Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Ruled: New for 2018! A hot bad boy biker romance story that breaks all the rules. Perfect for fans of Darker!

Ruled: New for 2018! A hot bad boy biker romance story that breaks all the rules. Perfect for fans of Darker!
Anne Marsh
The Rebel vs. The PrincessComplete opposites who share the same burning passion!Jaxon Brady of the Hard Riders MC has sworn to protect Evie Kent from a rival gang. His hard muscles and black leather motorcycle boots are a sharp contrast to the girly dresses Evie wears for her successful party-planning business. Their instant attraction is magnetic, and their lust keeps them glued to each other’s side…but is it a dangerous distraction?


The Rebel vs. The Princess
Complete opposites who share the same burning passion!
Jaxon Brady of the Hard Riders MC has sworn to protect Evie Kent from a rival gang. His hard muscles and black leather motorcycle boots are a sharp contrast to the girlie dresses Evie wears for her successful party-planning business. Their instant attraction is magnetic, and their lust keeps them glued to each other’s side...but is it a dangerous distraction?
“Dare is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”
—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author
ANNE MARSH writes sexy contemporary and paranormal romances because the world can always enjoy one more alpha male. She started writing romance after getting laid off from her job as a technical writer—and quickly decided happilyever-afters trumped software manuals. She lives in Northern California with her family and six cats.
If you liked Ruled, why not try
A Week to be Wild by JC Harroway
Off Limits by Clare Connelly
Legal Seduction by Lisa Childs
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk)
Ruled
Anne Marsh


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07111-6
RULED
© 2018 Anne Marsh
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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Version: 2018-01-18
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Aunt Monica.
For the Monday morning Skype calls, squirrel and slug advice, and the best pictures of a California anemone ever…
Our time together means so much!
Thank you.
Contents
Cover (#uabf8b619-c022-5d52-ba98-4a1a09d7ff62)
Back Cover Text (#u53e422c9-27d7-5506-aeb6-3c5069b65e2e)
Author Bio (#u735c3c6a-92c2-5aa4-a41f-5e3d50dbf74f)
Booklist (#u2a6d42f4-de2c-58b9-8404-af573a741a96)
Title Page (#uf92be186-c7f0-54e4-840d-bf5dc3e29fb2)
Copyright (#uf85e974d-4d7d-51b5-a1bf-2a4553d481b4)
Dedication (#uf171fc4a-7ffd-5508-82b0-dfb048341657)
Chapter One (#u3382c429-c7c2-5c8c-8000-32fa96c23b24)
Chapter Two (#u25441b12-5780-5229-ad7d-eb22f2209a8b)
Chapter Three (#u6924011a-79d5-58f3-b8b0-6482dd3c6977)
Chapter Four (#u51f35480-674d-579d-8acb-accf9869d07e)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#uc00fdf2c-cc24-500f-b317-cfabc7d5a7a2)
Eve
YOU SEE THAT big pink RV parked next to Lake Mead? That vehicle screams look at me. I painted sparkly rainbows and unicorns on both sides, along with my business name. Perfectly Princess Parties. The bling is great advertising, like driving a moving billboard around Las Vegas.
I put the princess in party—there isn’t a five-year-old girl (or boy, frankly) in Vegas who doesn’t believe I’m made of awesome. I specialize in birthday parties—we’re the precake entertainment. We’ve got the dresses, the sparkle and the attitude to keep our audience riveted and wanting to be us when they grow up. Eventually, at some point between five and twenty-five, those same girls will realize it takes more than a dress and a crown to rule the universe, but the fantasy’s fun while it lasts. And yes, I’m cynical. You meet more frogs than princes in my business. Ever notice how there’s an overabundance of amphibians in every fairy tale—and a corresponding drought of royal suitors?
It’s a numbers game.
Since it’s about a million degrees in Vegas today, we’re holding our monthly company meeting lakeside. Despite being as manmade as most Vegas attractions, the lake’s gorgeous. After running through our bookings for the next month and brainstorming new party ideas, we’ve vacated our temporary boardroom (the picnic table underneath a particularly gnarly Joshua tree) for a well-earned swim.
I float in the lake, trying to pretend I’m not still thinking about our financial bottom line and how to drum up more business. Income-wise, we haven’t hit survival levels yet. I tilt my head back, and everything’s better in my relaxed, upside-down world. My three part-time princesses may moonlight as showgirls on the Strip, but they’re paying their bills. Our singing dragon doubles as an Elvis impersonator. He’s crooning the King’s finest to my accountant. Everybody’s taking a moment to let loose just a little and enjoy. We’re going to get there eventually—there being financial security, fat 401Ks and permanent employment.
In fact, the only person not here? Rocker. My business partner and baby brother swore he’d meet us here, but he’s once again failed to make an appearance. He’s busy at an auto body shop where he does custom paint jobs. Plus, he rides with the Black Dogs MC. He swears the motorcycle club is completely on the up-and-up. According to him, the stuff you see in the TV shows or read about on the internet is 98 percent crap and untrue.
It’s the other 2 percent that worries me.
My baby brother now stands a whopping six feet two inches tall. I practically raised Rocker after our parents flaked out on us, and I did the best I could. Money and education—those two things keep you safe, get you out of the lousy neighborhood and into the good places. The princess party business is our first-class ticket out of East Las Vegas to somewhere else. Somewhere safe. I may not know much about clubs or colors, but I do know that bikers are the opposite of safe—and Rocker’s been acting secretive.
A splash sounds somewhere south of my feet and someone tugs on my toes. “Cavalry’s here.”
I sit up fast, butt bumping on the bottom of the lake. Carlie laughs, but she’s already staring up the road, longing painted all over her face. My brother turned out to be hot and the bad-boy-biker thing is just the cherry on the sundae as far as some of my employees are concerned. Carlie starts finger-combing her hair and plumping her boobs up in her teeny-tiny bikini top—a definite Rocker alert.
Sure enough, a big, shiny, way-too-loud Harley approaches our temporary campsite at Mach Seven speed. Rocker drives too fast. He also brakes too late and too hard, his tires sending up a cloud of dust as he stops next to the RV. I wade out of the lake, grab my towel and brace myself for the excuses. He’s endlessly creative when it comes to explaining his absences.
“Looks like I’m late to the party.” A charmingly rueful grin curves Rocker’s mouth. Objectively, I see exactly what makes Carlie daydream about my brother. Dark blond scruff shadows killer high cheekbones and his hair falls around his face in wicked disarray. His legs straddle the bike, encased in worn denim and ending in a pair of impressive black motorcycle boots.
He hops off the bike and sweeps me into a bear hug, grinning down at me. This is why I can’t stay mad at him—no matter what we’ve done or how infrequently we see each other now, he’s always glad to see me. He loves me, and he’s not afraid to let other people know it. Carlie practically swoons behind me as he plants a gentle kiss on my forehead. A guy who’s not afraid to admit his feelings is a prince and is just as rare.
“Fashionably late, Rocker?”
He flicks my nose lightly. “I got held up. Club business.”
It’s always club business with him. “I needed you here.”
He makes a show of looking around the site. “Looks like you’ve got everything covered.”
Uh-huh. We’ve had this conversation before, and it does not improve with age. “We’re supposed to be partners.”
“I’m the silent partner who provided the start-up cash. You provided the brains.”
He gives me another easy smile, but I can tell he’s done discussing this. He’s got a point, too. I need a squeaky-clean image to appeal to the mom crowd—so by hanging back, he’s actually doing me a favor. Plus, if I push him too hard, he’ll just get back on his bike and leave. So I cave.
