Lone Wolf (A Breed MC Book Book 4)

by Anne Marsh

  Poppy

  I’m not moving.

  Not ever.

  I hope Gator can drive the boat here because I’m done. Finished. Wrung out, panting, and utterly boneless. Who knew that all those stories about getting caught in a storm and being forced to share body heat were so deliciously accurate? I mean, not that there’s a blizzard raging around us, and we’re not in mortal peril of any kind, but still. We’re outside, the rain’s coming down hard, and he just boned the hell out of me while I rode him like a perverse cowgirl.

  If I could figure out how to make muscles work, I’d totally do it again.

  Gator mutters something dirty and rather accurate against the top of my head. His hands tighten briefly on my back, and then he’s easing me off him. And off him. Even spent, the man’s dick is impressive. I wriggle, trying to help, and that’s when we hear it.

  Or maybe it’s because the rain’s picked this moment to stop.

  There’s a tiny faint tearing sound. Perhaps I imagined it.

  I finish de-dicking myself, and look down. Gator’s got his hand between us, dealing with the clean up. He looks up at me, and I know.

  “Condom broke.” He runs a hand down my back. I’m not sure where the spent condom’s gone, but it’s disappeared. I don’t need to see the evidence to know he’s right. Something warm and sticky seeps between my legs, a million baby Gators trying for a home run and the knock-up swing.

  “Okay.” I suck in a breath, trying not to freak out.

  “Babe.” Big hands cup my face. “It will be fine. Trust me on this.”

  Trust is such a funny thing. As amazing as the sex has been, I hadn’t planned on going all the way with him. Not to things like trust and… No. I shut the lid down on those feelings.

  I did this with Nathan. Picked a guy who was hot and built—and thought he ruled the universe. Honestly, you’d think I’d know better by now. I mean imagine dating Thor. He’s pretty as fuck up there on the big screen, but his version of bad-assery doesn’t work in real life. You’d trip over the hammer, the ego, the hair. This is hot sex in the bayou, and even though I’d like to do it again, I’m not into trust.

  Or feelings.

  Am I?

  “It was just one time,” I rationalize, completely ignoring my biology degree. I mean, I know exactly how babies are made and why tonight was probably the worst possible time for a condom to break. A drawbridge and an Enter Here sign have just broached the moat surrounding my castle, and the barbarians are rushing toward the keep to sack it. Or, more likely, occupy it.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  What have I done?

  Poppy

  Gator and I don’t mention the broken condom again, although it hovers in the back of my mind. The memory of that tear and the feel of his hot jizz leaking down my thighs is like that nagging, stupid thing you forgot to take care of, and now you can’t stop thinking about it. It’s probably not a big deal, but the possibility’s there. The teeny-tiny, pinhead-sized chance that one broken condom plus one super-sized dick now equals one equally ginormous pregnancy mistake.

  Probably not.

  It’s more likely that I’d win the lottery this weekend by playing all sixes or sevens, so I should totally buy myself a ticket and take my chances there instead. I could use the extra cash.

  And honestly, I kind of expected Gator to disappear after the condom fiasco. Nothing like a paternity scare to make a man realize that he’s just playing around, right? But you could say that he sticks around. Like super glue or the price tag stores love to slap right on the front of your new picture frame. In fact, he never leaves. After the rainstorm blew itself out, he brought me home and then climbed straight into bed with me. Just to sleep, he’d rumbled in my ear, and that had been true enough—until seven hours later when he’d woken me up in the best possible way. I’d had no complaints.

  Gator is like jelly beans. How do you eat just one? I want the whole bag even if it makes me puke or run around in circles from the sugar high. After that rainstorm, things sort of even out between us, and I don’t think it’s just because we’re having sex. I’m no relationship expert (and I suspect Gator’s actually a relationship virgin), but we don’t just do stuff in bed. We’re not kidnapper and kidnapee or even just a casual hook-up.

  We’re something more.

