by Ivy Black
I have to learn to accept that there are some things I’ll never understand and some questions I’ll never have the answers to. That’s something that really bothers me, but it is what it is. That’s just life. I simply tell myself to accept his graciousness and hospitality at face value and stop questioning everything. Stop letting my own insecurities get the best of me.
Before I can go off on another tangent, I hear Milo’s bike rumbling up the street. The sound of the bikes he and his friends ride is so loud and distinctive, I can hear him coming from a mile away. As he pulls into his driveway, I feel my stomach turn over on itself, and my heart swells with excitement.
I quickly run into the bathroom and check myself over in the mirror, turning this way and that to make sure I don’t have a pair of panties stuck to my back or something embarrassing like that. Clear of any stray pieces of clothing, I run my fingers through my hair then pull it all back into a ponytail that I tie off with a red hair band. I smile into the mirror, giving my face one final look, making sure I don’t have any food stuck between my teeth.
The front door opens, sending another jolt of adrenaline firing through me. I turn and walk as casually out of the bedroom as I can. The moment I arrive at the living room though, I smell the heavenly aroma and immediately began to salivate. Dropping all casual pretenses, I dash to the rounded archway that leads into the kitchen and lean against the wall, watching Milo drink down a bottle of water. It’s the large paper bag sitting on the counter that attracts my eyes.
He finishes his water and tosses the empty bottle into the trash can and turns to me, a smile on his face.
“Hey. You’re here,” he said.
“Live and in the flesh.”
“I realized when I was pulling in that I should have sent you a text first, just in case you decided to go home.”
I give him an awkward smile. “I was kinda hoping you’d go over with me at some point and give it the all clear before I went back.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“How do you feel about installing a few new locks?”
His smile was soft and warm. “Gladly. And hey, I got a home alarm system as a gift we can set up over there too. It’s the kind that sends you a video clip alert if somebody trips the beams.”
“That’s really sweet,” I tell him. “But you should use that here. It’s yours.”
“I’ve already got an alarm system I’m happy with. This one’s just rotting in the box. Might as well go to somebody who can use it,” he replies.
“I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“No sweat,” he says. “But I should have texted not just to see if you were here and to also ask if you’d eaten already.”
“Is that from the Curried Mongoose?”
A wide smile touches his lips. “That’s quite the sniffer you have.”
“I know my Indian food.”
He shrugs. “Too bad I didn’t think to text you though. I wish I had, but I only got enough for myself.”
The smile on my lips withers, but I give myself a swift mental kick. There’s no reason he should have thought to pick up food for me. I mean, he didn’t even know if I was going to be here. But I can be a silly, unreasonable girl and the Curried Mongoose was one of “our” places.
When I saw the bag, I automatically slipped into overanalytical mode and thought he was sending me one of those subtle signals I tend to obsess about. One of these days, I’m going to learn that my ability to pick up subtle signals sucks since I’m usually wrong about them. But that day is obviously not today.
I know it’s silly and it’s childish, but when we broke up, I stopped going to the Mongoose and it kind of hurts that he didn’t. I thought there was an unspoken rule about things like that. We found the place together, so neither of us should be able to claim it after a breakup.
Like I said, I can be a silly and unreasonable girl sometimes. At least I can admit it—if only to myself.
“You’ve always been so gullible,” he says with a laugh.
I look at him lamely for a moment, and it’s only then that I realize he was messing with me. I forgot that he sometimes delivers things in such a deadpan, serious way that makes him sound sincere, and I could never help but believe him. As he laughs, I see that he’s gotten one over on me. Again.
“And you have always been such an ass,” I reply, laughing along with him.
“That I have,” he replies. “I want to take a quick shower, if you don’t mind.”
“No sweat. I’ll get set up out here.”
“Great, thanks.”
He starts to walk out of the kitchen but then turns back to me with a strange expression on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. It’s just—I’m glad you’re here.”
He turns and walks out before I can reply, leaving me there looking at the empty doorway with a flutter in my belly and a smile on my face. It was an unexpected and sweet thing to say, and I feel my cheeks flush with warmth. His bedroom door closes, and I turn to the cabinets and drawers, collecting plates, silverware, and serving utensils. I lay them all out on the table then grab the bag from the counter and open it, closing my eyes and inhaling the scent of ambrosia wafting up from within.
Soon enough, Milo returns to the dining room dressed in sweats and a T-shirt. It’s strange, but when he’s in his biker garb as I call it—jeans, boots, a flannel with the sleeves rolled up, and his kutte over that—he looks fearsome and intimidating. But dressed in normal clothes, he loses that dangerous edge. Oh, his size is always going to intimidate people, but when he’s dressed normally, it’s easy to forget he’s part of some outlaw MC.
I have all the containers set out on the table, our places set, music playing, and am sitting at what used to be my usual spot at the table. He gives me a small smile, perhaps remembering what used to be our normal seating arrangement as well.
“Beer?” he asks.
