“Kick off those heels,” I instruct Angel.
She does, then I sweep her off her feet and carry her out.
Two tents have been set up next to the water. There’s dozens of lit torches and a blazing bonfire. The sun is setting and the Louisiana sky is filled with color—reds and yellows, on fire like my heart.
I set Angel down in the sand and she smiles so warmly, my heart melts.
“This is where we met,” she observes, facing the Gulf of Mexico and raising her chin, letting the cool breeze wash over her.
“It is,” I confirm. “Let’s start our new life here.” I raise my hand and music drifts out of one of the tents. It’s a traditional Cajun waltz, the same song we danced to all those years ago, when Angel tripped her way into my heart.
I twirl her around, take her hands, and tug her into my body. “Feel that?” I growl, jamming my erection into her stomach.
Without the slightest hesitation, she caresses me through my pants. “I love how big you are,” she whispers. “I love how you make me feel whenever you’re inside me. It reminds me of what I almost lost—what I’ve missed out on for the last six years.”
Unable to resist, I cup her ass and lift her. Her ankles lock behind my back and we’re spinning and kissing uncontrollably, not caring about who’s watching. Wedding vows were just a formality. I claimed her the day we met, speaking the words in my heart. My brothers knew it without me having to explain. That’s what happens when the right woman enters your life. That’s why Angel was so easily accepted by the club and the old ladies. There’s something special about her. A purity of heart and kindness that leaves everyone whose lives she’s touched a little better for it.
We both suck in a breath at the same time and I let her slide to her feet. “Okay?” I ask.
“More than okay.”
“Hungry?”
She looks around, eyeing the grill and the fifty-gallon pots on the open fires. “Is that . . .”
“The best Cajun boil in the state?” I chuckle. “Smell it? Crawfish, crab, shrimp, kielbasa, potatoes, corn, onions, celery, and lemon . . . don’t forget Aunt Birdie’s secret seasoning.”
Tears fill her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m about to cry over crawfish.”
“You’re finally home, Angel, that’s why. This place—Holly Beach in general—and all these people are your family. You’ve missed us. And God help me, I’ve missed you more than you’ll ever know.”
I grab her hand and we walk to the grilling area where half a dozen brothers and my aunt are supervising the wedding feast. Seating for a hundred people is set up in one tent, and the live band and dance floor is in the other. The local news forecasted rain tonight, but somehow we got lucky—it’s clear and warm outside.
Out of necessity, honoring longstanding friendships, some of the residents of Holly Beach were invited to the reception. All they know is that I married a girl from out of town. Once I eliminate any threats to Angel’s life, she can reestablish her true identity and live as Angel Laramie. Until then, she’s Serafina.
We spend the next four hours partying our asses off, dancing and laughing. By eleven o’clock my girl is yawning, and I’m ready to take her away from all the noise. I’m a selfish asshole.
A couple of brothers took care of the honeymoon arrangements at the cabin. I’ll plan a trip to Europe next year when we have free time. But for now, she’ll be happy spending quality time at the Red River. We say our goodbyes and I lead her back across the street to the shop.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
That’s when I point to the bike I haven’t ridden in six years. The day I thought Angel died, I retired my Heritage Softail Classic. My palms are itching to test its speed with her arms wrapped around my waist, her breasts jammed into my back, and the wind ripping through her long, blond hair.
She smiles. “You still have the same bike?”
“I do. Though I haven’t had her out since the day . . . there’s a surprise for you in the bathroom.”
Her smile fades a bit, like she understands how I’m feeling. She lets go of my hand and walks into the shop. While I wait for her, I circle the bike, running my hands over the seat and tank, appreciating the midnight blue and pearl custom paint job.
Minutes later, I turn toward the shop just in time to see her step outside. Decked in black leather—a form-fitting halter top, pants, and boots—I’m more than tempted to bend her over my Harley and fuck her all night. I hold my breath as she steps closer, her new jacket draped over her arm.
“I kind of feel like Olivia Newton John inGrease.”
I roll my eyes and chuckle. “At the end of the movie?”
“Yes.” She holds up the jacket. “You really want me to wear this?”
The patch on the back of the leather saysPROPERTY OF EAGLE. “Do it,” I demand, needing to see that jacket on her body.
