Misty went home to shower and change, and we’re still wearing clothes. Which is kind of impressive since we’ve been going at it like rabbits. I had to buy another box of condoms because we ran through my stash midway into day two.
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Let’s go get a drink. Seven Crows.”
It’s like a date. Not quite, but close enough. A start. She can turn me down, and it could very well be the last night she spends with me if she worries this is turning into strings, but I have to take a chance.
She nods and smiles. “Do I get to ride on your bike?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Isn’t that, like, a big deal or something with your kind?”
I snort. “My kind?”
“Bikers. Having a lady behind you means something, doesn’t it?”
Sounds like she’s done some research. “I suppose it is.”
I wait for her to say it’s a bad idea. That she needs to go and do something rather than spend time with me. It’s too serious. But she just takes my hand and walks out with me to my bike.
Handing her the helmet, I wait for her to slip it on before hopping into the seat in case she needs help fastening it. She climbs on behind me, and the way she wraps herself around me—not too tight but definitely not loose—says she trusts me.
Misty doesn’t seem like the type of girl who would get on a bike with just anyone. Another reason to feel special.
Having her pressed against me like this, owning her trust, I want the ride to last forever. But the drive to Seven Crows isn’t long. Which used to be a good thing.
“What do you like to drink?” I ask, holding the door open for her.
“Beer’s fine. Light, though. I can’t do fully leaded.”
Fuck me. She’s not a fancy cocktail type. “Go get a table. I’ll get us drinks.”
The wink she gives me before walking to find an open table makes me feel like the luckiest motherfucker in the world right now. Damn it, she’s sexy. And she knows it. I like that about her.
“You brought a new girl out?” Nancy asks as I walk up to the counter. “Is this a date?”
“Not sure what you’d call it,” I say. “Two beers, Nan. Light.”
It’s hard to deny how happy I feel. Misty’s one of the only women who can keep up with me. Not just in bed but in general. She’s sassy and keeps me on my toes. Jokes with me. Calls me on my shit.
But the bedroom? Fuck, I don’t think it could get much better. She tastes like fucking candy, just like I thought she would, and she has no issues telling me what she wants. And she takes it, too.
What I like most is how she doesn’t focus on flaws. I don’t give a shit she has stretch marks from being pregnant, and she doesn’t either. There are no hands on her tummy to hide them. She is who she is, and she accepts herself. Not many women are like that. Not even Chanel who put a lot of fucking money into being her definition ofperfect.
I take the bottles and turn to find none other than Wylie at the table talking to Misty. The bottles nearly break in my hands as I storm over.
“Her standards aren’t nearly low enough to even consider going home with you,” I say, setting the drinks on the table with more force than necessary.
One of the beers overflows, and Misty takes it and chugs it. Impressive.
“If she’s here with you, can you really say she has standards?” Wylie asks with a shit-eating grin on his face.
He thinks he’s fucking hilarious.
Misty looks between us, her hand over her mouth as she does her best to conceal the burp from the beer. “I told him I was here with someone.”
“She didn’t tell me it was you. If she had, I would’ve offered to help her sneak out the side door.”
