A voice in my head chants that over and over again as I take her. I feel her legs begin to tremble and her barely muted cries get choppy, but I’m not too far off. I slide my finger around her and tease her clit as I drill into her faster. I feel the threat of my climax in my seizing muscles.
“Hawk,” she sobs, her pussy clenching around me as rough tremors roll through her body. I move my hand to squeeze her hips as I thrust into her, and it takes four more before I’m falling off the edge right along with her. I bury my face into her hair as I flood her womb with my seed, marking her as mine through rough tremors. Pouring my heart and soul into her.
My wife.
Mine.
I straighten up and fasten my pants before spinning her around to face me, taking in her flushed face, mussed hair and dazed eyes. And Christ, she’s so perfect.
“I love you,” I say thickly as my arms come tight around hers, holding us together as all the fears drain from my body. “So beautiful and perfect. All mine.”
“All yours.”
I push back to look at her, wondering yet again what heroic act I committed in my previous life to be rewarded with her in this one. It must have been something grand to have both her and Wren in the same timeline.
“I want to take you somewhere,” I say, helping straighten her clothes and hair. I grab her violin case and take her hand with the other as I lead us out of the room. People call out to congratulate her as we walk out, but I don’t stop, heading straight for my bike.
“Oh my God, is that yours?” she asks when we stop in front of my Harley Davidson Fat Boy Gray Ghost. A limited-edition model I acquired shortly after moving to Chicago. I grab the pink helmet I bought her and turn to her. “I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before.”
“I’ve been riding for as long as you’ve played the violin. You can trust me.”
“Okay,” she says with a grin and I help adjust the helmet on her head and get the violin strapped to her back, then help her onto the bike, guiding her to wrap her arms around my waist when I mount the beast. As she settles in, her scent wraps around me like a field of roses, drowning out all other smells.
I’ve never carried anyone on any of my motorcycles before. My brother called them death traps, and before Amelia, there wasn’t another woman. I never let another woman into this part of my world, but I’m ready to introduce my wife to the other side of me.
The afternoon sun bleeds across the asphalt as I start the engine, and with a twist of the throttle, I pull out onto the street.
Chapter Nine
Amelia
“We’re not going home?”
I grab Hawk’s shoulders as I climb off the motorcycle, taking in the strange environment. We’ve parked in front of a massive ten-story building with graffiti tastefully drawn on its walls, but even more startling are the men standing outside, smoking. I find my eyes widening at the sight of a particular guy with some kind of animal tattooed on the side of his head.
Is this the infamous Steel Rebels clubhouse?
I’ve heard about it. It’s nearly impossible to come across someone in the city who doesn’t know who the Steel Rebels are or what their clubhouse looks like, seeing as it’s always flashing on the news. My grandfather would be horrified if he were alive to witness me coming to this part of town.
A hand slides into mine and I turn to look at Hawk, meeting those electric-blue eyes that seem to light a spark in me every time they’re on me. “Are you nervous?” he asks, his hand tightening on mine.
“No.”
“It’s okay if you are,” he tells me. “The media does an amazing job at making us out to be monsters, but I promise you that everyone here is nice. They’re my family, and I want them to be yours too.”
Neither of us have any family left, and now we’re about to craft our own with Wren. “I’ll love them as long as you do.” I lean into his touch, feeling giddy now that the whole fake marriage issue isn’t hanging over our heads. “Besides, I’m with you. I don’t have any reason to be scared.”
Still, I find myself wondering why he would bring me here. Perhaps to pick up Wren, but then again, Hawk wouldn’t really risk riding with Wren on the bike. Maybe he just wants to introduce me to his friends. I’ve met the club wives and they seemed nice.
“Let’s go.”
Hawk guides me to the entrance and pulls open the heavy oak door, and I’m immediately hit by the scent of leather and gasoline, but there’s something else. A sweet aroma of dessert.
I’ve never been to a clubhouse before, but I’ve heard stories. They’re supposed to be dark and intimidating, which makes me question whether it’s common for this one to have streamers in vibrant colors snaking across the beams. There are balloons, so many balloons that bob and sway above us. Some have musical notes and others have my name scrawled across them in bright, playful fonts. And there are flowers, lots and lots of flowers neatly arranged around the room.
A party?
My eyes dart around, trying to take it all in. The old wooden tables are pushed together, laden with platters of food—a feast that looks more like a gourmet spread than a biker’s fare.
