by Megan Crane
“Friday.”
Ajax took that in, sitting back on his bike, his feet on the ground. His head dropped forward, just a little, and she wondered how he did it. How he stayed so hard all the time, like he was indistinguishable from the metal machine he sat on. All roar and steel. Nothing inside to love, so nothing to hurt. Safe and fast and free.
But she studied that bend in his neck, maybe the most vulnerable she’d ever seen him, and she knew that wasn’t true. It might be what he wanted, what they all wanted, from this life of theirs. It might even be what he told himself. None of that made it true.
He straightened, and when his eyes met hers across the few feet of thick, inky dark, she had to breathe through that, too.
“Come here,” he said gruffly.
Sophie told herself she had no choice. But that wasn’t the reason she walked toward him. And it wasn’t the reason she stood there, eyes fixed to his, when she reached him.
She had no idea what he saw.
It took her a moment to realize he was handing her something, and it took her longer than that to realize it was a rolled-up Henley shirt. His, maybe. She blinked at it, then at him, but she didn’t argue. She shook it out and then shoved her hands up inside of it, pulling the arms on first. Then she tugged the rest over her head, and she took a scant second on the way to confirm that yes, this was his shirt. She could smell it. She could smell him. Just the faintest hint of the soap he used, plus something else that was all him and a little bit of leather besides, but it was enough. By the time she pulled her head through, her body had shuddered into full awareness, a thrumming kind of tension that was centered between her legs. And as she freed her hair from the shirt’s collar and confronted the canopy that was Ajax’s shirt on her much smaller body, that bright hot heat began to pulse.
He reached over and tugged the shirt into place. He shot a look at her, dark and something like grim, and then he reached over and pulled her a step closer to him. He rolled up the cuffs of the shirt. Baring one wrist then the other, the leather of his gloves glancing off her skin here and there as he worked.
Sophie barely breathed.
Wordlessly, Ajax handed her a soft leather helmet and buckled on one of his own as she handled hers.
Then he lifted his chin and she stepped back. He started up his bike, the roar of it splitting the night apart and welcome, somehow. Sophie could feel it in her bones, like a jazz band on a French Quarter street corner, the rhythm of life beneath everything. Ajax moved the bike off its kickstand and rolled it forward a few feet, then waited for her, one boot in the dirt.
She’d ridden on motorcycles a million times. There was nothing special about this one. Or so she told herself when her heart pounded hard inside her chest, then kept at it, like a drum. Boom. That sleek, black, infinitely sexy machine, gleaming dark and dangerous in the night. Boom. Ajax and that steel-crafted body of his that wouldn’t be safely across the width of a car tonight. Boom. The long, long stretch of road between here and New Orleans, with this man and this machine brooding and hot between her thighs. Boom.
Sophie stepped forward. She fought to look easy and loose and effortlessly casual, like this was no big deal, no matter that hot, hard glitter in his gaze. She swung up behind him, settling into place, and gingerly reached around to slide her hands onto his hips.
He revved the engine and then he turned his head so she could hear him.
“Don’t be an asshole, Sophie.”
And she reminded herself that he couldn’t see her. So it was almost as if it didn’t count when she relented and slid forward, pressing herself to his back and wrapping her arms securely around his hard, narrow waist. The bike was alive between her legs, a low, wild rumble, and he was more dangerous by far, and she was snug up against him.
What the hell, she thought, and tucked her chin on his shoulder too, because why not burn to a crisp if she was going to dance this close to the fire?
She felt him tighten beneath her, all that sleek, powerful muscle, the man and the machine fused together somehow and so painfully gorgeous she had to shut her eyes against it.
And when he took off into the night and down that long, dark bayou road toward home, it felt like flying.
Chapter 6
Ajax had spent a lot of time fine-tuning this particular dream over the past ten years.
Hauling ass down Bourbon Street again, scattering the tourists before him like minnows in fanny packs. His cut on his back and his bike beneath him. That sweet Louisiana wind in his face and his city cobbled together around him. The grit and sugar and straight-on sparkle of the French Quarter, tarted up pretty for another long night of sin.
Except tonight, it was real.
He wasn’t off in some hellish corner of this fucked-up world where nobody would go by choice, dreaming up what-ifs to pass the time and keep his head together. He wasn’t counting off the stream of pointless days between mercenary gigs in his soulless apartment in Houston, not giving much of a shit if he made it through his next assignment with so little to come back for.
He was right here, at last. He was home.
And this time, he had a woman pressed tight to his back, wrapped around him, soft and yielding.
Sophie was no virgin to the bike, so he liked it even more when she kept holding on to him like that long after they left the highway. She could have sat up, sat back. She could have put some space between them.
But she didn’t do it.
Not until they made it to the Priory and the alleyway that ran down the length of the bar and disappeared into the courtyard. He made the tight turn from memory, easing his way past the usual crowd of gawkers and hypocrites, then rolled back into the welcoming shadows, out of sight. He stopped and let Sophie climb off. He noted the careful way she did it, like she thought her legs might give out, and then he backed up the bike and parked it where he always had ten years ago, in what had been the VP spot near the stairs that led up to Priest’s apartment.
