by Kati Wilde
That roughness isn’t gone. He simply has it locked away. But whatever brought Saxon here made him forget to be careful for a few seconds.
I don’t think that’s a reason to rejoice, though. Shadows slip through his eyes when he looks at me. Gently, I trace the sculpted line of his jaw. He’s growing in his beard again, a ward against the winter wind while riding, but it’s still short enough the whiskers are bristly rather than soft. The beard suits him.
“You’re all right?” I ask him. “You look like you got some bad news.”
He shakes his head. His voice is like midnight, dark and deep. “Just club business, princess.”
At least he doesn’t try to tell me it’s nothing, but I know he won’t tell me more.
“Okay,” I say and touch my thumb to the side of his mouth. “It couldn’t have been all bad, whatever it was. Because you taste like you’ve been drinking something yummy.”
His eyes gleam. “Yeah?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I hum an assent. “Let me taste again. I was distracted the first time.”
He grins and lowers his head, and I breathe his breath, taste him through that smile before drawing back. Notes of oak and honey. As smooth as Saxon’s own flavor and just as sharp. Delicious.
“What kind of whiskey was that? Because I want more.”
“It’ll be a surprise,” he says, and I can’t interpret the strangely flat look in his eyes when he adds, “Here’s another: Blowback just told me he and Zoomie got married. In Vegas.”
Oh. I press my lips together, trying to stop my laugh. But of course he reads me easily.
“You knew?”
“Lily told Anna and me.” And told us to keep it quiet. “About two months ago.”
His face goes dark, but I can tell the difference between when he’s playing at being mad and truly angry. Truly angry, his expression wouldn’t change much at all.
He looms over me, big and menacing and so, so sexy. “And you didn’t think to say anything to me, princess?”
“Well, you know. It was club business. Girl club business,” I tell him and my laugh bursts out when he catches me up against him. I assume he’s going to make me pay for being so sassy but he suddenly stills, holding me so close, his face buried in my hair.
“Jenny.” His voice is rough against my ear. “I love you so damn much.”
My heart overfills in my chest, emotion tightening my lungs and throat. I wind my arms around his neck, my fingers sliding into the thick hair at his nape. He doesn’t have it pulled back today. Usually he keeps it in a short tail—except in bed. Right now I feel as close to him as I do there, even with layers of clothes between us, because he strips me naked with those words.
I never thought I’d hear Saxon Gray say them. Only a few months ago, I thought I was losing everything.
And I have lost so much. But I still have so much, too.
My eyes are burning when he raises his head to look down at me. His body goes utterly still when he sees my tears.
Oh, no. I know what he thinks. I do miss my dad. His absence is a deep, ragged hole in my heart. But these tears aren’t because I’m hurting.
“I love you, too. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by how much,” I tell him. “And by how lucky I am.”
Saxon presses a hard kiss to my lips. “The luck’s all mine, princess.” But he’s already being careful again, his gaze searching mine when he adds, “Thorne asked if you want to visit his place on Christmas.”
Oh. Uncertainty slips through me, and I pull away, turning my face so he can’t see the grief and doubt that follow.
Sometimes holding it together is hard. Since my dad died, I’ve been working almost constantly, and I know part of the reason is simply because it helps me to keep busy. I’m not avoiding the grief, I’m just trying to get through it.
But I have avoided thinking about the holidays. Because every time I see the lights or a tree or hear the music, I can’t help but think of my dad. Sometimes it’s okay. Other times I end up bawling.
Maybe I’d be fine, going to Uncle Thorne’s. Maybe it would hurt too much to bear. I just don’t want to spend the whole time crying and worrying Saxon, until he’s looking at me as if I’m as fragile as a glass ornament.
But I’m not sure what Saxon wants. A holiday isn’t just about one person.
Hesitantly, I glance at him. He’s waiting, his expression tense, his fists buried in the pockets of his jeans. “What do you usually do?”
Surprise slides over his face, as if that question didn’t occur to him. Or as if what he wanted to do never mattered.
