by Cathryn Cade
She gave him one wild-eyed look and dashed for the open window like a smash-and-grab looter making her getaway.
Pete reached her in one long stride, grabbing her arm. Her momentum swung her around, her soft curves slamming against him. He held on.
“What the ever-living fuck are you up to, sumashedshiy, crazy woman?" he demanded, throwing the tees onto the bed.
She tossed her hair back and gave him back glare for glare, shoving against his chest with her fists. “Whatever I want, that’s what I’m up to! You can’t lock me in here and expect me to sit and twiddle my thumbs.”
With a growl, he headed for the window, pulling her along with him. When he saw what lay below, fury lit in his chest, hot as flame.
His yard lights were on, alerted by the movement of the other Flyers, all of whom had spilled out of his house, and now stood oblivious to the night chill, surveying his yard and laughing like hyenas, even his brother.
Pete’s clothing littered the ground, jeans draped in haphazard folds over the lawn, shirts and underwear draped on the dry, leafless bushes.
And on one of the big rocks which punctuated the lawn like ancient sentinels, lay a black garment with a red and white emblem.
“My cut?” Pete snarled, his grip tightening on her arm. “You tossed my cut out the window?”
She yelped, and he loosened his grip automatically. His hands flexed. He wanted to shake her, he wanted to … no. He had a better idea.
“Streak!” he bellowed out the window. “Pick that shit up. Get my cut first.”
Then he turned back into the room, and advanced on the woman who had dared his private domain, and made a mess of his things.
Her eyes widened, and she backed away. Pete sidestepped, herding her where he wanted her to go. She came up short against his bed, and let out a gasp, her tits quivering.
“Wh-what are you gonna do now?” she asked.
He smiled down at her. “You wanna know what I’m gonna do? You broke my bathroom door. You invaded my private space. You tossed my clothes out in the dirt—and you disrespected my cut.”
She shifted nervously as he closed in, clearly trying to decide which way to bolt. “I didn’t cut anything.”
Yeah, and thank fuck she hadn’t found the collection of knives in his bureau, or God knew what she would’ve done to his clothes.
“My cut,” he repeated. “Black leather vest, has my name on it and the Flyers’ emblem? Ring a bell?”
“Um—” She looked away, scrunching her nose and her full mouth to one side, guilty as fuck, and luckily for her, twice as cute.
“Yeah, I see it does,” he said. “You toss my clothes out, that ticks me off, but I’ll just have you pick ‘em up, make sure they’re clean. But one thing you do not—ever—do to a biker is disrespect his club. And a brother’s cut is a symbol of loyalty to the club.”
She opened her mouth, and Pete held up a finger, shaking his head. He’d settled down a whole lot, and now … now he was just enjoying himself. And he intended to enjoy the next few moments a whole lot more.
“And that, I can’t let that go,” he went on, turning toward the bed with her still in his grasp. “That’s gotta be punished.”
He had her over his lap, face down, before she finished letting out a muffled yelp of shock. And a fine sight she was, too, with her pretty ass presented over his thighs, her strong curvy legs kicking and her torso twisting as she tried to shove off the bed and smack him at the same time.
“You let me go, you—you bastard!” she squawked. She got in one good pinch over his ribs before he captured her near arm and held it behind her back—being careful with his grasp, because he was lot stronger than her, and he might want to redden her ass, but he wasn’t about to leave bruises anywhere. That was for abusive little pissants who weren’t real men.
“I’ll let you go—after I do this.” He lifted his hand and gave her three swift, stinging smacks on her ass.
She let out a screech of outrage that rang in his ears. He winced, then gave her one more smack for good measure before letting her go. He didn't even try to hide the grin that spread across his face as she erupted up onto her knees at his side, nearly falling on the floor.
He caught her, hands on her waist. She landed astride his thighs, still on her knees.
Instead of thanking him for saving her ass, she smacked him on his left pec with her palm. Shit, that stung. And from the way she winced and flapped her slender hand, it had stung her as well.