  He’s asked me to move in with him twice now, and this act of using his words is a big step for Mr. Grunt and Make It So, if we’re being honest. Based on our previous days together in the bayou, he’s not too big on holding conversations, and discussions with genuine back-and-forth, where both parties are equal participants, don’t even register on his radar. He’s the kind of guy who’s more comfortable with a monarchy than any form of democracy, but I won’t do that again, so he’s learning to accommodate me. He’s pointed out all the pros of us living together, which range from me not having to pay rent (which is attractive since my checking account is on starvation rations thanks to losing my grant) to my having constant access to his body for whatever deviant sexual needs I have.

  That’s way more attractive than the cash aspect.

  For now, however, we’ve settled on sleepovers. He brought me a super ginormous deluxe cat carrier the first time he asked me to spend the night. It’s practically the size of a New York City studio, and Moo was willing to consider a change in digs. Gator said he didn’t want me to worry when I was with him. Then he sort of thought about it and said that he wanted me to worry as little as possible. He knows it’s hard for me to turn off my brain and just relax. There are a million things to worry about. And it used to drive Nathan crazy the way I couldn’t let go of everything. I worried that worrying would fuck this thing with Gator up, but he seems to understand and roll with it. It’s like maybe I am enough just as I am, and I don’t have to change unless I want to.

  Tonight we’re camping out at his place. Admittedly, it’s way nicer than mine, and Moo seems happy, too. I pad out onto the porch. I love his moonlight garden. Jasmine and moonflower sprawl across low fences and tangle with old roses. It’s all shadows and silver, and I could lose myself here.

  Gator pulls me down onto his lap when I get near enough to be grabbed. It’s a game we’ve taken to playing—I get just close enough to him that he can almost touch but still has to work for it. A little creative roughhousing where hands go all sorts of really fun places. He makes it easy, too, because he seems to eschew furniture, preferring to sit on the bare boards of the porch, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The porch isn’t empty anymore, though. Some gorgeous wicker couches and chairs showed up about a week ago, along with one of those swing-chairs that hang from the ceiling. They’re great, but my favorite seat is still Gator.

  “Gotcha. What’s up?” He rumbles the words into my hair, his big hands wrapping around my waist and skating over my skin.

  “Nothing much.” I wiggle, looking for a less-hard spot. My butt has plenty of padding, but there’s absolutely nothing soft about Gator. While the enormous erection he’s sporting is a fun plaything, it makes for a terrible seat. Unless I’m naked and riding him like Cajun Cowgirl. I consider that possibility for a minute, but we’ve already done it twice today and I’m a little sore. It might be time for a beaver time out.

  He snorts. “Gonna get a complex, babe.”

  As if. Gator has to be one of the most effortlessly self-confident men I’ve ever met. He just is who he is, and you can take him or leave him. Things are easy with him, and that should really be a red flag for me. Nathan made things easy, too. He did it by taking control of our joint lives. He got to be the engineer driving the train, and I was the caboose. And while in many ways Gator is absolutely nothing like Nathan, they both manage to be effortlessly in control of their lives. And other people’s lives.

  He strokes his palms over my hips. “You think any more about moving out here with me?”

  “No.” Honesty’s important in a relationship.

  “Why not?” His fingers draw
small slow circles over my skin, working beneath the edge of my T-shirt to find bare skin. Part of me wants to relax into his touch because it feels good and sex would make an awesome distraction. The more mature, sensible part of me understands that sometimes you have to use your words.

  “Because there’s nothing left to think about,” I tell him. “You asked, and I said thanks, but no thanks.”

  We’d also punctuated that conversation with some fairly dirty kissing, but details…

  “Babe, you do know that I’m not planning on charging you rent, right?”

  I elbow him hard, and he snorts.

  “It’s the truth,” he says. “And not because I figure you can work it off some other way, okay? I’m just thinking that you’re underemployed at the moment and that has to make cash tight. I have a place, and I thought we were friends. Makes sense that you would crash here, and it’d cut down on all the commuting. I know you can handle your own shit—you’ve made that perfectly clear. But you’ve got a problem right now and you don’t have a solution yet. So let me help you.”

