by Anne Marsh
“Just give him a chance, sweetheart. He’s not gonna hurt you.”
She nods slowly. “I’ve got your word on that?”
“Oui.” I run our fingers over Gator’s fur, letting her feel the soft side that goes with all that power and muscle. “He’s all yours.”
Just like me.
Leah
Night’s the best time to be out on the bayou. The dark wraps up all the ugly shit and all you can see are stars and sky. Occasionally, you get a cloud or a bird flying overhead. The water’s this dark sheet of black that seems like it stretches away forever until it meets the ocean and continues on.
The houseboat rocks lazily in the water, an up and down so gentle I barely notice it. Blade and I are sitting on the back of the boat with our feet in the floodlight-lit water. Not sure what ambitious soul decided to add underwater lighting to the dock, but I’ve got to admit—it’s not bad. Plus, it would be stupid as fuck to sit there dangling our feet like bait on a fishing line. Plenty of things in the water would be happy to take a bite out of us. I almost wish we’d kept Blade’s dog around for the protection factor, but after I’d spent some quality time with it, he called Fang to come and take it away. I probably should feel bad about that because the dog sure seemed unhappy. It made this low, deadly-sounding whine in the back of its throat when Fang tried to collar it, and even though Blade claimed it was just fucking with Fang, I’m not sure. Still, its fur was gorgeous. I can still feel the short, dark ruff sliding between my fingers, part coarse, part soft.
I petted the dog. I didn’t run screaming. And I did it all before Blade produced wine. It’s been a banner day for me, and that’s not counting my biker meet-and-greet earlier this morning. Maybe Harlow was onto something when she suggested exposure therapy. Dogs, bikers, penii—maybe the more I see of them, the less I’ll freak out and want to run. It’s something to think about.
And because I’ve drunk my share of the empty bottle of wine between us, I blurt out my next thought. “The water sort of looks like the highway.”
Blade smirks. That look makes me think about pushing him into the water—and then doing other things to him. With him. And then he lies back, folding his arms beneath his head as he stares up at the sky.
“Close enough,” he decides. “Feels like it goes on forever, right? And you could go and go and never get to the end?”
“Is that why you ride?”
He shrugs. “Partly. Growing up, I had a horse, not a bike, but I loved the feel of that animal beneath me. The two of us covered a hell of a lot of distance together, outrunning or running down trouble. First time I got on a bike, it was the same but different, if you know what I mean. I could go faster, farther. Didn’t have to worry about a horse in a fight, either.”
I think about that while I scoop up handfuls of water, rinsing off my arms and face. It’s so hot tonight.
“I need to go to bed.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can think them through, but all Blade does is wink at me.
“Sure, chère.”
He follows me inside when I go, taking the empty wine bottle and pizza box from me. Pre-biker roommate, I’d have stripped down completely because it’s so goddamned hot in the bayou that your clothes stick to your skin. Instead, because Blade’s here, I retreat into the bathroom to get undressed, settling on a baggy T-shirt and a pair of shorts.
Blade doesn’t share my worries. When I come out, he’s busy stripping down in the middle of the room. Dark ink scrolls over his forearms and up his throat as if he’d been branded. Licking his chest jumps to the top of my to do list, and I have to wonder what he’d do if I gave into the temptation. Honestly, it’s like having my own private sex show. This is crazy. He’s a big guy—if he decided to switch up our sleeping arrangements, there’s nothing I could do to stop him.
Could be the man’s a mind reader, though, because he sort of pauses his slow strip tease on the other side of the room and looks at me. “Have I ever hurt you?”
“No.” I mean, not unless you count his busting my cherry two years ago. Giving up your virginity’s never easy, and it’s not like I picked the softest venue. We had sex up against a bar wall, for crying out loud, and while it was good, there were challenges.
“All right then.”
His voice is rough and slow, but my body heats up like it’s my new favorite song. I could listen to him for hours, over and over, and that’s a problem. Look at my sister. She married an asshole and he just got worse.
