She licked her lips, eyes flaring. “Finish your drink.”
He did, and she locked the front doors, killing the neon. The world outside was dark except for the streetlight and the distant pulse of the city. She led him out the back, where thealley reeked of rain and garbage and freedom. His Harley sat there, mean and intimidating the darkness. She looked at the bike, then at him. “What’s the play here, St. James?” She tried to sound tough and confident, but the man towered over her, his green eyes holding her in place.
He shrugged out of his cut, tossed it on the seat. “You tell me.”
She closed the gap, kissing him again, even rougher. This time, he spun her around, pinning her against the cold brick. Her hands tore open his shirt, fingers finding the old scars. She mapped them with her tongue, every ridge a story, every line a warning. He slid his hands up her skirt, found nothing but bare skin and a band of garter. Her ass was perfect, muscle and curve and just enough defiance to make him crazy.
He picked her up—she wrapped her legs around him, laughing a low, dangerous laugh. He shoved her skirt up, ground himself against her. His cock throbbed. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back. “You gonna fuck me, or just show me your scar collection?”
He answered by yanking her panties to the side, sinking two fingers into her, finding her soaked and ready. She bit his neck, hard, and he nearly lost it right there. He fumbled with his belt, her hands helping, both of them too impatient to care about class or comfort. He pushed into her, and she clamped down, nails digging into his back. He fucked her against the wall, every thrust matched by her growl and the slap of brick against her spine.
It wasn’t romantic. It was pure need, two animals tearing at each other for oxygen. She whispered filth in his ear, dared him to go harder, deeper, meaner. He obliged, hoisting her higher, letting her ride the rhythm. She came fast, teeth gritted, shuddering around him like an electric shock. He followed, groaning her name into the crook of her neck.
When he pulled out, she slid down the wall, skirt bunched around her hips, hair wild, mouth wet and smiling.
“Not bad for a first date,” she said.
He zipped up, found his jacket, and tossed her a look. “Next time, you buy the whiskey.”
She straightened, smoothing her clothes, dignity completely untouched by what just happened. “Next time, I’ll make you bleed for real.”
He liked that. He liked her a lot.
He mounted his bike, revved the engine. She stood in the alley, arms crossed, watching him with a look that said unfinished business.
He rode off into the night, the taste of her still on his tongue.
Inside, she cleaned up with the same efficiency, sweeping up the broken glass and tucking her blouse back in. She caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar, lips bruised and eyes alive for the first time in years.
She poured herself a whiskey. Raised it to the empty room.
“See you around, St. James.”
She meant it.
Chapter two
The Test
The Bloody Scythes clubhouse looked like a converted slaughterhouse, mostly because it was one. Cinderblock walls, floor stained in a way bleach could never fix, and a collection of animal skulls nailed to the rafters for ambiance. The place reeked of cheap whiskey, hot leather, and the kind of sweat that got earned, not spritzed on in a gym.
Damron’s hand never left Carly’s lower back as he steered her through the main room, past a gauntlet of patch-covered men who looked at her the way wolves look at an open wound. Most wore sleeveless cuts to show off their arms—some scarred, some tattooed, most both. The women in the room watched Carly, too, but with eyes that calculated threat, not desire. Maybe a little of both. It was the first time in years Carly had been somewhere she didn’t instantly own the room, and Damron knew she felt it.
She wore a stern game face: tight jeans, one inch heels, hair in a knot that said “I take no shit” but also “I paid two hundred bucks for this blowout.”
“Jesus, Damron,” Carly murmured, voice pitched low. “You throw a party or an exorcism?”
He grinned. “You expected a Rotary meeting? These guys haven’t been to church since they banged the priest’s daughter in tenth grade.”
He steered her to the long bar where Viper, the club’s resident enforcer, leaned over a tray of bourbon shots. Damron nodded to Viper, who barely moved except to look Carly up and down with all the subtlety of a strip search.
“Carly,” Damron said, tone gone formal. “Viper. Runs security for me. The man’s a bastard, but he’s our bastard.”
Viper’s voice was smoke and broken bottles. “Pleasure, Carly. Heard you know all about bikers.”
“From work,” Carly shot back, cool but not icy.
Damron’s smile grew. It turned him on to watch her flex. He walked her past the bar, letting the room size them up. Eyes tracked every step, taking in her ass, her heels, the way she didn’t flinch even when she passed through the thickest part of the room. If she was nervous, she hid it well.