  I lean back and sigh.

  “You suck,” I say. “Okay, yes. That would be great. I can’t believe I lost my grant. I’m working on my backup plan, but it’s not going to happen overnight. Maybe I should look into Starbucks or the local bookstore. Someone has to be hiring, and then I’ll be able to handle my own rent again and—”

  “You think you might learn to trust me?” I can hear the humor in his voice. I twist to see his face, and sure enough, he’s smirking.

  I elbow him. “What’s wrong with liking my independence?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “But now you’ve got me to help figure shit out. You should take advantage of me.”

  “I said yes,” I say, my voice grumpy.

  “You’re gonna give me a complex.” He brushes his fingers down the side of my cheek. “Besides, your moving out here would be completely voluntary this time. You should be encouraging that kind of positive behavior in me.”

  “That’s true. Maybe the city of Baton Rouge would give me a medal or something for reforming you.”

  Hah. Obviously, I’m joking, but it’s still pretty funny to think about. And if anyone needs reforming, it’s Gator and his motorcycle club. He doesn’t share too many details about what they get up to, but I’ve already figured out that they’re not Boy Scouts. I’m pretty sure they see the legal code as guidelines rather than rigid lines. That, or they all like coloring outside the lines. It might not be possible to reform Gator at all—he might be a bad boy until his dying days. It takes everything I have not to bounce up and down on his lap with excitement, because it’s a pretty funny fantasy, me converting him to a life of law-abiding do-gooding.

  He growls something in my ear, and then his hips pin me in place. “Might want to be gentle, babe.”

  “I thought you liked it rough,” I scoff.

  Gator moves fast. Before I can so much as protest, he’s got me stretched out on the porch, and he’s braced over me. He shackles my wrists with one hand, while the other… well, let’s just say that his other hand is tracing a very deliberate path down my body.

  He nips my ear. “Let’s talk about what you love.”

  Oh, yes, please.

  No. Back up.

  “We’re not having a relationship conversation, are we?” I frown up at him. Because one, I don’t want to. And two? I’m currently not in the power position. Gator moves, sliding his dick up my center and making it clear exactly who is.

  “Why not?”

  And I don’t have an answer for that.

  I mean, I really, really don’t.

  So I babble out the first thing that pops into my head. “Because we could be having sex instead?”

  I didn’t come to Louisiana planning on forever. Fantasy aside, he’s a biker and so rough around the edges that his edges have edges. Some day, when I’m really over Nathan and ready to get back on the relationship bandwagon, I’ll meet someone, but he’ll be a little more conventional. He’ll definitely not be the kind of guy who keeps secrets or requires a background check before you bring him home to meet the family.

  “Okay,” he says gruffly, easily.

  I echo him back because I’m lame like that. “Okay.”

  I’m sorry I said anything.

  Honestly, Gator’s kind of already Regret Central for me. Darla’s words keep running through my head on repeat. I can’t stop thinking about Gator pounding into Darla from behind any more than I can blame her for that little note of bitterness in her voice, the note that says maybe she would have gone a little further, stayed with him longer, if only things had been different. Plus, there’s that whole broken condom thing.

  I don’t think I feel any different.

  Do I?

  Just in case this thing between us doesn’t burn itself out in a week or two, I have an appointment at the clinic downtown. I’ll go on the pill, and then I won’t have to worry about broken condoms and mini-me possibilities. Right now, though, I just want to live in the moment and store up all the memories I can.

  And Gator’s the best at making happy memories. Case in point? Now that he’s got me beneath him on the porch, he starts kissing me. And kissing my mouth leads to kissing other places, and pretty soon he’s carrying me inside so we can finish what he started.

  Poppy

  Positive.

  Nope. I take a brief second to reflect, and you know what? There’s absolutely nothing positive about this moment.