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
He disappears into the kitchen and comes back a moment later, setting a cold bottle down in front of me. Milo takes his seat and unfolds his napkin, setting it on his lap. There is so much about him that is so unlike the stereotypical biker. Oh, he can certainly look and act the part. But he’s fastidiously neat. Perhaps obsessively so. And he’s got better manners than most regular guys. In all our time together, he never once so much as burped in front of me. It’s something I always appreciated about him. He’s not only unlike most bikers, he’s unlike most guys in general.
We sit looking at each other for a moment, the sound of Prince singing his hit, “Purple Rain”, filling the silence between us. Milo always had a soft spot for eighties music, and I never deleted the playlist I’d made for him so long ago. It was just another of those quirky little things about him that were incongruous to his image that I always loved about him.
“Let’s dig in. Unless you were waiting to say a prayer or something,” he says with a chuckle.
“Definitely not,” I say.
We start passing around the containers of chicken tikka masala, butter chicken, biryani, and palak paneer—there’s enough food to feed an army here. I grab a samosa then a piece of garlic naan. It’s not long before my plate is heaped with food, and I wonder how I’m going to eat it all. But I vow to give it the ol’ college try.
“So how was your day?” he asks.
“Not bad. I helped Brent prep a witness for trial,” I reply. “I’m learning a lot from him.”
“That’s really good, Had,” he says. “I have to admit, I was surprised when you told me last night that you want to be a lawyer.”
A sly smile crosses my lips. “You’re the one who said I should be a lawyer because I like to argue so much. So really, it’s your fault.”
He laughs and nods. “I guess I did say that, didn’t I?”
“More than once, if I recall correctly.”
Milo takes a long swallow of beer, the
smile never leaving his face, but I can see by the look in his eye that he’s thinking back to those days. He sets the bottle back down and takes a bite of his food.
“Brent,” he says. “He’s that shark over on Pacific Avenue?”
I nod. “One and the same,” I reply. “He’s a great lawyer. And as I’ve learned, he’s a good man. He’s got a bad reputation and most people think he’s an asshole, but he’s nothing like that. People just label him that way because he’s such a fierce advocate for his clients.”
“Yeah, I get that. People stick a label on you and suddenly, that’s all you are.”
“Exactly,” I say, knowing that Milo is also referring to himself with his comment.
And it’s true. People in Blue Rock can sometimes be judgmental. They look at a guy like Milo—or any of his club buddies for that matter—and assume they know who they are and what they’re like. None of them would ever guess that a guy who looks like Milo is compulsively clean, loves eighties music, enjoys reading, or really loves Caravaggio’s paintings. I’m sure most would look at him and think he’s an uncultured slob.
The Pharaoh’s image around Blue Rock depends largely on who you talk to. There are some who think they’re a scourge and should be run out of town on a rail. They see the bikes and the rough-looking men who ride them and instantly think criminals and thugs. Most don’t know they’re all veterans and the group was started initially as a kind of support group for the guys who were coming home from overseas and needed to be around guys who’d shared their experiences.
Most people don’t know that the lack of crime in the town is largely thanks to them. They don’t tolerate anybody dealing drugs in town and will often deal with them harshly to get their point across. And they sometimes deal with people who do bad things—rapists, domestic abusers, and the like—the same way. They all love this town and put themselves in harm’s way to protect it. I personally find that admirable as hell, and I have nothing but respect for the Pharaohs.
“So what did you guys get up to today?” I ask.
He smirked. “Watched the ATF carry out a raid on the clubhouse,” he says with a grin. “You know, the usual.”
My eyes widen and my mouth falls open as I look at him. “Are you even kidding me right now?”
He shakes his head. “Wish I was.”
“Why would they raid your clubhouse?”
“They got a tip that we had illegal materials stashed there.”
“What? Why would they think that?”
He takes a long swallow of his beer and sets his bottle down, and I can see he’s debating how much to tell me. I’m not naïve. I know the MC is involved in some shady things, but I also know there are lines they absolutely will not cross—like dealing in hard drugs or human trafficking. I don’t have a problem with them dealing weed. It’s legal in California, to some extent anyway. But Milo’s always been careful about letting me into their business for a lot of reasons—my own safety being one of them. Ignorance is bliss, after all. So I’ve never had a problem with the MC or the things they do.
“We had a thing with the Zavala cartel a little while back. It was a whole thing. They wanted to take over Blue Rock and we said no,” he says. “Things got messy and so we have now apparently popped up on the ATF’s radar. It’s no big deal. There was nothing at the clubhouse for them to find.”
“Well, that’s a good thing.”
“It is.” He grins. “And I’m sure it’s just the beginning. But let’s not talk about that. I’m over it.”
“Okay, so what should we talk about then?”
“Anything.”
We stare at each other in an awkward silence for a couple of minutes, neither of us sure what to say. But then we both start to laugh and that awkward tension dissipates. After that, the conversation begins to flow. As we eat, we catch each other up on our lives, the good and the bad. We also find ourselves reminiscing about old times we shared—also, the good and the bad. But we mostly focus on the good.