“You look tired.” This isn’t a polite lie on my part—there are purple shadows beneath his eyes and his pretty face is slightly worn.
“Club’s keeping me busy.” His tone makes it clear that this is another conversational no-fly zone.
“You know you have a job with me anytime you want it.” We’ve had this conversation only about a million times, but it bears repeating. I will always be here for Rocker.
He tilts his head at the RV. “You really see me driving around in that thing?”
“What’s wrong with the Princess Mobile?” Admittedly, the gas mileage sucks, but she gets us where we need to go, she’s great advertising and she has honest-to-God turrets. Pop that sucker up and I can play Rapunzel on demand. It holds my costumes and props, and it gets my princesses from one party to the next.
Rocker’s just starting to list all the reasons a pink ride isn’t his thing when his phone goes off. He looks down and then disappears briefly to take the call.
“I have to go,” he says, sauntering toward me.
Yeah. Color me shocked.
He pulls me into a one-armed hug. “Be extra careful for me, Evie girl?”
“I’m always careful,” I tell him, and sadly, it’s the truth. I’m a color-between-the-lines girl—he doesn’t need to worry about me.
“Promise me,” he insists and I think he’s actually serious.
“You want to be more specific?”
He curses. “Evie—”
“Does it have anything to do with your club?” I point to the patch on his vest. I’d like to rip the thing off his chest, but it wouldn’t solve the problem.
“Might do. Trouble’s brewing,” he says slowly. “Trust me. You don’t want the details, Evie. I’ve got it handled, though. You don’t need to worry.”
Some things never change—Rocker swears he’s got a situation under control, I worry, and then I conceive a half dozen plans for salvaging said situation. I love my baby brother, but I don’t approve of his lifestyle choices. His biker buddies are bad news. Today, though, he really doesn’t want to talk about whatever’s bothering him, so I nod and promise to be extra careful. He gets back on his bike and tears out of the campsite faster than I’ve ever seen him go. Whatever trouble he’s facing down must be really bad.
It’s one hell of an exit—even more dramatic than the Princess Mobile. It makes it impossible to ignore his departure, which Samantha makes clear when she wanders over, fanning herself.
“God, your brother’s hot.”
I force a smile, although the last thing I want to discuss with my fellow princess is the degree of my brother’s attractiveness. I’ve got bigger things to worry about. “In the category of things I don’t need to know...”
“Who’s hot? And are we sharing secrets?” Carlie wades out of the lake to join us.
“Rocker’s in trouble.”
Samantha wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes gently. “You need to stop worrying about that man. He’s an adult, doing adult things.”
“Funny. That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Life was way easier when he was just afraid of the monsters in the closet.”
“You should be thinking about dating or at least getting laid,” Samantha counters. “Ask Rocker to introduce you to some hot biker.”
“No bikers,” I say firmly.
“Really?” Carlie sounds doubtful.
Bikers are fascinating, but they’re the polar bears of the dating world—a look-don’t-touch breed of man you’re better off spotting in a zoo than in the wild. So freaking touchable on the outside, but completely wild on the inside. I love bad boys, but I prefer to do my loving from a nice, safe distance.
“Biker is a synonym for bad boy. I don’t need that.”
“What if I find you a bad boy with a heart of gold?” Samantha is the eternal optimist.
Reality check. “I’ll be ninety before you find one of those. Give me someone who’s nice.”
“Imagine the sex. Booooring.” Samantha makes a face and wades back into the lake. As she executes a spectacular belly flop into the cool water, I check my phone. We need to be on the road in twenty minutes or we’ll hit traffic. Still, I can afford five more minutes.
I wade back in and rejoin my girls. “It’s been so long since I had sex that I’m not sure I remember how to do it.”
Obviously, that’s an exaggeration, but both Carlie and Samantha look like I’ve just announced that there will never, ever be another episode of Game of Thrones. Possibly combined with a nationwide shortage of chocolate. And wine. Maybe I could kick a puppy and complete my elevation to total loserdom.
“Who doesn’t get laid?” Carlie floats over to me. It feels like high school, except the margaritas are no longer illegal. “Do you have a disease? Or did you take a religious vow when I wasn’t around to stop you?”
“Not everyone has to have sex. Not everyone wants to.” Most days I’m too tired to even think about taking my clothes off, let alone doing so in a sexy fashion and then making sure my man comes. I’ve been working twelve-hour days for the last eighteen months to get my princess party business off the ground, and my efforts are finally paying off.
“Intervention?” Carlie gives Samantha a look I have no problem interpreting. Neither one of them has a filter and they both have frequent, fantastic sex (at least to hear them tell it—and believe me, they certain don’t hesitate to tell).
Samantha nods and heads for her purse. She trots back into the water a few seconds later, phone in her hand, and thumbs like a mad woman. Water-based internet surfing seems like an obvious recipe for disaster—while I wish the good folks at Apple would come up with a waterproof number, so far they’ve dropped the ball on that particular winner.
“We’re finding you a booty call,” Samantha announces.
“How about this one?” Carlie taps a picture on the phone, but Samantha’s already shaking her head vigorously enough to spray me (and the phone—she really is living dangerously) with water.
“He’s a taxi and not a long-haul trucker, if you take my meaning. Eve needs someone with stamina. She has a drought to work off.”
I mentally run time trials on my previous two boyfriends for the next few minutes (they’d both qualify for gold in any track-and-field sprinting contest) while Carlie and Samantha review and reject various single men. Eventually they linger on a dark-haired hottie with a nice face and a strong jaw. He’s wearing a suit and a tie, although there’s always the possibility that’s an aberration. Maybe Samantha snapped him at a funeral or a wedding.
“Jack Turner.” Samantha taps the screen and Jack zooms into focus. “He runs numbers for a casino. He’s twenty-eight, currently single, never married and he has his own place. Rumor has it that he’s really, really good at putting his partner first. I like a man with manners.”
Nice to know the man has been sexually preapproved. I examine his face. He looks normal. Of course, Samantha and I have also been up since six, preparing for and then throwing a purple-themed princess celebration for the four-year-old daughter of a blackjack dealer who’d received the tip of a lifetime two weeks ago and decided to invest part of it in his daughter’s dream party. It’s possible I’m not thinking straight.
“Is he nice?”
Carlie pokes me in the stomach. “Trust me. You want fun, not nice.”
Says she. “Why can’t he be both? You guys said you could find me a bad boy with a heart of gold.”
“We lied for a good cause. It would be like winning the lottery. Don’t raise the bar impossibly high for Jack.”
“I know nice guys,” Samantha announces. Since she’s been married and divorced twice and she’s not even thirty, I’m skeptical. Her first impressions don’t seem to be borne out in the long run.
Carlie reaches for the phone. “Name one who can still make your panties wet just by walking into the room. Evie needs chemistry. Not a nap.”
See? She agrees with me. Nice guys are more endangered than the rhino these days.
Samantha looks blank. The way she stares down into the water, you’d think she’s expecting a name to float to the top.
Shit. Surely one of us knows a guy who’s both dating material and nice. Or...maybe not. Maybe finding Mr. Nice is like going to the zoo and hoping to spot a unicorn. Fuck the polar bears—we want mythical creatures.
Samantha waves her phone at me. “I’m texting Jack right now. We can go out next weekend.”
If today is Saturday, that gives me at least six nights to find my libido. It has to be here somewhere.
Samantha doesn’t look up from her phone. “And don’t tell me that you’re not free. Our clientele are three to eight years of age. They do not host birthday parties after 10:00 p.m. Ergo, you’re free and clear for drinks. There’s no excuse to not go out and have fun. Let loose and forget about your responsibilities for a few hours.”