“Careful.” He fended off another smack by catching her hands in his. They were as silky and strong as the rest of her. She’d be even softer under her tee and jeans, and under her bra and panties. “Enough. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“Like you didn’t just do worse, you—you biker asshole.”
More raucous laughter sounded from the yard below.
“When you’re through with her, Brews,” T-bear called. “I’ll take her! I like some pepper with my honey.”
The brothers laughed again, and the woman on Pete’s lap gave him a look as if he’d tossed her undies out in front of a crowd.
“Nice talk,” she hissed at him. “Guess your ‘bros’ are all knuckle-draggers just like you.”
“They are like me,” he agreed. “Wouldn’t let them hear you say that, though. They might not be as understanding as me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right. Understanding—that must be cave-man speak for man-handling me.”
Pete sat on his bed with a gorgeous, tousled woman astride his lap, her hands on his chest and her gaze flashing fire that promised she’d heat up in other ways too, if he got his hands under that snug tee.
His jeans tightened on his groin. Hell, he was aroused, and on the way to a full-on boner. And he wanted this woman, specifically, to assuage it—with her hands, her mouth, her tits, or what-the-hell-ever. He wasn’t feeling particular, just horny.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Footsteps thudded up the stairs. Fuck, somehow, Pete had forgotten he was surrounded by his brothers, and that the woman on his lap was his employee.
He patted her thigh. “Climb off, unless you like an audience.”
She scrambled off his lap as fast as if he was on fire. “Like any of this was my idea.”
Pete decided not to point out that he hadn’t been holding onto her there at the last. “Don’t worry, we’ll finish our little chat later. Right now, you got some clothes to put away.”
“Oh, I suppose next you’ll want me to fix your darn door,” she muttered. “The door you locked me behind.”
“I just might put that on your list of chores. You any good with a power drill?”
She gave a pointed look at his groin. “Give me one, and we’ll both find out what I can do with it.”
Which was why, when Streak stopped in Pete’s doorway, arms laden with clothing, Pete was standing in the middle of his room, laughing like a fool.
Streak stopped, brows flying up. Behind him, T-Bear and Moke crowded in to see the fun.
Lesa scuttled behind Pete, and he peered at her over his shoulder, wondering what was wrong with her.
“I’m not going with them,” she hissed.
“No, of course you’re not,” he replied, wondering what the hell was going through her head. “You’re stayin’ right here where I can keep an eye on you.”
“Aw, we’re scarin’ her,” T-bear rumbled. “It’s okay, honey-pot. Just came to watch the fun.”
Lesa planted herself against Pete’s back, her hands knotting in his tee. He reached back to pat her hip, his hand lingering on her soft warmth. “Woman, relax.”
“Looks to me like the show’s over,” Moke said. He held up Pete’s cut, his dark eyes twinkling. “No harm done, brah—to your cut, at least.”
Pete held up a hand, and Moke tossed him the vest.
Streak frowned at Pete over his armload of clothing. “Where you want this stuff?”
“Don’t know,” Pete drawled. “Ask my new maid.”
He patted Lesa again. “Speak up, malyshka.”
“Maid?” she repeated, like it was a curse word. “I don’t think so.”
“I do,” he said, dropping his smile. “You can start now.” He stabbed his finger at the pile of clothing. “All my clothes folded and put away, or in the laundry if it needs it. Streak, go get her shit out of her car and bring it up. She’s staying.”
“Well now,” T-Bear said, grinning at Pete and Lesa. “That’s more like it. Keep that honey in the house, nice and close. Y’know, you can order up one of them French maid uniforms online. Now that’d be a fine sight.”
Lesa made a sound like a beer tap when the keg was empty, shooting only air and foam.
Pete grinned as he gestured at the pile of clothes. “Better get started, or I’ll throw your clothes out, then get my credit card out and order up a new outfit for you.”
He stepped close, leaning in to murmur in her ear, “And I can spank a whole lot harder than that, so don’t push your luck.”