The conversation is light, and our laughter comes so easily. We fall back into our old bantering ways, and it’s really easy to remember just how good things were between us—when they were good anyway. But I haven’t laughed this hard in a long time and I have to say, I really enjoyed it. I needed that kind of fun release more than I even knew because I feel a lot freer and lighter than I have in forever.
After dinner, we carry all the dishes into the kitchen and as he rinses the plates and puts them in the dishwasher, I put all the leftovers into containers and place them in the fridge.
“You are going to have leftovers for the next week,” I say.
He closes the dishwasher and turns to me, drying his hands in a towel. There’s a gentle smile on his face and he shrugs.
“Or we’ll both have leftovers for the next half week,” he replies.
My heart turns over in my chest as my throat grows dry. My mind automatically starts to race as I start picking his words apart. I have to force myself to shut it down and not read too much into it. He very well could have been talking about the possibility of me deciding to hide out at his place for a little while longer and nothing else. But then the question arises in my mind: do I want him to mean something else?
I bite my tongue and silently scold myself for letting my brain get going. It’s hard to stop that train once it gets rolling. Especially when Milo is looking at me the way he is. It’s easy to get lost in his eyes, easy to feel myself being drawn to him like it always has been. It’s like he’s got this gravitational pull that draws me forward, and I can’t seem to stop myself from being sucked into it all over again.
I try to remind myself of all the reasons we split up in the first place. His surliness. His sullenness. His downward spirals. I try to recall that feeling of being so alone, even when I was with him. I try to remember how lonely I felt when he shut down on me. But those are all thoughts I can’t hold as I stare into his eyes.
And when I look up, I realize I’m standing right in front of him. I have no conscious memory of moving. But somehow, my body moved on its own accord. And as I slip my arms around his waist, my heart thundering and my stomach fluttering wildly, I feel like a passenger in my own body. I feel like I’m simply watching as somebody else is controlling me.
But the moment his lips touch mine, I know that I want this more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.
Chapter Eleven
Hadley
Milo’s tongue swirls languidly around mine, and I feel like I’m about to explode right then and there. I feel myself melting into him, losing myself in his kiss. His muscles tense and flex as I slide my hands up his torso, feeling the familiar planes and angles of his muscular body beneath my fingertips. He presses his mouth harder against mine, the heat of his kiss making me light-headed.
I back him against the counter, kissing him with just as much force as I feel his rigid cock pressed against me. Just the feeling of his stiff length ignites the fires inside of me, and I feel myself growing hotter and wetter by the second. Milo takes my hair and gently pulls my head back, planting a line of kisses down my neck, and I gasp when he gives my collarbone a gentle nip.
Milo’s skin is warm as I slide my hands under his shirt and run my fingers up to his chest. He takes his T-shirt off and flings it across the kitchen. I plant a row of soft, wet kisses on his skin, giving his nipple a gentle bite that draws a moan from his lips. I raise my arms and he slips my sweatshirt off me. It joins his T-shirt in a heap on the floor.
I cry out when he takes my breasts in his hands, gently kneading them as he circles his thumb around one nipple and his tongue around the other. He takes my stiff nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking on it slowly at first but then harder. I grab the back of his head, pulling his hair then pushing his face to my breasts, the sensation of my nipple in his mouth sending electricity through my body.
His hands slip beneath the waistband of my yoga pants, and he pushes
them down, my panties going with them. I wriggle and squirm until it falls into a puddle at my feet and the next thing I know, Milo is lifting me up as if I weigh nothing at all. He sets me down on the counter and falls to his knees. His green eyes are sparkling and are fixed on mine as he leans forward. I part my thighs and grab his hair, anticipation making my entire body clench up. And the moment his tongue touches my clit, I feel like I’m going to cum.
I manage to hold off, but as he works my clit with his tongue and lips, sucking and licking, my body trembles. He pushes his tongue between my slick folds and into me, and I cry out. I pull him deeper into me, grinding myself against his mouth as he laps at me, seeming to revel in my taste. He uses his fingers on my clit, rubbing and grinding as he buries his face into me, and the sensation is almost too much. My entire body is vibrating, and my cries are stuttered gasps as he keeps licking me, harder and faster.
Milo moans loudly as he slides his tongue as deep inside of me as he can, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating against my clit. I throw my head back and cry out as my orgasm comes crashing down on me, my grip on his hair tightening. Milo keeps licking me, even harder than before and I writhe on the countertop, riding out the waves of my climax.
Slowly and gradually, my body loosens as my orgasm fades, but the memory of it makes me tingle from head to toe. It’s been so long since I’ve had a release like that, it feels like the first one I ever had all over again. Milo gets to his feet, a mischievous sparkle in his eye and a smile upon his lips. My juices glisten in the kitchen light, looking like small jewels in his beard.
Sliding my hand around the back of his neck, I pull him down to me and kiss him as hard and passionately as I’ve ever kissed him. Our tongues swirl around one another, and I can taste myself on his lips. I slide my hands down and slip them into his sweats. His body stiffens when I take hold of his cock. He’s thick and he’s long. He almost feels too big for my hand, but as he grows even harder in my grip, I feel myself growing impossibly wet.