Fun.
A simple, three-letter word.
I’d like to pretend I can’t remember the last time I had fun because I work so hard and am such an astute businesswoman.
It wouldn’t be true. I know exactly when I last cut loose, went out and had a few, did some dancing and kissed a boy. I was seventeen and in high school.
Unfortunately, I was also supposed to be at home, watching Rocker while our dad was out taking care of some “business” for his MC. Sucks to be a teenager stuck with babysitting duty when everyone else is out partying. My sneak exit through the window had been awesome up until the moment I returned and discovered our house surrounded by the blue-and-whites. Dear old dad got busted running arms, and I got busted as a deadbeat who’d put having a good time ahead of looking out for her little brother.
That was on me.
And yeah, I know that the ten years that have passed since that night should count for something. That Rocker doesn’t blame me for the six months of foster homes he’d survived before I’d turned eighteen and convinced the judge to let him live with me. Six months in which I’d turned my life around, found a job and done everything right.
Rocker and I don’t talk about our dad or that night everything changed. Once a month, we send a check to the state prison where dear old dad is serving a twenty-five-to-fifty-year sentence, and he sends back a postcard with a scrawled thanks. He also sends the occasional Christmas and birthday card. Mostly, Rocker and I pretend our childhood is a big happy blank. Nothing to write home or talk about—just something we got through on our way to being reasonably happy, productive adults.
At least, that’s what I do. I’m a business owner and halfway to a degree in finance at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. I have a mortgage, a minuscule retirement account and enough shit that I had to rent a medium-sized U-Haul when I moved into my new house. It’s wonderful and scary at the same time—I’m so close to finally getting us out of the series of bad neighborhoods and loser streets we’ve lived on all our life and I should be celebrating. I should be able to go out on a Friday night and cut loose for the space of a song or two. And yet I’m so tired that I just want to crawl into bed and sleep instead.
“Jack says he’d love to meet you,” Samantha announces triumphantly.
“Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll do it.”
While Samantha texts an opus to Jack and Carlie cackles gleefully next to her, I pack us up. I need to double-check the site, too, and make sure no one’s leaving anything behind. I’m busy tying up our loose ends when I hear the small plop from the lake followed by Carlie’s giggle and Samantha’s curse. Yeah. Guess we’ll be stopping by the Apple store, too.
Chapter Two (#uc00fdf2c-cc24-500f-b317-cfabc7d5a7a2)
Rev
I’M NO SUPERHERO. Definitely no Prince Charming. Your first clue is my ride. I’m all about the Harley Davidson—not a fucking white horse in sight. The Hard Riders club president must have ignored that memo when he put me in charge of today’s mission, because the woman in front of 837 Second Street is dressed exactly like a princess, right down to the tiara. Although the diamonds have to be fake, like so many things in Vegas, the crown still sparkles in the setting sun. A disorganized mob of small girls in rainbow-colored dresses surrounds her, talking and shrieking in an ungodly racket. Fucking looks like a rainbow exploded everywhere and rained glitter.
“Goddamn,” Vik announces loud enough to be heard over the pipe’s roar as he pulls his bike into the curb. I kill my engine and follow, both of us focused on the commotion happening on the lawn of the run-down rental. The lawn isn’t much to look at—the Nevada sun has cooked the grass to a crispy brown and the place hasn’t had a paint job in decades. Two bedrooms, one bath, based on the visible square footage, but gone to seed like a hooker working the nearby Strip, still open for business even though she won’t command top dollar. The neighborhood hosts mostly working class, the usual mix of single moms and family units where cheap rentals are always in demand. The place squats on the edge of Hard Rider MC territory, and it might be time to expand our holdings. Claim this block, make it ours, put it back to rights.
I fucking love that idea.
Princess sticks out. The neighbors hanging over the chain link watching the show have dressed down for the heat because East Las Vegas in August is hotter than any armpit of hell I’ve visited as a US Navy SEAL. Today’s audience wears mainly shorts and tank tops. Princess, on the other hand, sports a puffy yellow dress made out of some kind of fluffy shit. The fabric bells out revealing a really nice pair of legs as she gets into it with...a dragon? The thing’s about ten feet tall, bright purple, and has a tail with floppy cloth spikes on it. Princess retrieves a ginormous plastic sword from somewhere and proceeds to attack. While I applaud the enthusiasm that makes her tits bounce, she doesn’t know the first thing about fighting.
Vik groans. Brother’s a fucking drama queen. “I could have taken that dragon in the first twenty seconds.”
As the dragon collapses in mock death on the crap lawn, Princess whirls, declaiming something that wins applause from her host of mini-me’s. I can’t see her face, which is a pity, because her back’s damn spectacular. Soft, honey-colored curls are piled up on top of her head, kinda pinned in place by the tiara, and the dress dips all the way to her ass, the straight line of her spine a lick-me-here-big-boy invitation I’d like to take her up on. As I watch, some of those curls go AWOL, bouncing around her face and down her neck. I want to take her apart, undoing first her hair and then her dress. Wouldn’t stop either until I had her screaming my name as she came undone in my arms.
“Showgirl?” Vik’s mutter interrupts the unwelcome fantasy. Daydreaming on the job is a rookie mistake. We’ve seen some crazy shit in our day, but this is unfamiliar territory. Since Princess doesn’t show so much as an inch of tit and the dress drags on the dead grass rather than stopping two inches short of her ass, I’m certain she isn’t working a Vegas show on the Strip. Her audience is our second clue. Third clue? The enormous pink-and-purple inflatable castle poking up over the roof of the house from the backyard and the equally outsized sheet cake with a number 5 candle poking out of the center. We’ve crashed a birthday party.
“You sure we got the right address?” GPS isn’t a magic bullet and maybe we aren’t parked in front of Eve Kent’s workplace.
Vik leans back on his bike, folding his arms across his chest as he surveys the front lawn. A happy grin lights up his face, because he’s definitely enjoying the show and most of the audience is female because hello...birthday party for kids. Vik likes women. Women like him. It all works out, usually with Vik naked, in bed, and banging his newest acquaintance. He may be the vice president of the Hard Rider motorcycle club, but you can bet every one of us gives him shit about the mileage on his dick. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”
Vik also subscribes to the act first, think later school of thought. Probably explains why our prez put me in charge of this particular mission. If it involves pussy, Vik’s gonna want to make a detour before he gets down to business. While he checks out the women on the lawn, I check my phone and confirm we’re hitting the right party.
“We can’t just go in there and make demands.” I do a quick headcount and arrive at fifteen possible adult witnesses in addition to the dragon and the screaming, frosting-smeared horde. Never mind that we’re not doing anything illegal—yet.
We’re assholes, but we’re not criminals. Being a biker isn’t a crime, even if the boys in blue sometimes act as if it is. There’s no free pass—you earn your place in the Hard Riders MC. To ride with the Hard Riders, you have to be ex-military. Most of us are SEALs or Spec Ops, but we got a few exceptions. We ride in East Las Vegas, but the Vegas area is home to multiple MCs and tensions run high. The steady flow of drugs controlled by Los Angeles–based gangs like the Hells Angels, Mongols, Crips and the Vagos add to the tension. Too many fighters, too little turf. That’s a bad fucking recipe right there, and the Black Dogs MC recently made it their personal mission to be a pain in our ass.
