Then the pink-ribbon woman stands up straight and stares at him, as though this is a big moment and she’s being brave. She bites her lip. “You’re too much,” she says.
He steps away from the counter and spreads his hands. “I’m too much,” he agrees, and then winks at her.
She blushes beetroot-red.
He just winked, woman. He didn’t climb over the counter and go down between your legs. Jesus.
Am I jealous?
My hands turn into fists at the question, my fingernails digging into my palms. Jealous? I have no reason to be jealous. I don’t know this man. A stranger in a leather jacket. A cheesy pickup flirty stranger. A stranger with no shame who’ll flirt with anyone.
Then, to my shock, the girlish one leans on the counter and says, right in the man’s face, “I get off in an hour and a half.”
She gets off in an hour and a half!
My fists are clenched so hard my knuckles turn white.
Why do I care? Is it just because he’s hot? Am I really that shallow?
Maybe that’s a rabbit hole I shouldn’t be too eager to go down.
I have to just ignore him. This happens every day, I bet. Some handsome man struts into your life, flirts with somebody else in front of you and then struts away. Probably half the women in this place are thinking the same thing as me. Yes, but are they clenching their fists in jealousy and lust? Are they so horny for this random man that they’re—
“Shut it,” I whisper, wishing there was an off button for your inner monologue.
“I’m sorry, pretty lady, but I’m busy. A man has to work.”
The woman with the freckles nods, and then shuffles to the other end of the counter. The man tells the pink-ribbon woman, “Fourteen coffees, please. Black, sugar, none of that artificial stuff. To go.”
The woman nods, pressing buttons on the cash register. Ting-ting-ting! And then the man turns to look around the room. He does this as though he is the boss and all of us, the regular customers, are his employees. I have never before seen a man so full of his own confidence. I’ve seen my share of cocky men, of blustering men, of oh-look-at-me men. But never a man who was just at ease, who looked like he seriously didn’t care what people thought of him.
Careful, I tell myself. Don’t be one of those women who fall for a stranger in the—
The man’s gaze comes to rest on me. I think he’s just going to skim over me, but he doesn’t. His gaze holds in place. His eyes, I see, are bright blue. A tattoo climbs from the top of his jacket, up his neck, almost to his chin. And tattoos crawl out of his sleeve over his hands. I didn’t notice them before, but when I do, a shiver moves through me.
He looks at me, and I find myself staring back. My mouth falls open. He smirks. Then he lets his mouth fall open, mimicking me. I close my mouth, my face burning. He laughs, and for a moment the whole coffee shop goes quiet at the sound. The man doesn’t care. His gaze stays locked on me. Without turning to the counter, he says, “I’ll have one more coffee. White, with lots of sugar.”
Is that for me? I think.
As though reading my mind, his smirk grows wider. His eyes don’t move from me. People from adjacent tables begin to look at me suspiciously, as though asking why that strange man in the leather jacket is staring at me. I shrug my shoulders when the hipster man arches his eyebrow at me. And when I turn back, the man is still staring at me.
I’m freaked out, I tell myself. Yes, that’s what I am. Not intrigued. Not interested. Not curious. No, I’m full-blown freaked out. This man is scaring me. That’s the line.
But that’s just what it is: a line. Because I am intrigued, interested, curious.
His smirk grows wider and wider as he watches me. Images invade my mind, naughty images: the man in the leather jacket bent over me; his chiseled face close to my body; his jacket crumpling in my hand as I tear it away; falling to my knees; and…
No, I tell myself. That’s not you. You’re not like that.
I meet his gaze and then roll my eyes.
Then, quickly so I don’t change my mind, I gather up my things and pace from the coffee shop. The man watches me leave, that same smirk on his face.
But then the bell jingles and I am on the street, panting.
Chapter Three
I walk down the street with my laptop bag slung over my shoulder, unable to catch my breath. It’s Los Angeles in June, so I tell myself that’s why I’m out of my breath, why my chest is burning hot, why my thighs are on fire.
But I know that’s a lie, and I stop at the end of the street, leaning against a traffic signal post. I close my eyes and ignore the cars and the people, the chattering into cell phones and a can being kicked a few yards to my right. I ignore it all.
I’m not really going to do this, am I? I wonder. I search myself, trying and failing to figure out exactly who I am: the hardline feminist or the woman who wants to be pined after, flirted with, just like back there. I don’t know. I never know.
Then I open my eyes and turn around, back toward the coffee shop. Maybe just one more look, I think, walking down the street and keeping my eyes on the entrance. His bike – a huge Harley Davidson – is still sitting outside, so I know he’s still there.
This is mad. What are you going to do?
I ignore the question. I have no answer for it. I have no clue what I’m going to do, only that I want to see him again. His face was perfect, strong, with just the right amount of beard. A hooked, interesting nose. A slight dimple in his chin. A strong jaw. Mmmm. Just one more look at him and then maybe that will be enough. I can forget I ever saw him.