“I’m not sure this is going to work out. We don’t fit together.” I wave my hand between us. He doesn’t belong on my couch.
He sighs, a long, drawn out exhalation. On the sigh scale, it’s more hurricane than puff of air. He doesn’t sound pissed, though. He looks—tired?
“You want to walk me through your reasons for believing that?”
There’s no good answer to a question like that. I do. I don’t. I’m more conflicted than a soap opera. My boat’s a small space, he’s overly large, and he’s my mechanic. It’s easiest to tell him everything’s fine, but it wouldn’t be the truth. I just want to keep him happy. It’s nice, seeing him there on the other side of the room—and it’s also disturbing as hell because that impulse to keep him happy, to make sure he never, ever has a reason to be mad at me, is horribly familiar. I did that with my sister’s husband.
“Do I scare you?” He drops his shirt onto the couch.
Does he? Yes, no, all of the above.
“Blade, I don’t think—”
“That’s a yes,” he growls. “So let’s fix that right now.”
He starts toward me. No missing the purpose in his deliberate prowl. The man’s not coming over here for a book, a beer, or a fucking tissue. He wants something, and my pussy wakes up and starts singing me, me, me. If he’s the big bad wolf come to eat me up, I’m volunteering to be on the menu.
“Gun or knife?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which weapon will make you feel better about having me here with you, chère?”
He’s actually serious. Are biker clubs even more fucked up than I thought? Do you actually have to sleep armed and dangerous? Despite the shit in my past, however, I’ve never carried a gun. He makes a good point, though. Why not do it if it makes me feel safer?
“Gun,” I blurt out, kneeling up on the bed. I’m no weapons expert, but guns are simpler and can be operated from a distance. Knives are way too up close and personal for me.
Not sure how I feel when he slides a handgun out of the back of his jeans. Blade is the poster child for violence. We both know his role in the club means he’s no angel, but his casual concealed carry makes it a little too real, if you know what I mean.
He extends the gun to me, handle first. “You know how to use this?”
When I take it, the gun feels heavy and cool in my hands. “I took a course.”
The day I turned eighteen, I enrolled in one of those personal safety courses at the closest shooting range. My sister’s husband had already made his general douche-bag qualities clear, and I wanted to keep my options open. If I have to shoot someone to keep him off me, I believe in being prepared.
Blade nods slowly. “First thing you always do is check if the gun is loaded. I don’t care if you just brought it home from the dealer—you check. You always know how many shots you have or don’t have.”
The mattress gives as he kneels behind me, his arms coming around me. Apparently, this is an up close and personal lesson.
“Pull the slide back to check,” he says roughly, his mouth by my ear. His fingers cover mine, showing me what to do. “You want an empty chamber, rack the slide.”
“Got it.” I sound breathless. Shit. His fingers press against mine, rough and callused.
He raises our arms. “Unless you plan to shoot, you keep your gun pointed downrange. Don’t point it at anyone unless you’re willing to pull the trigger.”
He shows me how to hold the gun, adjusting my grip so my left hand supports the gun’s
weight and my right steadies the barrel.
“Keep your fingers clear of the slide, make sure you’ve got a steady position, and aim.” As he explains, he presses his leg between mine, widening my stance on the bed. I’m sure he intends this in the most educational way possible, but the rough press of his jeans against my bare legs makes it hard to concentrate on his instructions. I’m so fucking greedy.
We’re so not friends. I need more clothes. A suit of armor.
His hand taps my ass. “Concentrate.”
I shouldn’t, shouldn’t let him do this. “We’re just friends,” I whisper because someone has to say it.
“Shootin’ lesson,” he whispers back against my throat, his words rough. “Nothing more, chère.”
He says all the right words, but his fingers don’t stop their slow, hot slide down my butt. We’re not fooling anyone—we’re so doing this.
He keeps talking, covering guns and rounds and a dozen other topics. Pretty sure there are words about safety in there too, but the blood’s pounding in my ears and all my attention’s focused on what’s happening down below. His fingers linger on the curve of my butt cheek and stop as if he’s waiting for me to say something, but it’s all I can do to remember to breathe. This is a slow, sweet ache. This is different.