Sin City is the country’s playground, but almost two million people also live and work here, just trying to make a decent life for their kids and that’s a goddamned right, to my mind. Forty thousand decent, hardworking people in East Las Vegas and almost seven square miles of streets of working-class apartment complexes, bars, liquor stores, check-cashing businesses and single-story adobe ranches with palm trees in the front yards and fucking geraniums in pots. You don’t get much more American than that.
We get plenty of people from Nellis Air Force Base, too, people who have either come to serve or to support a loved one who was serving. The Hard Riders MC is behind that shit. Makes our neighbors honorary brothers and so we watch their backs since we’ve served, too. We’re more sinner than saint, but our territory is as free as we can make it from the drugs and violence that plague the rest of Las Vegas.
You prospect and then you patch in and get your colors. Get club ink, too. Our club president likes to call that our bar code—Vik jokes it’s our expiration date. You remain in the club until the day you die, and if you screw up, the club cleans up the mess. Locals respect our vests and the club patch. When they see that MC cut, they know we mean business, and they usually get the hell out of our way. You don’t disrespect us.
Unless you’re Rocker Kent, Eve Kent’s baby brother, who rides with the Black Dogs and who’s recently decided he and his crew should run illegal street guns through Hard Riders territory. He’s the reason we are here. Idiot compounded that brilliant plan by networking with the Colombian drug cartels (he’s had a busy fucking month), and that’s trouble the Hard Riders plan to shut down if we can run him to ground long enough to talk. We’re mature like that—gonna start with words and then work up to fists. Practically deserve the key to the city for that restraint, but we may have to make do with Eve. Word on the street is that her brother checks up on her regularly.
She’d make one hell of a hostage.
“You really think she knows where Rocker’s at?”
Vik swings off his bike and leans against it. “Give it a minute and we’ll ask. The show’s winding down.”
While the knee-high crowd stampedes into the house after the lady carrying the cake, I keep my eyes peeled for Rocker. He’s shown up at three of his sister’s last four gigs according to a girl who works for her. Usually slinks in quietly because apparently Eve has a no-bikes rule—something about us big, bad biker types scares her mom crowd. If I can catch him now, it will solve all sorts of problems. Of course, since the girl in question provided this information after Vik banged her silly, she may have been just babbling shit. All that mileage on his dick? Plenty of it is repeat business from happy customers.
My phone buzzes, distracting me from the rapidly emptying front yard.
How’s the party?
Fucker.
“Sachs is checking in.”
Vik nods, his eyes are glued to a mom in a pair of pink sweats, a white tank and flip-flops. She looks curvy and sweeter than the cake her kid is mainlining as they disappear into the house—and Vik has always had a sweet tooth. Momma better watch out, or he’ll take a bite out of her.
What’s up?
Shrieks sound from the backyard, the purple castle rocketing back and forth like it’s about to take off. Princess and the dragon disappear inside. I’m getting impatient when Sachs finally texts back.
Had another drive-by. Heading over to check it out. Save me a cupcake.
Ever since the Black Dogs MC hopped into bed with the Colombians, our streets have been heating up. This is the second drive-by in as many weeks, and it’s two too many. This shit ends now, and the best way to accomplish that is through Rocker. I don’t care if he tenders his resignation to his drug-dealing buddies, or if they take it out of his ass in trade, but he runs no more drugs or guns in Hard Rider territory. It’s gonna take the entire club to bring him down without escalating shit to a full-blown war, though—and Sachs has a hair-trigger temper. He’s more likely to Rambo his way inside the other clubhouse and do his discussing with his fists.
I text him back.
Wait for backup.
Sachs’s only response is a kissy-face emoticon. Someday, his lack of caution is going to bite him on the ass.
“Time to get serious.” I throw a leg over my bike. “Take one for the club.”
Vik grunts and motions me forward. I may be joking about the kiddo’s party, but we both know I’d lay everything on the line for the club. So would Vik. That’s how we roll—the club and our brothers come first.
When I stride up the walk, what’s left of the peanut gallery hanging over the fence turns to stare, because six feet of former SEAL in motorcycle boots and a club vest makes an impression. Fuck them. I don’t try to hide what I am. I’m the MC’s muscle. I make some stuff happen—and I make other stuff go away. Whatever my club prez needs, I do—and right now he needs Rocker’s buy-in on getting the hell out of our territory and the drug trade.
Since staking out a birthday party for kiddies isn’t getting me any closer to this goal, I need to find another way to get to Rocker. I do another quick survey of the house, but there’s still no sign of that asshole, and I don’t have his number. But I bet Evie knows how to call her brother—and I bet I can motivate her to share. I’m fucking awesome at motivating.
And today’s my lucky day because turns out that I don’t even have to go in after her. She pops out of the house alone and heads for the pink monstrosity parked by the curb, juggling a plate of cake in flapping plastic wrap. She looks like Christmas and the fucking Tooth Fairy rolled into one, with a dash of Tinkerbell and porn star. Okay. That last bit may be pure fantasy on my part, because she looks as sweet as Vik’s MILF in that fluffy-ass get-up. Unless my luck has changed, she’s not hiding a dirty girl underneath all that sparkle. I change course and wait on the other side of the pink RV for her.
Chapter Three (#uc00fdf2c-cc24-500f-b317-cfabc7d5a7a2)
Eve
“GOING SOMEWHERE, SUNSHINE?” The deep voice comes out of nowhere and I whirl. Off balance, I promptly trip on my dress and head for the pavement.
An arm fastens around my waist, rescuing me from my imminent face-plant. The plate of cake is plucked from my hands and set down by my feet. Huh. The arm tightens briefly as we dip and it’s a big, hard, tattooed, scary-as-shit arm, although the tattoo actually isn’t bad. Bold black ink covers the skin between his sleeve and his wrist... Is that a dragon? The animal looks almost Viking. Or as if the beast is seriously contemplating eating anyone who gets too close. If I need to file a police report, I have plenty to say when they ask about distinguishing marks.
The arm’s owner is sun-bronzed, and when I inhale, I breathe in leather, oil and something else. That something else spells trouble because the scent is hot and male. What my head can’t describe, my body recognizes, my libido perking up and demanding we revert to our former bad girl ways. Immediately. My princess costume works better than a chastity belt thanks to all that material, so it’s difficult to fully appreciate the hard male body pressed up against my butt, but I make an effort.
Maybe I’m hallucinating because men like this don’t exist.
I pinch his arm hard.
“The fuck?” Those two offended words rumble in my ear. I guess he’s real after all. He sets me carefully back on my feet and backs up, giving me twelve inches of space. Maybe a whole eighteen. And I mean the distance between us, not anything else, because...
This man is a whole lot of wow. I brace myself against the side of the RV. Knees don’t fail me now.
His face is way better than his arm. He’s a big guy, tall and broad-shouldered, traits that tick all the best boxes on my sexual wish list. He’s also more rough than good-looking, with short, dark hair and a cold, watchful expression that never leaves his face as he takes in the happenings on the lawn. Almost military, except that the local air force base would never let this bad boy in. He wears a leather vest covered with patches, a dark T-shirt and jeans that are white around the seams. Despite the full-sleeve tattoo on both arms, I spot no visible piercings, but trust me—he doesn’t need the metal to shout trouble.
He braces an arm on either side of my head. Despite his not actually touching me, it suddenly feels like we’re naked and he’s got his dick inside me. Under other circumstances, I might not mind. Since keeping up appearances in front of my paying public matters, I reach out and give his chest a discreet shove. We have an entire RV between us and any party guests, but I shouldn’t take chances.
He doesn’t budge. “I need to reach your brother, princess.”
There are so many different ways to define reach. Still, however you define it, he’s not here for me. I know I shouldn’t be disappointed about that, but I am.