His club wasn’t what it had been and for reasons he didn’t get, according to Greeley and the other Devil’s Keepers and even that fucking lawyer who had called him late last night, hadn’t been for a long time. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. There were no lights on in the building across the courtyard in what had been the Deacons’ clubhouse and Ajax had the distinct feeling he didn’t want to know why not. There were no brothers out in the yard or inside those doors that rolled back, no music pouring out from within, no sounds of the usual petty squabbles or the bullshit stories of badassery gone by hanging there in the air the way there should have been. There were no prospects cleaning up their shit and making themselves available for the usual hazing. There were no women wandering in with very few clothes on, looking for a good time served up rough-edged and a little bit mean.
And it was still his favorite dream come true. All of it.
He cut the bike’s powerful engine and the night closed in around them, the boisterous Quarter sounding almost quiet and calm in comparison to the Harley’s guttural roar. Sophie stood there in the deep shadows with him, not near enough for his liking, and he could read the uncertainty dripping off her. He could see it in every line of that supple body he’d felt wrapped tight around him for some hundred miles.
He watched her as she shifted from one foot to the other. She tugged at her helmet and it took her a minute, like maybe her fingers weren’t working the way they should. He bit back his smile and swung off the bike.
“I have to check on the bar.” She sounded nervous and, prick that he was, he liked it.
“Didn’t look like there was a fire when we went by.”
Her eyes were too dark against all that night, but he had no trouble reading her anyway.
“Of course there’s no fire.”
Sophie thrust her helmet at him and he took it, amused at how careful she was not to touch him. Like that would help.
“Then you don’t need to check on the bar. It’s fine. Katrina didn’t take it, noth
ing will.”
She rolled her eyes and turned away from him, starting toward the back door of the Priory. The usual chaos inside poured out from the screen door. Hard rock and loud laughter. All the amoral and greedy glory that Bourbon Street had to offer. All carrying along just fine without her, as he was sure she knew. Ajax waited there in the shadows behind her and she stopped short before she reached the doorway. Then turned back slowly.
Very slowly.
“Your shirt.”
“Yeah.” Ajax moved toward her, predatory and sure. Closing in fast. “I’m gonna need that.”
He saw her jolt a little bit at that, and she took a step back. But she didn’t make a break for it. She didn’t haul ass through that door and down the hallway into the relative safety of the crowd inside, and she could have.
Somehow, he’d known she wouldn’t.
Ajax stopped when he was right in front of her, and he could hear the way she was breathing. Too fast, like she really had broken into that run. He could see the way her chest moved, giving her away. She shifted again, and he didn’t need to reach down into her jeans to confirm that she was sopping wet and ready for him. He could see it on her face, in her darkening eyes. He knew.
Though it was going to be a whole lot of fun when he got there, all the same.
“I’m worried—”
“You’re not worried.”
He reached down and took the hem of his Henley in one fist and started dragging it up, revealing her hot fucking body to his heated gaze. At last. After the sheer torture of having her rubbing up against him for miles and miles, his mouth actually watered when her tank top rode up too, showing him a taut little swath of her belly.
“Just like you’re not psychic, as far as I know, and if you are, guess what? There are a lot better places for you to go in the Quarter than here. You can read palms and fight for turf with the voodoo queens and leave me alone.”
He kept pulling that Henley up, and the momentum made her sway closer to him. Maybe it wasn’t the momentum. Maybe she couldn’t help herself, either.
“You don’t want me to leave you alone.”
“Is that your psychic power telling you that?” she asked sweetly.
“I don’t need to be psychic to know when a bitch is so hot for me she might come right here if she crosses her legs,” he grunted.
Sophie let out a breath that was part gasp, part laugh.
“That was disgusting even for you.”
He shrugged, and slid the shirt up over her breasts. He waited. She let out a small sigh and then she lifted her arms obediently and that too told him everything he needed to know. He took some care pulling her hair free as he tugged it over her head, and then he threw the fucking shirt to the side.
And she was right there, still breathing too fast. Still so fucking pretty it was messing with his head and getting deep under his skin. His cock didn’t give a shit that she was the kind of trouble that lasted a lifetime. It just wanted in.
“So?” he asked. It was more of a growl.
“So what?” She was staring at his mouth. Maybe that was why he smirked. Or maybe he just liked the way it made her focus, then glare up at him.
“You registering a complaint about how disgusting I am or was that more of an observation?”
Sophie laughed again. “Like you care.”
And then his hands were in that thick, wavy hair of hers, digging in with two fists. He dragged her mouth to his, the hunger beating at him, and even the crush of her lips didn’t help it. He thrust his tongue deep, his mouth open, taking as much as he could. Cradling her head in his hands so she could do nothing but wrap her arms around his waist and take it.
He angled his head, going deeper, taking more, and this kissing shit wasn’t enough.
Ajax slid his hands down the length of her, enjoying the way she shook against him, enjoying the fit of her and the curve of her back. And really fucking loving that ass of hers when he finally got there. It wasn’t enough to test those plump, perfect cheeks through her jeans. He shoved a hand beneath her waistband and massaged her ass, reveling in the way she filled his hand, smooth and warm. He reached down and unbuttoned her jeans so he could slide his other hand in too without cutting her in half.