  Remember my no-Mondays policy? I should have enforced it. Should have stayed in bed and waited until it was Tuesday. Or next month. Possibly the second coming of Christ or nuclear apocalypse because…

  The white plastic stick perched on my bathroom counter mocks me. As does the first stick. When I missed my period, I bought the multi-pack pregnancy test at the drugstore because three was cheaper than one. I pull the instructions out of box number three. Although peeing on a tiny stick seems straightforward if messy, I must have done it wrong. It’s impossible that I’m pregnant. Gator and I have been super careful, and I have an appointment to go on the pill. There’s absolutely no way he deposited his super sperm in my vagina and started a baby there.

  No way at all.

  Except, you know, for that one broken condom. I fish stick number three out of my pee stream (seriously, why are pregnancy tests so gross?), deposit it on a clean piece of toilet paper on the counter, and wash my hands. I’m not looking at tests one and two anymore. Clearly, they’re flawed. I knock them into my trashcan while I wait for the real results to show up.

  I know exactly when I’m due to get my period. I track it on my phone after a particularly mortifying miscalculation during my undergraduate years that had me swearing off white clothing for life and vowing to always keeps a stash of tampons handy.

  These are the longest ten minutes of my life.

  I attempt to spend them constructively. I wash my hands again. I brainstorm reasons for two false positives. The tests could be expired. Or maybe the vat of coffee I drank this morning diluted my pee (although then I guess I’d be pregnant with quintuplets). I do anything but look at the white plastic stick waiting for me on the counter. It’s like pulling the handle on a Vegas slot machine. If you stare too hard, you won’t get four cherries, a bonus wild card, and the life-changing million bucks.

  The timer on my phone goes off.

  I look down.

  Positive.

  I’m pregnant.

  Quite possibly, I’m never coming out of the bathroom. Right now, that seems like a great idea. I’ll pull a turtle and hide in here until somehow this situation sorts itself out. It’s a nice bathroom—I even splurged on matching bathroom accessories shortly after I moved in. My hand towels have these cute little gold pineapples on them, a nod to my future plans to pay a trip south of the border and check out some Mexican beaches once I’ve finished paying off my student loans. And while there’s lots of cold white and black tile, I’ve tried to li
ven things up with a bright yellow bathmat. It’s my here comes the sun moment.

  Shit. I’m not feeling cheerful or sunny at all.

  Moo bumps around my ankles. He knows something’s up.

  I can’t be a mom.

  I have zero experience at this. I’ve never taken so much as a babysitting class, and the opportunities for hands-on baby experience have been minimal. I’m underemployed. I’m still working on what I’m going to do next week, for God’s sake. I can’t be responsible for a baby, and I don’t think Gator is any better prepared.

  Gator.

  Sure we’ve been casually feeling each other out (and up), but he’s never said the R word. We’re seeing each other—not in a relationship. The sex is amazing, but he’s never talked about having feelings or indicated a desire to make plans beyond the next week. And while I’ve been cautiously optimistic about where we could go together, having a baby was not part of my plans. How do you go from casual-but-amazing sex to Lamaze classes and picking out baby names?

  We’ve had sex, and it’s been hot. Dirty. Sweet. Ever since that rainy night in the bayou, we’ve been extra careful. He promised that the broken condom meant nothing, but apparently there are promises that even Gator can’t keep. He’d teased me out of my worry when The Accident happened, his arms strong and careful around me, and I’d let him.

  Okay. So I’m going to be a mother. We’re going to be parents. Like a magnet to north, my hand rubs my belly. I don’t think I look different. But I will. When I just sort of… stop… and let go of the thinking and the worrying and just feel, I realize I’ve got this sort of warm sensation curled up below my belly. Like things have already changed, and my body is adjusting. As scary as this feels, it also feels… good. And not in a making lemonade out of lemons kind of way, either.

  I get up because I can’t go tell the Bean’s father about the new plot twist in our lives wearing just my panties and a T-shirt. Not that I think Gator would complain, but it’s a good ten minute drive to his clubhouse, and we wouldn’t do a whole lot of talking if I showed up mostly naked.