“You’re a friend of Rocker’s?”
His face gives nothing away. “We’ve got business.”
I treat myself to a second glance at his leathers, the faded T-shirt that hugs a muscled chest and the boots. God. The boots. You know how some boots are made for dancing? These boots are made for pain, for kicking ass and for getting a point across one steel-toed tip at a time. And just in case there’s any question at all about where this man falls on the naughty or nice side of things, he rocks a leather vest with a club patch on it. Whatever Rocker’s done this time, he’s in deep. Pulling him out is going to be a bitch.
Ergo, despite my pressing need to get him away from Perfectly Princess Parties’s current place of business, I stall. Big-time. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Rev. You tell him Rev is looking for him.”
I’m pretty sure my mouth hangs open for a minute, because Rev looks amused. What kind of a name is that?
Since that’s not the kind of thing you ask a man, I go for the obvious. “Why?”
“Club business,” he says tightly.
In other words? Penis business. Also known as none of my business. I love my brother, but he has his head up his ass about things like sticking on the right side of the law and boy things versus girl things. When I try to duck under Rev’s arm, the man moves effortlessly with me. Shit. Pretty soon, we’ll start attracting attention.
“If I let him know you’re looking, you’ll leave?” Giving Rocker a heads-up that trouble is knocking on his door seems like my best two-for-one solution at the moment, so when Rev nods, I fish inside the bodice of my dress. I also do my best to ignore the slow grin spreading across Rev’s face as I retrieve my phone from its hiding place. What is it about men and boobs? He doesn’t back off and give me any space either, which makes dialing awkward.
“What’s up?” Miracle of miracles, Rocker actually answers his phone on the second ring.
“I have a friend of yours here who wants your number,” I say carefully. Pretty sure this is the trouble he mentioned back at the lake.
“Sure.” There’s enough background noise for me to be almost certain Rocker’s parked at a bar somewhere.
“He says his name is Rev.”
As my brother silently digests that revelation, Rev moves closer still and traces a finger over my ear. He smells good, although I wish I didn’t have a secret thing for leather and man. Plus, he has no business touching me. I shake my head as if he’s some kind of annoying gnat, but he just drops his fingers to my jaw and then plays with my hair as if I’m his own personal toy. Big fingers carefully untangle a snarl and smooth the strands down. I slap at his fingers with my free hand and he grins.
Rocker promptly proves that his brotherly radar still works fine. “He right there?”
“Couldn’t get much closer,” I tell him.
“Rev’s not a nice guy,” he says slowly. “And I don’t want him around you.”
News flash—I’ve already determined the not nice part for myself. In fact, it’s probably twelve inches long and located directly behind the zipper of his jeans. I look him up and down, or as much as I can since the man still has me pinned up against the RV. Somehow, I can’t work up any indignation. Later, I’ll regret letting him walk all over me in public view, but right now I’m enjoying the feel of his big, muscled body touching mine. It’s been way too long since I had someone just hold me.
I focus on breathing in, hold for a count of three, and then out, because maybe then I won’t say something I shouldn’t. “Good to know, but I think he still wants to talk to you.”
“He absolutely does, princess.” Rev plucks the phone out of my hand. While I’m trying to figure out how I feel about that, he and Rocker go back and forth on a possible get together. Rev doesn’t stop staring at me, either, one hand braced by my face and the other wrapped around my phone. The man’s a talented multitasker, because his fingers keep grazing my cheek, sending little skitters down my spine.
Why am I standing here letting him take charge? Because you like it, my bad voice whispers (or shrieks gleefully in my head). Damn. It. I reach for his wrist as he signs off the call. I still can’t tell if he and Rocker are friends, if Rocker owes him money (which would be a bad idea), or if there’s something else entirely between them (which would be even worse). But there’s something. There’s definitely something.
“Return my phone.”
His face doesn’t reveal a flicker of emotion. Bet he could make a killing playing poker on the Strip. “This isn’t a democracy. You got a pen hiding in that dress, sunshine?”
His gaze flicks over me. Maybe he’s looking for said pen—or maybe he just likes looking...at me. Shit. The hard-eyed steely-stare thing he’s got going on is not supposed to be a turn-on. My inner bad girl, however, won’t be shut down without a fight. She thinks we should jump him. Right here on the sunburned, stabby lawn works for that hussy. I opt for going on the defensive.
“Don’t call me sunshine.”
He shrugs. “You’re the one in the big yellow dress.”
“Occupational hazard.” I yank a business card out of my cleavage and slap it in his empty palm. The move may not be the classiest, but the look on his face is worth it. Naturally, birthday parties for the two-to five-year-old crowd are not his territory. He’s undoubtedly more into murder and mayhem.
“You want a princess to grace your next party? I make it happen. Forty dresses that drip sparkles, fairy wings, tiaras and enough faux glass slippers to shoe an entire beauty pageant—we’ll have a real good time. I promise.”
He makes a rough sound. Can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or if I’ve actually managed to shock the big, bad biker. “Since when do princesses have wings?”
Clearly, he has limited knowledge of five-year-old girls.
“All the best princesses can fly,” I inform him. Unlike him, I have extensive knowledge of five-year-old girls, and their preference for fairy princesses have been made abundantly clear to me. Ergo, I’ve responded to my market demands (and hey, I like wings and sparkles, too).
This time, he definitely snorts. “Why don’t you fly your ass on inside that RV and grab a pen?”
I don’t have to think about that “request” too hard. The man needs to work on his manners.
I don’t budge. “Rocker’s not your number-one fan.”
He grunts and returns his gaze to my phone. “He wants you safe. You should listen to him.”
“You should know something about me,” I tell him.
“What’s that, Evie?”
“I’m not big on orders.”
He actually winks at me. “Bet you’d feel differently in bed.”
I really shouldn’t hit him, not when there’s a birthday party happening in the backyard behind us, but the urge is almost overwhelming. This man has no filter. “Do you have any idea how insulting you are?”
He shrugs and texts something from my phone, before looking me in the eye. God, the man might be filterless, but he does have gorgeous eyes. “Put my number in your contacts.”
Um. Okay. And perhaps hell will freeze over despite the record hundred-and-something-degrees Vegas weather. I reach for my phone, but he holds it just out of reach. “If I change my position on order-taking, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”
“Thought maybe we could get together sometime,” he says.
Didn’t see that one coming.
“You want to go out on a date with me?”
“It’s a free country—you don’t have to say yes. Thought you might like a ride on my bike or a drink.”
He wants to give. Me. A ride. My brain stutters. The bike parked by the curb is a big, death-defying, powerful menace. Black leather saddlebags hang off the side that I’d bet my sheet cake he doesn’t use to transport groceries or crap from a Target run. Riding anywhere with a strange man would be crazy.
He has a friend with him, too, another man I’ve never met before. When I peer over Rev’s shoulders a little myopically (the best princesses don’t pair glasses with fairy wings and this particular princess has run out of disposable contacts), the guy offers me a slow grin and a little waggle of his fingers. He certainly makes pretty eye candy, but I prefer Mr. Tall, Dark and Grumpy.
I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s the dress, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. “You think I’ve got a thing for sparkly shit?”
There isn’t a man alive who looks rougher and fiercer than Rev. I’m trying to figure out a polite way to tell him so when he tucks the phone back inside my dress before I can so much as squeak out a protest. The backs of his fingers brush against the top of my boobs, issuing an invitation of their own.
