chair over some guy’s back.
Frank could almost hear Michael Buffer shouting, Arrrrre you ready to ruuumbllle?
“Manus,” Bill said, stepping over the threshold and motioning Frank through, “this is Boss. Boss, meet Manus. He and his brothers work security for my sister.”
Frank waited until Manus tucked the .45 into the waistband of his jeans before cautiously stepping into the small, tiled vestibule. The walls were covered in rusted motorcycle license plates, and as soon as the door closed behind him, the aroma of motor oil and burning metal assaulted his nostrils.
“You the guy who wants to partner with Becky? Invest some money and learn to build bikes?” Manus asked while pumping the hand he offered, a smile splitting the big man’s ruddy face and making all his freckles meld together.
Yeah, that was the story they were tossing around until he could get a look at the set-up…
“I haven’t decided yet,” he answered noncommittally, and Manus’s smile only widened.
“That’s only because you haven’t seen Becky’s bikes,” he boasted. “Once you do, you’re gonna want to give her all your savings and have her teach you everything she knows.”
Frank lifted a shoulder as if to say we’ll see and watched as Bill opened the second set of glass doors.
His ears were instantly assailed by a wall of sound.
The pounding beats of hard-driving rock music competed with the hellacious screech and whine of grinding metal. He resisted the urge to reach up and plug his ears as he followed Bill into the custom motorcycle shop, skirting a few pieces of high-tech machinery.
And then he wasn’t thinking about his bleeding eardrums a
t all.
Because his eyes zeroed in on the most beautiful, outlandish motorcycle he’d ever seen.
It was secured on a bike lift. The paint on the gas tank and fenders was bright, neon blue that sparkled iridescently in the harsh overhead lights. It sported a complex-looking dual exhaust, an outrageous stretch, and intricate, nearly whimsical front forks. It also had so much chrome it almost hurt to look at it.
In a word: art.
It made the work he’d done restoring his vintage 1952 Harley-Davidson FL look like amateur hour.
And just when he thought he couldn’t be any more blown away, the sound of grinding metal slowly died down and a young woman emerged from behind the bike with a grinder in one hand and a metal clamp in the other.
He nearly swallowed his own tongue.
This couldn’t be…
But obviously it was. Because the instant the woman caught sight of them she squealed, clicked off the music pouring out of the speakers of an old-fashioned boom box, and dropped both tools on the bike lift before jumping into Bill’s arms, hugging him tight and kissing his cheek with a resounding smack that sounded particularly loud in the sudden silence of the shop.
This was Rebecca “Rebel” Reichert, Wild Bill’s little sister.
Little being the operative word. If she stood two inches over five feet Frank would eat his biker boots for dinner.
He didn’t quite know what he’d expected of a woman who ran her own custom chopper shop, but it wasn’t long, blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, intense brown eyes surrounded by lush, dark lashes, and a pretty, girl-next-door face that just happened to be his own personal weakness when it came to women.
Something about that wholesome, all-American thing always managed to bring him to his knees.
Well, hell.
Bill finally lowered her to the ground, and she came to stand in front of Frank, small, grease-covered hands on slim, jean-clad hips. For some inexplicable reason, he felt the need to stand up straighter.
It was probably because she had the same unyielding look in her eye that his hard-ass drill sergeant always had back when he’d been in Basic.
Hell for Leather Page 29