He flirts with everyone. You saw that yourself. Do you really think going back is the right idea? Do you really think going back will accomplish anything?
“Just one look,” I whisper.
The windows to the coffee shop are clear glass, but the various decorations – statues, curtains, hippy-ish stuff – block my view. I stand on my tiptoes and peek over the top of a wood-carved statue. The man is standing at the counter, his back to me. I look at his back, at the sigil. He’s a member of a motorcycle club. That much is clear.
What if it’s one of those dangerous ones? What if he’s an outlaw?
I know that’s silly. Most motorcycle clubs are nothing more than social clubs, societies, but there’s always the one percent…
I look down from his jacket to his legs, strong, sturdy. I imagine his ass going up and down, up and down, thrusting.
Stop it. Get a grip.
And then the man takes the coffee from the pink-ribbon woman and makes for the door.
I should leave when I have the chance, but I don’t.
Chapter Four
Maddox
When the woman rolls her eyes and leaves, I laugh. She is hot, damn hot. Her hair is red and falls down around her shoulders, and her face is thin, model-thin. I’m glad she stands up because I get a good look at her body. She wears denim shorts that cut high on her thighs and a tank top, her bra showing through it, the straps filling my mind with a thousand dirty images. She wears big boots, emphasizing how petite she is, how thin. I could pick her up easily. I could bend her over easily. Man, this chick has made me crazy.
Then she’s gone, but women are not difficult to read when you know how. I watch her leave, watching her petite ass shift back and forth, thinking how simple it would be to unclasp that bra and free her petite breasts. My cock aches, pressing against my jeans.
Fuck, she’s hot.
I watch as she walks down the street, but I know she’ll be waiting for me. At least, I know she’ll want to wait for me. It was written plain on her face, on the way her lips parted. She was horny. If there’s one thing I can read on a woman’s face, it’s lust, and this woman was horny and hot. But the way she pouted and paced out of the place makes me wonder if she’s headstrong. Good. Submissive women are sweet; submissive women you have to break first are sweeter.
Maybe I’m a bad man. I ask myself: Do I give a shit?
The answer is clear and loud: no.
I turn back to the women behind the counter. The freckled one thought I’d go on a date with her, wait two hours just to pick her up, like I haven’t got stuff to do. The woman with the ribbon in her hair hands me a tray of coffees. The one for the red-haired woman has a white lid on it, to show it has milk. I pay, ignore their stares, and pace from the coffee shop.
When I walk out onto the street, I look in the direction the red-haired woman walked and see her. So she’s horny enough to come back.
***
“Is this a coincidence?” I ask, walking over to her. Pedestrians walk back and forth in the street, lots of them wearing colorful clothes, all the colors of the rainbow bursting brightly here on an LA street. Cars – many of them high-end sports cars – drive by.
“Coincidence?” she says, not looking me in the eye. She chews her lower lip. I can’t help but imagine if she’d chew it like that if I went down on her; I go down on her, and she’s there, chewing her lip, scared to scream because that’d mean she had to admit she likes it.
“Just waiting here, on the sidewalk? Who’re you waiting for, Red?”
She blushes, a sweet look if I’ve ever seen one. I notice that she has cute little ears poking out from her wavy red hair. Her long, thin legs fidget, like a woman who needs the bathroom. Hell, or like a woman whose pussy is just aching to be played with. I read her, and I see: she wants it. She wants it bad. But she’s embarrassed about wanting it, about coming back here just to wait for me. Women have a code, and I’ve mastered that code.
“Hello?” I say. I walk in front of her, my shadow falling over her, and she’s forced to look up at me. Her eyes are dark brown, almost red, the same color as her hair. She’s about four inches shorter than me, and I’m six three. So she’s tall for a woman. But she’s sleek, with legs that go up, up, up.
“Hello,” she breathes, still biting her lip. She doesn’t look at me flirty like the women in the coffee shop. She looks worried; she’s not sure if she regrets coming back.
“Don’t you want your coffee?” I ask, nodding to the tray in my hand.
She shakes her head, a small movement. “I didn’t ask for a coffee.”
“I assumed that’s why you’d come back.”
Her blush grows fiercer, and she stays silent.
“My name is Maddox Owens,” I say.
“Eden Chase,” she mutters.
“So, Eden Chase, do you want to explain why you’re stalking me?”
She lets out a gasp. “Stalking you?” she says. “Is that what you think?”
“What am I supposed to think?” I shoot back, smirking, my words playful. “One second I’m buying coffee, minding my own business, the next—”
“You call that minding your own business?” she snaps, but her voice is as playful as mine. “To me, it looked like you were trying to flirt with every woman in that place.”
“Jealous?” I say, raising my eyebrow.