“Nothing special,” he says. “Go to the clubhouse, watch a game.”
Really? “What about when you were a kid?”
“Nothing much,” he says but this time there’s a warm undercurrent that tells me nothing much means a lot more than nothing special. “We didn’t have much, so there wasn’t ever a big to-do.”
“You and your mom?”
“Yeah.” Something cold flickers through his eyes. “She was always scraping by after Carlisle left. We didn’t have a tree, some years. But she said it was important to always have something. So she made sure we did.”
My throat aches. The ice in his eyes that formed when he mentioned his dad melted by the time he got to the end of that. I didn’t know his mom, but I know he lost her about six years ago to cancer. The same way I lost my dad.
She sounds like a woman I would have enjoyed knowing. “So do you want to do something?”
“That’s up to you, Jenny.” His gaze and his voice are so even, I can’t tell if he has an unspoken preference. “What did you do as a kid?”
“All of it.” And, oh God. I’m already hurting for him and now the thickness in my throat is growing tighter and tighter. “Lights all over the house, the big tree, the stockings and a pile of presents. My mom always started playing Christmas records on December first, and we’d watch those…those specials on TV, you know? Rudolph and Frosty and…Charlie Brown.”
My breath is shuddering, and I’m almost crying, desperately trying not to. Then Saxon catches my face in his hands, so warm and strong and solid that it’s utterly natural to cling to him. To lean on him.
“We watched those, too,” he says. “I always liked the Bumble.”
I give a watery laugh, imagining that. Saxon, as a kid, sitting in front of the television, entranced by the Abominable Snow Monster.
His fingers tighten and every word is a low rasp when he asks, “And after your mom’s accident?”
Oh, God. The tears well up again. That was sixteen years ago, and the pain of losing her never really went away. But this time it hurts because I know why he’s asking. I’ve already been through this once. And now my dad’s gone, too.
“My mom…” I choke up, and have to swallow hard past the lump in my throat. “She would go all out for Christmas. My dad would tease her for it, but always made sure to give her just the right thing. Or maybe anything he gave her would be right. And after…the year she died, Dad went all out for me. But everything just hurt. Everything reminded me she was gone. Reminded him, too. And nothing we gave each other was the right thing because what we both wanted most was her.”
“Princess.” His voice is a raw ache. “I wish I could give you what you want.”
“I know.” I drag in a long breath, and another—steadying myself. I’m still on the edge of crying, but this is good. Talking about it. “The following year, it was a little easier. We still missed her but it was…not so hard. So maybe this year, if you don’t care, maybe we can skip it all. And don’t get me anything.”
“That’s what we’ll do, then.” His lips brush mine. “You all right?”
“Yes,” I say—and I am. I draw in another long, shuddering breath.
He gives me a few seconds to wipe my face, then gestures to the table covered in tin pails. “What’s this? It looks like a cow-milking party.”
A short laugh escapes me. “That is unexpected media exposure
combined with blind panic. We got slammed with orders today. In two weeks, I’ll be glad of it. But today…” I trail off with a sigh. “I’ll have to work late. I probably won’t be home before ten. That also goes for tomorrow.”
He nods. Working late is nothing new—for either of us. “I’ve got payroll and bonuses to take care of tonight, so I’ll be at the Den late, too. Are you set for dinner?”
Yes, unfortunately. “Helena brought by a lasagna.”
“Jesus.” Saxon pinches the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t tell her we had ten more in the freezer?”
That’s a small exaggeration. Since my dad died, we’ve received an average of two casseroles and one lasagna a week. And that doesn’t count the turkey dishes and pie that came in the post-Thanksgiving rush.
But it’s not as if I can turn them away. Most of it comes from the club’s old ladies, and getting on their bad sides will never be in my best interest. “She brought it here to the barn,” I tell him. “It’s in the office fridge now. Do you want me to send a piece with you?”
His hard stare answers for him and sends me into a fit of giggles. I guess not. And I can’t blame him. Helena’s a fine cook, and she means well, but I’m so tired of eating food I’m not in the mood for out of a sense of obligation. Saxon must be tired of it, too.