This is perfect.
One finger pushes between my legs, rubbing over the denim. The soft glide of his finger destroys any remaining focus that I possessed. Words words words. Who cares? All I want is more of this.
More of Blade.
Maybe I let him stay with me because subconsciously I wanted this. He’d been my first, and in some ways I hadn’t been ready to be done with him. Now… he scares me but he also intrigues me. He makes me want to get closer in the dirtiest, naughtiest ways possible.
“Safety’s on,” he whispers against my ear, and I nod dumbly.
His finger traces my pussy through the denim, and I stop thinking. I don’t need to understand this when I can just feel. God, he’s good. His heat surrounds me, one arm supporting mine with the gun, and the other working his wicked magic on me. He’s just so big.
I shouldn’t find it a turn on.
This is just sex, I remind myself. It’s not about whatever dreams I used to have about happily ever after or even finding a decent guy. I’m sure they must exist, but they’ve been pretty thin on the ground in my personal life, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. Whatever happens with Blade, it’s a temporary thing. He’s a biker—he’ll ride into my life but I’ll ride right back out first, leaving him in my dust. It’s the one constant I can count on, and I’m okay with that.
Especially when his finger finds my clit and presses. Circles.
God. I’m so okay with that.
The man’s insanely talented.
Desire swells up from deep within me, demanding that I grind back against my instructor. The man’s packing a very impressive… pistol. Seems a shame not to appreciate him since I can’t give his lesson my undivided attention.
He makes me feel so good. I moan, meeting his next stroke. He slides his finger up and down, pressing and teasing, circling and rubbing. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop, doesn’t rush me—just keeps touching me in all my favorite places until my entire body tenses up, my breath catching. This this THIS is all that matters. He rubs harder, and I should tell him to ease up, to back off, but it’s been way too long since I came from someone else’s fingers besides my own.
So I let him touch me, and I just shut up and feel. I’ve never felt this good before, and I haven’t had that many complaints, other than T.D. I squirm, riding his hand like he’s my favorite pony, and he just laughs, a hard, satisfied sign. He rubs harder, rougher, and it feels so goddamned good. I come rubbing against his hand, the short, hard spasms making me jerk against his fingers as I squeeze his hand between my thighs with a groan.
I can’t believe I did that.
I can’t believe I want to do it again.
“And then you can pull the trigger.” He growls and shifts away from me. “Lesson learned.”
Oh yes.
Legs trembling, I rack the slide and stare at the clip he sets in my palm.
“Now you’re armed,” he says gruffly. He doesn’t move away from the side of the bed. “Always check your clip, baby girl, even if you trust the man who handed to it or believe it isn’t loaded. You don’t take chances with your safety, you hear me?”
He’s right. I should have checked. Instead, I listened to what he told me, and I nodded along. I let this be the Blade show, when I need to be the one in charge. Holy shit, the man unravels me, but that’s no excuse.
“I should pat you down, too.”
He nods, and that’s a look of approval on his face. “You do what makes you feel safe. You eliminate the risk.”
Gun or no gun, the man is dangerous. I need to remember that. I set the gun down and tuck my hands beneath my arms before I can do something stupid—like act on my fantasy. Instead, I opt to play Twenty Questions. “How’d you get your name?”
“Because I’m real good with a knife,” he says with a sigh. “You really want to know more than that?”
I think about it for all of three seconds. “No.”
“Good call.”
“You’re a scary bastard.” I suspect I’m not supposed to sound so happy. I blame the orgasm.
“You don’t worry about that. You don’t need to be scared about anything. That’s my job to look out for you,” he says gruffly, as if he really could single-handedly take care of everything.
Before I can protest that I can take care of my own everything, his hands tangle up in my hair, cupping the sides of my face as his mouth covers mine in a brief, possessive kiss. His mouth is there and then it’s gone, the sweetest, briefest reminder of what we did together two years ago.