She waves her arms in exasperation. “No, I wasn’t jealous. Jealous of what? A man I’ve never met before?”
“Jealous because I didn’t go into that place and straight to you, Red. I went to those giggling girls behind the counter instead. That must’ve really annoyed you, seeing as you’re back here, stalking.”
“I’m not stalking!” she exclaims, her brown-red eyes staring straight at me.
“What are you doing, then?”
“I’m…” She stares dagger-eyed at me, but I can see beneath the anger, to the lust beneath. We both know why she came back. But it’s odd, isn’t it; waiting in the street for a man you don’t know? She’s never done something like this before. I can tell from how nervous she is. I’ve had women wait for me before, but never women like Eden, never truly beautiful women. Whorish women, maybe, but they’re something else.
“You’re… You can finish your sentence whenever you want, you know.”
“You’re an asshole!” she snaps.
I bring my hand to my chest, fake-shocked. “You’re the one following me, Eden. Is it really that messed up that I want to know why?”
“You know why. You’re playing with me.”
I trace her neck with my eyes, the smooth, perfect skin, down to her collarbone and down to her pert breasts, the bra showing through the tank top. The way she’s dressed, I can’t stop myself from thinking what it would be like to rip that tank top away and tear the bra free with my teeth. Her nipples are soft at first, but then I suck them, and they get hard, so hard, and I—
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says, but her voice is weak.
“Like what?” I ask innocently.
“Like that,” she hisses.
She points to my face. Her fingernails are painted red and green, one nail red, one green. Her hands are long, thin, and soft-looking. Except for the tips, which are slightly callused. A writer? I think. She was typing when I came in. A student?
I can’t help but smile. I’m having fun playing with this woman.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Maybe that’ll make it easier for you to admit.”
“I have nothing to admit.” Her voice gets weaker, breathless.
I move my eyes down to her legs. The way her denim shorts tuck between her thighs makes my cock hard, so hard it aches against my jeans. Tucked right up between there, tempting me to clamp my hand down. She has a thigh gap that is driving me goddamn crazy.
“Okay, we’ll see,” I go on. “This is my theory. You saw me flirting with those women in there, and you got jealous. You were looking at me and thinking: Fuck, he’s sexy. I wouldn’t mind bending over for him. Or something similar. And then I started checking you out, bought you a coffee, and you let your logical side take over. But then, when you were down the street, you regretted it. And here you are, Eden.”
As I talk, I see that her fingers flex, open and close, open and close, like a nervous tic. She watches me for a long time, and I have no problem watching her right back. Her lips are free of lipstick, and they look all the better for it. The sort of lips you can imagine letting out passionate, horny moans. The sort of lips you can imagine doing any number of dark, dirty things.
Finally, she says, “You’re wrong.”
I let out a laugh. “You took too long of a pause,” I say. “You can’t go quiet for ten years and then tell me I’m wrong.”
“Fine.” She turns on her heels. “I’m leaving then.”
She begins to pace down the street.
Chapter Five
The men will be here soon for the job. The only reason I’m here is to pick up some coffee. We had a heavy night last night, and half of The Miseryed are hanging out of their asses. Pick up coffee, wait for them to catch up, easy. I shouldn’t waste time following this sweet redheaded piece down the street, but watching her walk, I can’t help myself.
I catch up with her in half a dozen quick strides. “Where are you going, Red?”
“You know my name,” she says. “You don’t have to call me Red.”
“Have I upset you?” I grin. “I promise, that wasn’t my intention.”
“You know nothing about me,” she says. “It was silly of me to come back. That’s all. All that stuff you said…”
She stops.
“Why are you following me?”
“Oh, I have a few more theories about you.”
She rolls her eyes, just like she did back in the coffee shop. I’m in for a chase here. There’s nothing better than when a woman is sassy at the start, pushing you away, only to submit later and give you everything you want, everything you need. Pedestrians walk around us, but we ignore them.
“Maybe I’m not interested in your theories.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “And maybe you are.”
A small smile touches her lips. “You’re a strange man,” she comments.
“I am,” I agree. “But I can read you, Eden. You’re probably the type of girl who won’t let guys open the door for her. The type of girl who wants to
be independent, who wants to be a strong woman—all that stuff. But right now, you don’t want that. Right now, you want to flirt with this biker, be a bit of eye candy for him, let him look you up and down, feel his gaze on you.”
“Are you seriously referring to yourself in the third person?” she giggles.
She smiles at me and then wipes the smile away. But it’s there, behind her reddish eyes. She wants to smile.
She holds my gaze for a long time, and all of a sudden I don’t give a damn about the men, the job. Right now, all I care about is looking into the eyes of this hot-as-hell redhead. She tries to hold back the smile. Her lips twitch. And then she can’t hold it back any longer. The corners of her lips lift into a wide grin.
PREGNANT FOR A PRICE: Kings of Chaos MC Page 26