Then he swung his cut up and around, shoved his arms through and dropped it down over his shoulders, where it settled smoothly. He could feel her watching him as he sauntered from the room.
As he jogged down the stairs, his smile started deep inside his gut and spread. She had a lot more fire in her than he’d have thought, that was for certain. He found himself strangely satisfied by this. He was chuckling as he jogged downstairs, imagining her in a skimpy, sexy black-and-white outfit with some of those fishnet stockings.
But then he had to stop at the bottom of the stairs and adjust himself in his jeans.
* * *
Streak lingered in the doorway, giving Lesa a frowning look. “You okay?” he asked.
She gave him a look. “If I say no, are you gonna get my car keys for me, so I can leave?”
He looked acutely uncomfortable. “Ah … no. But if you’re scared, I’ll have a word with Pete. He’s not gonna hurt you, you know that, right? That ain’t the way the Flyers roll—least not this chapter.”
She hugged her arms around her middle. “I had my doubts when you all showed up here.”
He gave her a look of shock, and she flushed. “Well … how would you feel if a woman locked you up in a bedroom, invited a bunch of raucous friends to party downstairs, and told you to wait for it?”
He grinned crookedly. “I’d probably think I was in for one helluva good time. But I can see it’d be different from your view. Shit, you really thought we’d … no, babe. No way in hell. That’d be the Prairie Rattlers, and maybe some of the original Flyers in the old days, but not now, not this chapter.”
“Streak, you wanna stop chatting and get your ass down here?” Pete called from the bottom of the stairs.
Her own anger rising again, Lesa opened her mouth to holler back that he could shove his bossiness somewhere painful, but Streak threw up a hand, giving her a look that said to shut it. Since he’d been only kind to her, she did so.
“Coming, boss.” The young biker gave her a regretful look, and disappeared, his footsteps thudding away down the stairs. There was another wave of laughter, then a door slammed shut and the deep voices muffled.
Lesa glared at the mound of clothing trailing from the king-sized bed. She knew what she’d like to do with it. But she also believed Pete when he said he could spank a lot harder. And she was not giving that asshole biker jerk another excuse to play caveman.
“Me Pete, you female,” she mimicked, deepening her voice. “You stay in my cave, fold my saber-tooth skins, or I beat your ass.”
She’d get even with him though, if it was the very last thing she did … right before she left town, and went looking for another job.
Heaving a sigh, she reached for a shirt, snapped it out and began to fold it. Pete favored western shirts, and wore cowboy boots as often as not. This was a nice shirt, a soft corduroy in butter yellow with cowboy yoke and snaps. She’d seen Pete wear it, and she’d seen a flashy blond admire the way he looked in it too. She’d also seen him admire the blond right back—and after closing time, they’d probably done more.
And this faded red denim shirt—he’d been wearing that the evening he flirted with a pretty Hispanic woman and her friends.
The black-and-white plaid—that had been redhead night. And she knew for sure the redhead had passed him her phone number, because she’d seen him shove it in his shirt pocket.
Paper crinkled under her fingers, and Lesa popped the snap on the shirt pocket and fished inside. She pulled out a crumpled, flattened scrap, the purple ink smeared into the paper. She grinned to herself. Guess he hadn’t been worried about keeping the redhead’s number after all, if he’d left it in his pocket to go through the laundry.
Or maybe he’d simply entered the number in his phone and used that to make his booty call. She stomped into his closet and grabbed a handful of hangers. The closet smelled like him—all manly, of leather, clean laundry, faint cologne and a hint of cigar smoke. She’d been too angry before to take it in, but now, after being so close to him, her senses seemed more receptive, way too receptive in fact.
Stupid hormones—her body might crave Pete Vanko, but her brain did not. And her heart couldn’t afford anything to do with him.
Hook up with a user, end up the loser. Not that those other women weren’t using him for sex too, because they were. But he was still an ass-hat.
She hustled out into his bedroom and grabbed his tees to fold them. The sooner she got done here, the sooner she’d be out of his bedroom, and away from this big bed where he did things she didn’t need to think about. Picturing him with those women made her want to toss breakable things out his window.