I have to remind myself to let go.
“You sleep tight, chère.” He pads back across the dark cabin, surefooted as any animal.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight as the sound of him popping open the buttons on his jeans fills my cabin. Fuck. I need a bigger place, to kick him out, or to find a way to turn off my brain because it’s way too easy to imagine what he looks like as he shoves his jeans down. Denim hits the floor. The couch creaks. Boxers or briefs. That’s the question, right? I could ask him. I could check for myself. Bet he could use another blanket or a pillow.
Maybe tomorrow night I’ll work up to letting him sleep beside me.
Maybe.
Maybe…
Leah
Miracle of miracles, Blade actually gets my poor boat working. The engine’s purr is rough and reluctant, but the boat vibrates, and I’m no longer land-bound.
“You doubted me.” He leans over me, his body brushing mine. I should step back, should give the man some space, but I don’t.
“You have to be the world’s slowest mechanic,” I say in my defense. This is the first time in two weeks that he’s made visible progress.
He shrugs. Guess he doesn’t give a fuck. “Boat’s running now.”
True.
He doesn’t move away from me. In fact, I’d swear he leans in a little more. I absolutely don’t lean back into him, either.
“We should take her out,” he suggests. “See how she performs.”
I nod dumbly.
“Since you’re planning on moving her at the end of the month anyhow,” he says, going for the kill. Funny, but he sounds really cranky.
Now it’s my turn to shrug. Fortunately or unfortunately, given our current position, this has the effect of rubbing my shoulder against the front of his jeans. His voice may be cranky, but the rest of him sure isn’t. The rest of him is sinful, delicious temptation—and every day he spends on my boat, I feel more and more like Eve confronted with one damned fine apple. Not taking a bite out of him has gotten harder and harder, so if his repair work is done and he vacates my couch, I don’t have to hold out much longer.
He’ll leave. I’ll move
on. It’ll all be good.
“I don’t like staying put,” I admit.
“A heads up would have been nice,” he grumbles, easing away from me.
“Because you’re worried about your borrowed sofa space?”
He unties my boat with brutal efficiency. “As good a reason as any, but no. We’ve been living together. I think that gives me the right to worry about you, chére.”
Huh. “We’re not in some kind of relationship.”
“We’re not having sex,” he replies calmly, striding toward the wheel. “Yet. But we definitely have a relationship.”
God. “Do you get off on being so blunt?”
He shoots me a crooked grin. “Do you like it?”
He turns his attention to the boat without waiting for an answer. Driving a houseboat isn’t rocket science. When I bought this one, the previous owner took me out on the water for an hour and then declared me fully qualified. It doesn’t hurt that the boat barely crawls over the water. Blade takes her out slowly.
He drives confidently, as effortlessly in control as always. He’s a solid presence on the deck, the heat and size of him making it impossible to look away. He’s kept his end of our bargain. The way he does what he promises, the way he looks out for me, it makes me want… more.
I kick off my flip-flops and sprawl on a bench. “Are you kidnapping me?”
He gives me another look. “We’re taking a test drive.”
I loll on the seat, half-drowsing in the sunshine. If he wants to drive, fine. Let him. I’m not sure how much later it is when he kills the engine and we drift. Tying up noises follow and then he pads across the deck toward me. Not that I hear him—the man moves like a ninja or a cat—but I sense him coming. As stupid as it sounds, I can feel his presence, fierce and magnetic and way too compelling.
When cold water drips onto my face, I crack an eye. “I can bury your body out here.”
“You can try,” he corrects. “Come on.”
I sit up, swinging my legs onto the deck. “Where are we going?”
Undoubtedly, I should have asked this question earlier.
Looking around, I’m not entirely certain where he’s taken us. Given the boat’s limitations, it can’t be too far, but we’re definitely alone. It’s just us, a seemingly endless supply of cypress trees and Spanish moss, and flat, brown water. The air is still and tense, a wet, humid weight against my skin. Even without looking at the sky, I know a thunderstorm is rolling in.