I have to be more cautious. From the rising volume of the squeals emanating from the backyard, cake consumption has concluded and the party will be wrapping up as the sugar highs hit, the early departers fleeing past my RV parked out front. Spotting the princess in an R-rated embrace with a biker would be bad for my business. You can’t be a dirty girl and host children’s birthday parties for a living. The moms will kill you. Fortunately, the moms aren’t mind readers. I’m only a party-perfect princess on the outside. Riding anywhere with Rev would be career suicide.
My bad voice promptly weighs in. But only if you get caught.
“I don’t do bikers.”
Something flashes across Rev’s face. “You don’t get hurt on my watch. I promise.”
“You’re not an ax murderer?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wallet attached to his belt by a silver chain. Silently, he flips it open and holds it out so I can read his driver’s license. There’s a military ID underneath it, too, the kind of card that gets you into Nellis Air Force Base.
“Your name isn’t Rev.” According to the State of Nevada’s laminated plastic, he’s one Jaxon Brady.
“Road name,” he says tersely.
I examine the license again. He’s also turning thirty-three in four weeks. I bet he won’t be booking a celebratory princess party.
“Wow.” I hand back his wallet. “Former navy?”
He nods, as if it’s no big deal. “SEAL. You’d be safe with me.”
He’s not big on talking. Or negotiating, asking, or sweet-talking. I’ve always trusted my instincts, though, and right now they’re on board with Rev Brady. Completely, totally, 100 percent in favor of getting on this man’s bike and riding off with him. Somewhere. Wherever he wants to go. He’s big and strong and tempting. He’s fought for our country and kept everyone safe.
How bad can he be?
The little voice in my head pipes right up. How bad do you want him to be?
That voice needs a gag.
“Think about it,” he says and then he turns and saunters toward his bike. I stand there, watching his ass the whole way, and wondering why I don’t mind his attitude. He’s scary as shit. He’s not Mr. White Picket Fence and he’s not promising happily ever after, but the man has a fantastic butt and I’m lonely. That’s all it is. I need to get out more, need to make a point of seeing someone.
Someone else.
Anyone else.
There are absolutely, positively no bikers anywhere in my future.
Chapter Four (#uc00fdf2c-cc24-500f-b317-cfabc7d5a7a2)
Eve
THE CARNIVAL MUSIC vibrates through every inch of my body, and I lose myself in the beat. I love everything about hitting the Strip, from getting dolled up to the pulse-pounding, searing rhythm of the clubs. Everybody’s equal on the dance floor, all part of the same moving, gyrating body. On the Strip, you end up packed too close to even tell who can dance and who’s merely enthusiastic. It’s exactly what I need, my happy place where I can let go and all that matters is finding my next breath and the rhythm.
Unlike my day-job wear, my dress tonight barely skims my butt. Sequins cover the short pink tank dress and whenever the lights hit me, I light the place up. Over the top? Check. Girly as hell? Check, check. The first stop on tonight’s girls’ night out is Circus Circus and Samantha and I have already hit the Midway and gone two rounds on the roller coaster. I’m barefoot because I kicked off my shoes as soon as we scored a table, and right now it’s officially fun time. And while I usually keep busy, busy, busy, it feels good to have some time off. Tonight I can let go and enjoy life. Tomorrow is soon enough to worry about the bills, the taxes and the fourteen hundred other items on my to-do list.
I could start with that man headed toward our table. He’s good-looking, he’s definitely friendly and he’s managed to hunt down a cocktail waitress with a tray of drinks.
Jack. His name is Jack. I’m too old or too tired—too something—because I have to fight the urge to write his name on my hand lest I forget it. I’d been hoping he’d rate higher on the droolworthy factor.
“I told you he was even cuter in person,” Samantha crows as she catches me watching Jack. Unlike so many dating app pictures, he actually looks like the picture I picked out on my phone at the lake. Turns out, the six intervening days have not been enough time to rediscover my libido. I’ve done some solo workouts in bed, but a few self-induced orgasms haven’t made me hungrier for one-on-one action. Guess it was like hoping running a mile would prepare me for the marathon—so I shouldn’t feel so disappointed.
Jack is a good-looking guy and he has lovely manners as promised. He looks really nice in his jeans and a blue button-up shirt, too. He’s a vice president of something at one of the casinos, which means that not only is he pretty on the outside, but he’s gainfully employed and scores frequent free drinks. The man is total keeper material, which is exactly what I told Samantha I wanted.
This is torture.
I don’t care if Jack never finds our table again, and that’s just not right. He’s so perfect on paper, and yet there’s not a single spark of chemistry between us. There’s nothing horribly, wonderfully electric, no sparks. I should try harder. Hell, the sparks between that biker and me were enough to start a forest fire or some other kind of world-ending conflagration and my libido needs a good talking-to. No bikers.
“Wasn’t sure what you’d like,” Mr. I’m Perfect On Paper says, tipping the waitress generously after she sets the drinks down on the table. “So I got a bunch of stuff. You can try it all or go for the fallback beer.”
God. Could he be more thoughtful?
He gestures toward the row of drinks and I grab the first drink I touch. The crap in the glass is frozen and sweet, some kind of adult slushie. Okay. That’s a departure from my usual beer, but I definitely want to try new things. I want to dance, to grind against Jack and to discover he’s my Mr. Right. I’m so ready to get right on that happily ever after. Get married, start a family, do things right. Jack ticks all the boxes. He’s absolutely perfect. I knock back the first inch of my drink, trying to ignore the way it suddenly tastes too sweet.
Jack slides an arm around my shoulders, tucking me against his side. He goes for the beer, and we stand there all couple-like for a long moment, watching Samantha bob and weave across the casino floor to greet someone she knows. It feels as if we’ve been married for ten years already and not in a good way.
Run away, my bad voice whispers.
Not listening.
“Let’s dance.” I slip out of his hold. The bar and burger joint has live music tonight, and a group of people are already dancing. I grab his hand, threading my fingers through his. He lets me tug him out into the heart of the dance floor, following my lead effortlessly. Maybe it’s a sign that I’ve found a man who can take direction? Jack even turns out to be a decent dancer. We dance a few faster songs, and then sway slowly in place when the band drops a romantic number on us. This is perfect. Still, when the band segues into a faster song, I pop out of his hold.
“Little girls’ room,” I tell him and he nods.
I make a pit stop at our table for my shoes, which turns out to be the best decision I’ve made all night. The bathrooms are at the end of a narrow, dirty, dark hallway. Every time I pick my feet up, a sticky, crunching sound assaults my ears and I make a mental note to Lysol the bottom of my shoes when I get home. I do my business as quickly as I can, wash my hands and exit. Clearly, the casino wants its ladies out on the main floor or knocking back drinks at the bar, because absolutely nothing about the grimy, dark facilities encourages you to linger. This place has a pee-and-get-the-hell-out vibe.
When I come out, turns out the night has at least one surprise in store for me. Rev is leaning against the wall opposite the door, beer bottle held loosely in his hand. He raises the bottle in a silent salute when he sees me. He doesn’t look surprised to see me, although I hadn’t pegged him for the club scene. When he takes a swallow from the longneck, the muscles in his throat working, I start wondering what he’d taste like.
“Hey,” he says, and my feet immediately cease their forward momentum. I have no idea how he does that to me.
“Hey yourself.” I gesture toward him. “You waiting for someone or do you regularly stake out the women’s room?”
We’ve only met once before, but somehow I already know he’s not the kind of guy who holds his girl’s purse while she pees. Plus, I was the only gal in the restroom, so I’ve kind of already answered my question.
A slow smile touches his face. “Saw you out there on the dance floor. Bought you a beer.” He starts to hand me the second beer bottle and then pauses. “You like that lime crap?”