She shuddered at the thought of his ever realizing she was jealous of his constant conquests. He was already arrogant—he’d become unbearably smug. No matter what happened, she must stay aloof. Angry was fine, but jealous, no sir.
She shoved the stack of folded tees into his wide bureau drawer and slammed the drawer, scowling. Not that her attitude mattered, when she wasn’t going to be here.
He could spend his life going through women like bar napkins, and it wouldn’t bother her one bit, ‘cause she’d be long gone.
She bit back a yawn, and rubbed her eyes, which were sore from crying and from a very long day. She needed to lie down before she fell down. And she was going to be comfy while she slept. Pulling open the drawer again, she selected a tee, a soft brown with a white Zach Brown Band logo.
In his bathroom, she looked at herself in the mirror and winced. Ack, eye-makeup beneath her eyes and her hair flying everywhere—she looked awful. She washed her face and hands with his soap, a combination of lemon and some spice that she recognized. Anyway, it smelled nearly as good on her as it did on Pete.
Best of all, he had lotion the same scent. A gift from one of his bed buddies, no doubt. Lesa made liberal use of it, smoothing it on her face, throat and arms. The plastic bottle fell from her slick fingers, hitting the tile floor with a thud. She picked it up and placed it back on the sink.
Then she pulled her tee off over her head, and head back, eyes closed, she reached back to unfasten her bra. As it slid down her arms, she let it fall and arched her back with her arms stretched high and wide, giving a shimmy of relief at being unconfined.
A low sound from Pete’s bedroom brought her eyes open with a jolt. She gasped. The broken hinge had allowed the bathroom door to swing open again. Pete stood half-way across his bedroom, his gaze riveted on her bare upper body.
His handsome face was taut, eyes hooded, nostrils flared, in a hot, hungry look.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lesa clapped her arms over her breasts and glared at Pete.
“Don’t look at me! You’re supposed to be downstairs.”
“Heard something hit the floor, figured I better get up here and see what you’re breaking this time.”
He prowled toward her, his gaze roaming over her, leaving a trail of heat like a physical touch.
“M
aladshiy, I knew you had a hot body, but if I knew these sugar tits were under your Hangar tees …” he shook his head, a smile curving up one side of his mouth, his gaze hot. “Fuck, those are real, aren’t they?”
“Of course they’re real,” she snapped. Not that she had anything against women enhancing their bra size if they chose, but she didn’t like the thought that he’d eyed her and wondered. Or maybe she did like it—augh, he confused the heck out of her.
He came into the bathroom, and she backed up, coming up short against the sink. The porcelain was cold against her bare back above her hipster jeans.
“What’re you doing?” she demanded, her voice breathy. “Stay back. Don’t you touch me.”
“Hey,” he said, his deep voice curiously gentle. “Shhh, you’re okay.”
Slowly, his gaze on her breasts, pillowing over and under her hands, he reached out. But instead of touching her directly, he took a lock of her hair in his fingers and pulled it forward over her bare shoulder. Then he used it to trace across the top of her breasts.
She shivered with nerves and unwilling pleasure as her own hair feathered her delicate skin like a sable brush. His nearness worked the usual magic on her, and under her own palms her nipples stiffened with arousal.
No, no, no! She didn’t even like him—she hated him.
She twisted, tossing her head to pull her hair from his grasp, and lifted one leg to shove at him with her knee.
“Get away from me, Pete Vanko. You fired me, you lied about me, and you are not turning me into your zillionth one-night stand. Get back.”
He slid his hand under the back of her raised knee and gave her leg a squeeze, his gaze flicking back up to her face.
“Even if I clue you in the reasons why I put you in the hot seat?” he asked. “And that I’m even fuckin’ sorry it turned out bad as it did, and that I’ll make it up to you?”
Off-balance, caught between resentment and arousal, Lesa struggled to assess the truth in his crystalline gaze. Advantage, he actually seemed to be serious. Disadvantage, she couldn’t trust him, not after today.