Jesus, she was firm. Firm and hot and silken sweet at once. Ajax lost himself in her greedy mouth. She hung on to him with her nails digging into him again, little pricks of heat that made him sweat. She was making those insane little noises while she sucked on his tongue, kissing him dirty and wild, and she rocked back into his hands while he clenched down hard on that fine ass in his hands at last.
And none of that was even close to enough.
He wrenched his mouth away from hers. “Your jeans are too fucking tight, woman.”
“You love it,” she threw back at him, because she had not one shred of fear in her. Not one. He couldn’t think of anything hotter than that. “You’ve been staring at my ass all day.”
“I’d love it a lot more if they were around your ankles,” he muttered, but he was pulling her hard against him, both hands deep inside her jeans and on her ass again then, and Jesus Christ, she was perfect. Taut and silky and he was ready to kill something if he didn’t get her naked. “I’m sick of your fucking clothes.”
He lifted her then, high against him, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and threw her legs around his waist with her ass still in his hands, where it fucking belonged. He took the stairs, stopping every now and then to pillage her mouth and let her writhe against him and build up the crazy again, and then they were at the door to the apartment and it was all taking too long.
Ajax let her down then, and letting go sucked. He was already unlocking the door with his key by the time she got her balance and he didn’t have time for the way she looked at him, like clarity was returning in a hurry. He pushed her inside, maybe not quite as gentle a shove as he could have given her if he wasn’t so hard he was cross-eyed, and she glared at him over her shoulder.
“Keep moving,” he told her, and then he kicked the door shut behind them and finally, finally they were alone.
She walked through the kitchen and into the living room while he locked the door behind him, and he wondered if she’d take that last order to heart just to mess with him and keep going all the way into her bedroom. He wouldn’t mind. He’d also take the fucking door down.
Instead, she stopped. Dead in the middle of the floor, and he saw her straighten her shoulders. It looked a whole lot like second thoughts to him, but he took his time. He kicked off his boots and shrugged out of his cut, hanging it carefully on the back of the nearest chair in the kitchen.
Sophie still didn’t move. She didn’t look back at him.
“Something on your mind?”
He thought she stiffened. “No.”
“Good. But you got something to say, babe, now’s the time.”
She didn’t say anything. And Ajax didn’t feel like investigating why that rolled through him the way it did, a lot like relief.
He walked up behind her and pulled her to him, nestling that ass of hers against his aching dick, and then he reached down and slid his palm over the swath of skin between the edge of her tank top and the unbuttoned waistband of her jeans. She let her head fall back against his shoulder and he took her mouth again, more demanding than before.
Deeper. Slicker.
She shifted against him and it was like lightning. Ajax groaned, and then he took the open button of her jeans as the invitation it was and slipped his hand inside, shoving down the zipper as he went to finally get to her pussy.
Sophie moaned into his mouth as he touched her. She was soaking wet and fucking hot and he grunted out his approval and his need, his fingers stroking all over her slippery folds. She pushed herself into his hand and she panted into his mouth, and then he took her clit between his fingers and held her there for a sweet, hot minute. She jerked against him and rocked back, hard, and then he sank two fingers deep into her soft, wet c
unt.
Then again. Then one more time, just to hear that keening noise she made and the way she reached out and wrapped her hands around his forearm like she didn’t know what she wanted more, to make him stop or to make him go faster. And she was so tight around him. The wet, clinging heat of her was insane.
“You’re killing me,” he growled in her ear and he wasn’t kidding. He thought he was dying and he didn’t much care if he did, but he had to get inside her. He had to.
He pulled his fingers out of her and she moaned at the loss, and then he was moving toward the couch, tilting her forward so she grabbed hold of the back of it. He licked the taste of her from his fingers and it shot straight to his head, sweet, hot cream. He thought he might have growled. Then he was pulling her jeans and her panties from her hips and tugging them down her legs, then kicking them the fuck out of his way at last.
She twisted around, and her mouth was open and her eyes were wild, and he’d never seen anything fiercer or more beautiful in his life. She tore at his shirt and he tugged at her tank top and then they each worked on their own, and it still seemed to take too damned long.
Ajax fished a condom out of his back pocket and then he shoved his jeans down to his hips and rolled it on, shoving her hands away when she tried to help him or touch him or whatever the hell she was doing. There was no time left. There was nothing but this hunger and he thought his balls might explode, and he didn’t have time for anything but getting inside her.
Even if he had the sneaking suspicion that it might not be enough.
He lifted her up again, her ass half on the couch and her hips angled toward him. He kicked her legs open and spread her thighs wide to make room for himself. Then he gripped his cock in one hand and nudged its blunt head against her plump little pussy, tracking it through her wet folds and hitting her clit on the downstroke. And it was already better than that bullshit against the wall downstairs with their clothes still on. She was wet and she was wide open and she had the sweetest cunt he’d ever tasted, and none of this was going to be enough for him. He understood it. In that taut, aching moment, he accepted it.