I make a face before I can stop myself. “Not really.”
“Good call.” He flicks the offending lime toward a nearby trash can and then swipes his thumb over the mouth of the bottle before passing it to me. “Gotcha covered.”
Free beer is always good, right? We drink in strangely companionable silence for a moment.
“You come here often?” I joke lamely when the whole not-speaking thing starts to feel uncomfortable.
He bumps my shoulder companionably with his, gesturing toward the dance floor with his bottle. “Worse places to hang out.”
“True,” I agree. “But I hadn’t pegged you for a clubber.”
He takes another swallow of his beer. “I like watching.”
He’d said he’d spotted me on the dance floor earlier—did he watch me? Did he like what he saw? Is that what this beer is about, or is he still trying to track down Rocker and he figures buttering me up is a shortcut? Since there’s no way to know for certain, I decide to just enjoy the scenery for now because looking at Rev is pretty darn awesome. I let my gaze trail the length of his body, taking him all in—and there’s lots to admire. His faded jeans hug powerful thighs and the T-shirt beneath his leather vest outlines a chest that promises to be downright perfect. Whatever the man does with his free time, he doesn’t sit around on his ass all day. His big body radiates power, deadly but relaxed enough for now that I don’t sprint for the dance floor or the safety in numbers it offers—which makes me as stupid as the slowest gazelle in the pack, because Rev is a predator and we both know it.
About three inches from the bottom of my beer, the band starts in on one of my favorite songs, making my feet itch to be out there on the dance floor. A lazy smile tugs at the corner of Rev’s mouth. Whatever he is tonight, he’s in no rush and somehow I’m in no hurry to return to Jack, either. When my buzz dies down, this will probably worry me.
His shoulder bumps mine gently. “You in a dancing mood tonight, princess?”
“You dance?” Shoot. I sound breathless.
He takes another swig from his bottle. “Do I look like I dance?”
“Uh—no?” I inspect him again, looking for any reason to say yes. “But you’ve got two feet, right? It’s not hard.”
He looks down at me, reaching out to circle my wrist with his fingers. Heat shoots through me. Jack and Samantha probably think I’ve fallen in or gotten lost, and yet I don’t want to move away from Rev. Of course, he’s hot and I’m buzzing, but even so I know that standing here with him is a bad idea.
“Come on.” He tugs me out of the hallway, then heads for one of the booths lining the side of the bar. Stupidly, I follow along. I do manage to fish in my purse and find my phone so that I can shoot off a quick text to Samantha.
Met friend. BRB.
Friend is a misnomer, but since Samantha didn’t spot Rev at the birthday party, she wouldn’t know who he is anyhow.
Rev slides my purse down my arm and tosses it toward the back of the booth. The little pink square at the end of a silver chain doesn’t hold much. I slide in after it and then wonder if I’ve made a mistake. Now the only way out is through Rev. Not that I really think he’d hurt me, but I barely know him.
“You look nice,” he says, snagging my phone and sliding in after me. Somehow, I’m not surprised when he looks down and reads the message I just sent.
“Thanks. Maybe we should talk about boundaries.”
He looks up and winks at me. “If you’ve got hard limits, you tell me.”
Did that sound sexual to anyone else?
“We what you said?” He gestures toward the phone in his hand and then tucks it into my purse.
“Friends?”
“Yeah,” he says. My beer is mysteriously empty, so I snag his and help myself to a drink. “Never had a girl friend before.”
“I’ll go easy on you,” I tell him and finish off his beer.
His fingers graze the bare skin above my knee. “You here with someone?”
My pulse rockets into overdrive.
“Kind of.” I blurt the words out. Think them over. “Not really. Yes. No.”
He gives me a slow smile. “Hard to be all of those things.”
“I’m here with friends,” I say firmly.
He nods thoughtfully. “You should know that if you stay here, I’m gonna want a taste of you.”
I stiffen before I can stop myself. This is not the kind of thing you discuss with an almost total stranger. “You did not just say that.”
His fingers move a little higher. I slap them and only end up smacking myself. Real smooth. “That’s disgusting.”
His grin gets broader. “You not a fan of oral, Evie?”
Great. Now my face and my pussy are on fire.
“Not really my thing.” I blurt the words out before I can think them through.
“Why not?” He sounds thoughtful, rather than pissed off or offended, so I tell him the truth.
“I’ve tried it, but it wasn’t all that.” I give my previous boyfriends full points for enthusiasm, but oral sex just isn’t the fireworks-inducing pleasure that my Cosmo assures me it is. I can and have lived without it for years. There’s just something about the enthusiastic licking and the slurping that put me off. Reminds me of puppy dogs or something, and that’s not sexy at all.
Rev gives me a look. He’s totally still, but somehow I get the feeling he’s about to pounce. “We really friends?”
“I think so.” I nod cautiously. Probably shouldn’t have finished his beer because now the room whirls gently around me and a pillow sounds like nirvana. Bet Rev would let me put my head on his chest. Bet he’d let me do a lot of things.
“Then I gotta tell you something, as a friend.” He pulls me onto his lap, settling my back against his chest as he rests his chin on my shoulder. “Fucking waste, your not liking oral.”
He doesn’t sound mad that I’ve shot down his friendly offer, but this is undoubtedly my cue to go back to my own table. Still, when he pulls me tighter, the closeness doesn’t feel scary or like a threat. More like he’s putting himself between me and the rest of the world, just in case shit starts happening. Which it probably does in his world, now that I come to think of it.
“So show me how you like it,” he rumbles in my ear.
“What?” Pretty sure I sound as dazed as I feel.
He tugs the empty beer bottle away from me and sets it on the table.
“Kiss me the way you’d like to have your pussy kissed,” he offers. “Promise you one thing, Evie—I’m a fast learner.”
“But I don’t like it,” I point out with the careful logic of the slightly inebriated. “And we’re just friends. Friends don’t go down on friends.”
Or have conversations about oral techniques in the middle of a bar—but, details.
He sounds sincere when he says, “Nothing wrong with one friend making another feel good.”
I think about that while he runs his hands down my back, cupping my butt and lifting me until I’m sitting on his dick. The only things between us are my panties and his jeans. Or wait—maybe he’s pro-underwear and not naked underneath his denim? The beer must be talking, because I skim my fingers under the edge of his jeans on an exploratory mission. Not commando. Okay. That’s one question settled.
“This is a bad idea,” I inform him even as I turn and straddle him. I can’t be that drunk, because I manage it without sticking my knees in any unfortunate places. Or maybe that’s because his hands guide me and it’s so easy to let him take control.
“Never a bad idea to tell me what you want.” The words sound like a promise. I lose the thought as I slide my hands up his chest and over his shoulders to cup his neck. God, his skin’s warm. I wonder how he feels about licking, because right now his dick is aligned with my pussy and it feels absolutely perfect. “Plus, sweetheart? I’ve got one rule. The game stops the minute you tell me you’re not having fun.”
That’s a good rule and I tell him so.
He nudges my chin up until I meet his eyes. “You’ve got my promise on that.”
“And you always keep your promises.”
“Damn straight.”
He’s smiling when he says it, but the words are like a safety line. Nothing too bad can happen now. He’s said so.
“First thing? I don’t like to rush,” I whisper, leaning up.
“Got all the time in the world,” he tells me.
No.
He’s so wrong.
All I have is right now, this one stolen moment.
I cup his head with my hands, one thumb tracing the soft line of his ear. Must be the only place the man isn’t hard, because I’m definitely sitting on an impressive erection and his chest isn’t any softer. I tug his head down toward my mouth before I can think too much. He helps me by cupping my butt and boosting me up his chest, his fingers skimming the curve of my butt just below my panties.
