I groan. “I have to go, too.”
“Work?”
I nod and kiss the top of her head. “Yeah.”
Hooking my index finger under her chin, I guide her face up to claim her lips again. She opens up for me, her body sliding up mine as she does to bring us face-level.
“We can’t,” she whispers, her lips pressed against mine. “We bothhave to go.”
“Tonight,” I say. “If you want, I can swing by after Bernie’s gone to sleep.”
She shakes her head and smiles, our lips still touching. Our noses brush against each other, and I love being this close to her. “Come over for dinner. We should tell Bernie.”
My eyes widen. “Really?”
“If we’re going to do this, we’re going to really do this. All in or all out.”
“All in,” I say, cupping the back of her head as I kiss her hard. She trusts me not to hurt them. “I’ll be there. Thank you, Misty.”
“For what? The sex?” She climbs off me and begins to dress.
“Well, yeah, but for believing me. I want this more than I can tell you.”
A deep breath escapes as she pulls her shirt over her head, and she looks serious. “Me, too. Just… please don’t let us down, Zep.”
“It’s the last thing in the world I want to do, baby. Cross my heart.”
I get up and dress, too. We alternate between kissing and dressing until we’re on the porch, fully clothed. She stops and has a confused expression on her face as she looks at my bike.
“What?” I ask.
“You don’t just run the Velvet Desire, do you?”
“No, we have a tattoo shop, pawnshop, and gym.”
Her eyes narrow. “But there’s something else, isn’t there? Something that’s not quite so legal. The real moneymaker.”
“You don’t think it’s a real moneymaker? Because we make bank at the brothel.”
“Fine, don’t tell me.”
I grab her arm as she tries to walk away and press her body flush with mine. “I can’t talk about it. Club business. Please don’t be angry.”
“That’s all I needed to know.”
“Does it change things? With me and you?”
She shakes her head. “No, it was a test.”
“Did I pass or fail?”
Pushing away from me, she shrugs and walks down the walk. “Guess you’ll have to wait until tonight to find out.”
Damn, I kind of love this woman.
“Hey, Colt,” I say, pulling my helmet off and stepping off my bike.
Colt Nichols, the president of the Deranged Drifters mother charter, nods his blond head at me. “What’s up, Junior Molloy?”