“All right,” I say, “but I guess that means there’s something I need you to do for me.” Or else we’re going to end up with a hundred post-Christmas ham dishes.
Immediately he says, “Anything.”
“Maybe spread the word we don’t need more food? Gently,” I stress, because knowing Saxon, he’ll straight-out forbid anyone from bringing anything, and then the ladies will feel as if they’ve done something wrong. “Just let everyone know that our freezer’s full, and that we appreciate all they’ve given, because it took away the burden of cooking this past month.”
He nods and kisses me again, preparing to go. “I’ll let Widowmaker know.”
The club’s secretary, who’ll spread the word—because Saxon isn’t going to say all of that nice and appreciative stuff himself. The prez of the Hellfire Riders doesn’t say shit like that. He’s got a hardass image to maintain.
Except it’s not an image. He is a hardass. A big, mean motherfucker.
And so damn sexy as he turns and walks away. The sight of his hard ass in those jeans is a gift to women everywhere—but especially to me.
My heart thumps. “Saxon!”
He stops at the door and looks back, waiting. Maybe I’m crazy, deciding this last-minute, but suddenly I don’t care. I need more of him than I’ve been getting lately.
“How about nine o’clock, instead—and do you want to bring pizza from Jimmy’s? Even if it gets cold before we eat it, it’ll reheat well.”
Instantly electric heat charges the air between us. His dark blue gaze drops to my lips. “And why would it get cold?”
“I dunno. Maybe when we get home we’ll do something other than eating.”
“Would we? I suspect I’ll be eating, either way.” The look he slides down my body starts a low, burning ache. Eyes gleaming with hunger, his gaze lifts to mine again. “What about these buckets?”
Screw the buckets. “I’ll come in an hour earlier tomorrow morning.”
“And what if you’re too worn out to wake up an hour early?”
Oh, God. Even as a shiver runs through me, I give him a look of innocent doubt. “If you really think you can wear me out…”
His eyes narrow in response to that challenge—and that’s all the response he needs to make. That expression is a promise. Or a threat. I’ll take either one.
“All right, princess. Pepperoni on your half?”
“Yes.” Anticipation makes my reply sound breathless. “See you at nine.”
“Just be ready. I’ll be real hungry by then, Jenny.”
“I’ll be ready.” God, I’m ready now. So is Saxon, his face a taut mask of arousal, his eyes burning with blue fire, his erection straining against the denim of his jeans.
When he turns and goes, I know he only manages to leave because of his iron control—but there’s nothing soft in the last lingering look he gives me. There’s nothing but rough edges and hard need. Oh, thank God.
Celebrating or not, I suddenly suspect that I’m going to have a very merry Christmas, starting at nine o’clock.
Chapter Three
Saxon
By the tire tracks in the snow I know Jenny’s home even before I see her pickup sitting in the garage. She hasn’t been here long, though. Those tracks haven’t filled in even though the snow is still falling. Almost a foot deep now. It made for a slow drive from town and the pizza sitting on the passenger seat passed ‘cold’ about five miles back.
But it’ll get colder. Because I’ve spent my whole damn evening imagining what I’m going to do to Jenny as soon as I get inside. On her back or on her knees, it doesn’t matter as long as my cock is pumping deep into her wet heat.
My dick’s been aching since I left her brewery. I need her tight pussy clenching around its thick length, need to taste her sweet mouth, need to hear her scream.
I need her.
Thinking of finally getting into her pushes me past aching. My cock’s hard enough to break as I park Red’s 4x4 next to her truck. Chrome shining under the halogen lights, my bike sits in the garage’s third bay, where it’ll probably stay for the next few weeks. When I lived in town, I managed to get around well enough without a cage. In the winter, the streets are always plowed and my house wasn’t far from the Wolf Den or the Hellfire Riders’ clubhouse. Since moving in with Jenny and relocating the clubhouse to the other side of the ranch, I’ve relied on Red’s rig more and more.