“I don’t like to go for gold right away.” I brush my mouth over his throat. He’s inked in so many places. In addition to the dark bands on his wrists and forearms, he’s got more ink on his throat.
“This is pretty.” I trace the black swirl nearest his ear with my tongue.
“Got nothing on you,” he growls. “Girls are pretty.”
“Mmmm.” I eat him, kissing my way toward his ear.
I lick him and he groans.
“Pretend you’re a girl,” I whisper. “And let me call you pretty.”
“Fuck,” he says hoarsely. “Asking the impossible, princess. I’ve definitely got a dick.”
The tip of that dick bumps against my clit in a bull’s-eye. Nothing subtle about the move, but somehow the very bluntness of it makes me hotter. Plus, he grabs my hips when I buck, holding me rock-steady in his hands. My internal temperature rockets up to on fire and it’s all I can do to not grind down on him and come right now.
“Are we still playing show-and-tell?” he asks with a hoarse groan. “Because you’re giving me ideas.”
“Shut up.” I lick his ear lightly, teasing him. “This is my show.”
“For now,” he agrees, making it clear I’m only in control because he’s letting me be. That apparently turns me on, too, because my pussy clenches, reaching for the dick I’ve decided it can’t have. Still, since he asked for a lesson in how to lick my pussy, I need to be thorough, right? Just in case we ever end up putting this plan into action, I’d hate to be the one to give him bad advice. So I go back to work on his ear, sucking hard on the lobe until he’s the one bucking up. Imagine that. What works for the princess works for the big, bad biker.
“I think we’re gonna be real close friends.” His hands trace the top of my thong through my dress, and when he tugs gently on the tiny strip, I feel it right in my clit. My panties are his own personal leash to my libido. God, I should get up. Should go. Should—
“You like it slow,” he whispers roughly, and my thoughts grind to a happy halt. Right now, I’d like it however he wanted to give it to me.
“My fantasy,” I whisper back. “My rules.”
“You want to hear about mine?” He wraps my hair around his hand, pulling my head back until I meet his gaze.
“I have friends waiting for me.” I sound the opposite of decisive.
“Had a real shitty day, princess,” he growls. “Don’t make it worse by leaving now.”
“Funny,” I gasp. “Because mine is getting better by the second.”
“Tease,” he whispers softly, but he doesn’t sound mad any longer. “Didn’t think you’d play these kinds of games.”
I press down on him. “What kind?”
“The dirty kind.”
His fingers tighten in my hair and my heartbeat jacks up, announcing the imminent arrival of my first heart attack. We’re in public. Sure, the booth gives us some privacy, but it’s nowhere near enough for him to be all but fingering my pussy. Why don’t I mind? Why am I still sitting here on his lap, my legs hugging his hips like he’s my life raft in the Sea of Orgasm? His legs shift beneath me, the muscles bunching and pressing, and a new heartbeat explodes between my legs. Rev is dirty. Wicked. Biker. Outlaw. All the words drain right out of my head when his hand disappears between us. Oh my God, he’s going to touch me.
“Didn’t think you’d let me do this.”
His fingers stroke beneath the edge of my panties.
“Why not?”
“You usually date bikers?” His fingers move higher.
My breath catches.
“I don’t usually date,” I admit. “Tonight’s the first time in a long time for me, and I’m kind of sucking at it.”
I should care. I should feel bad that I’ve left people waiting for me at our table while I climb all over Rev like he’s the only orgasm left in town. Instead, all I can feel is the pleasure. He strokes along the crotch of my panties and my world stills and then explodes in a new beat. He works his finger beneath the edge and my pussy rolls out the welcome mat. Like he knows all I can do is wait, holding my breath and trying not to beg, he works the damp cotton against me, rubbing and pressing. They’re not even good panties, date night panties I wouldn’t mind flashing the world, but they’re my lifeline in the storm that is Rev. Just an everyday Hanes cotton thong that’s practical, sturdy and out of this world in Rev’s hands.
“You like these?” He tugs the side of my panties.
“They get the job done,” I say drily and he laughs.
“Guess that means you won’t miss them.”
He rips my panties apart with two sharp tugs and I don’t have a problem with that, either. Apparently, I’m up for whatever he wants to do tonight.
“Tell me about your day,” I gasp, desperate for distraction. I so need to put the brakes on this crazy attraction.
His knuckle finds my bare clit and presses. It’s too much, too fast, his fingers sliding over my slick, wet flesh. I feel my orgasm coming, and I want to stretch this moment out. Make it last as long as possible, because the best sex of my life shouldn’t be this short.
“Got some unresolved club business.” He circles my clit with his thumb and I reward him with a moan. “Some guys trying to run drugs on our turf. Not good for the neighborhood—civvies keep getting shot.”
“You’re worried about your neighbors?” It’s a minor miracle I can get the words out, because he makes another slow pass around my clit.
He gives me a hard look. “You don’t think I should love my neighbor as myself, sunshine?”
Right now, the only loving I’m worried about is what’s happening between us. He presses. I moan.
“I don’t worry, princess. I fix shit.”
From the expression on his face, those drug dealers will be out of business shortly. Rev clearly has a plan and a goal for shutting them down and part of me wants to stand up and applaud him. I mean, I probably don’t want to know exactly how he intends to eliminate the drug trade from the streets he’s claimed, but the idea’s solid. Instead of saying anything, however, I slide down, more than meeting him halfway. God. I need him in me, and not just his fingers.
A throat clears behind us. “Eve?”
Oh shit. I turn around at light speed, ignoring the way Rev groans when my knee rams into his thigh. Jack takes an involuntary step backward, looking uncomfortable.
“Hi,” I bleat, sounding like the idiot I am.
“I’m headed out.” From the way Jack’s looking at us, he knows exactly what we were doing—and he won’t be calling me. “Play some blackjack and then head home. You okay?”
“Fine. You go on.” My face is probably tomato-red. Jack is the perfect recipe for a forever man, and he’s just busted me humping another guy. It’s not like meeting him here at the casino was my idea (thank you, Samantha), but I still feel bad. I picked him out of the phone lineup, and now I officially suck. He won’t give me a second chance—and worse? I don’t want one.
What I want is to come, to demand Rev finish what he started. We haven’t exchanged much small talk, and we haven’t done any of the get-to-know-you stuff that you’re supposed to do before you hook up. But I know some important things about him already. He’s a member of the Hard Riders MC, which means that he lives for the club and he plays by a code I can’t always agree with. He’s loyal. He’s protective as fuck. He’ll never bring me roses or stop by Hallmark, but it’s not as if I’m planning on doing that for him, either. I’m an equal opportunity kind of girl and I might be up for borrowing his penis, but there’s no long-term in dating a biker.
Which is why I scoot off his lap as Jack turns and walks away. I’ll bet he’s thinking he had a near miss. That if I’d hook up with a different guy when we’d just met that I’d do worse down the road. Rev’s phone buzzes and naturally he checks it. Those fingers moving over the screen were just—
He makes a rough sound. “Got a meeting or we’d be discussing this further.”
This is a first. My dating life hasn’t been a flaming success, but the guys I’ve met have been interested in pussy first, fun second and nothing else third. Sometimes, they’ve mixed it up and put the fun first, but they’ve never left a sure thing for a meeting.
That’s okay.
“Go.” I slide out of the booth. Rev is more than a little out of my league. I like playing games, but I’m not even sure this man knows how to play.

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