It’s a hell of a thing, driving around in his vehicle. Living in his big house. I expected it to be real fucking awkward—and not just awkward for me. For Jenny. For Thorne. For the Steel Titans. As if I’m taking over a dead man’s place.
But it’s been smooth. Some of that is because of Red. When I moved into the house this past summer, he made sure I had my own space, not just rooms I’d be taking over when he died. And when we folded the clubs together, he made sure the Steel Titans became Hellfire Riders in truth, not just name.
But most of it’s because of Jenny. Not only because she welcomed me in but because this house is nothing without her in it. When she’s not here, I don’t care whether I am. So it hardly matters what room I’m in or if I have my own damn space. Whether it’s a place like this—a big old house that looks like something out of a magazine—or a rathole motel, it doesn’t make a difference to me.
As long as she’s here, it’s where I belong. It’s my home. And there’s no feeling awkward about it.
In the kitchen, the light’s on over the stove. She’s already got a new log burning in the brick fireplace by the breakfast nook. I drop the pizza box on the counter and head for the stairs.
I have to cross the great room to get there. Passing beneath the vaulted ceiling, I toss my coat onto a leather chair. My mother raised me better than that, taught me to hang my shit up, but this is a time of need.
I pull my shirt off while climbing the stairs. Jenny likes looking at my chest, likes running her tongue along the ridges of muscle, and if she’s not hot already, I want to get her there fast.
But not too fast. I love kissing her, teasing her nipples, sucking on her clit. All of it’s good. So fucking good. She gets so goddamn wet.
Dragging open my belt, I give my cock a hard stroke, already picturing her fingers on me, then her lips. Oh fuck, and her hot little cunt. There’s nothing in the world like sinking into her warm pussy, hearing her shuddering breath as she takes me in, feeling her tighten around me.
Soon. Her bedroom isn’t a room, but a big open suite taking up half the second floor. The bedside lamp’s lit, its soft yellow glow washing over the golds and greens and browns on the bed.
There’s steam in the air.
She took a shower. So s
he’s warm and wet and smelling good and I’m going to come in my hand like a fucking teenager if I don’t find her in a second.
The bathroom door’s open but she’s not in there. Neither is her robe, so I head for the closet—shit, it’s not even a closet, but more like some royal dressing room, with more shelves than any man could ever need and a fancy sofa for sitting on while you put on your boots.
A fancy sofa that’s perfect for fucking your woman. I’ve had Jenny on it so many times, sometimes on her back, sometimes bending her over, sometimes riding me. Seems like I’m about to do one of those again.
Or maybe all three.
She’s sitting on the sofa with her back to me, her silky blue robe clinging to her slim curves. Her long dark hair’s twisted up in a messy bun that I’m going to pull apart as soon as I get my fingers in it—
The sound that reaches me freezes me in my tracks.
Not crying. Just the shuddering breath that follows a storm of weeping, and she’s not looking around but jerkily pushing something away. A box. I don’t know what. It doesn’t matter.
I just know she’s hurting again.
“Princess.” My voice is thick.
“I’ll be right out!” It’s chirpy—she’s never chirpy. “I’m just getting ready. I wanted to put this on first. A surprise.”
She holds up some red lacy thing but I barely even see it. Instead I see how she doesn’t turn toward me, and how she’s wiping at her face.
“Just wait for me out there,” she says, and some of the cheerful chirp is gone, probably because she knows how fake it sounds. “I’ll only be a second.”
Maybe. But the last thing I care about now is my cock. She’s hurting, and I’m supposed to think about fucking her now? Maybe just ignore how she’s choking back tears and make her choke on my dick, instead?
“Forget the underwear, Jenny.” It rips at my heart when her shoulders curl forward, when she drops her face into her hands. I slide onto the sofa, draw her into my arms, and it’s like a knife in my chest when I realize she must have been in here sobbing for a while. Rimmed with pink, her light green eyes glitter like shattered jewels. Her face is pale and splotched with red.
