When we reach the parking lot, my steps falter. I stare at the row of motorcycles parked in front of the building.
“Um.” I point at the shiny black and chrome monster that Journey is heading towards. “I’ve never been on one of those before.”
Journey smirks. “I’ll pop that cherry, princess.”
My cheeks heat. Boy if he only knew.
He makes quick work of securing my suitcase to the back of his bike, then points to the chrome pipes running along the side. “Stay away from these. They’ll burn the skin right off your legs.”
My eyes widen. “That’s... comforting.”
“You’ll be fine.” He swings his leg over the seat and holds out his hand to me. “Trust me?”
Surprisingly, with the exception of the Girl Gang, I trust him more than anyone.
“Yes.” I place my hand in his and climb on behind him, careful to avoid the pipes of death.
“Wrap your arms around me, baby,” he instructs, and I comply, pressing my chest against his back and sliding my arms around his waist. The position is intimately close, my thighs bracketing his hips, my front molded to his back.
With a flip of a switch, the engine roars to life between my legs, the vibrations rumbling through my body in a way that takes my breath. Oh.Oh.
A small moan slips past my lips before I can stop it, and I feel Journey’s body shake with silent laughter.
“Like that, Princess?” he calls over his shoulder, revving the engine.
I squeeze my thighs against his, trying to relieve the sudden ache. Asshole.
His laughter cuts off as the bike lurches forward, and we’re flying.
The wind whips through my hair, tangling the long strands into what will definitely be a nightmare to brush out later, but I can’t bring myself to care. The feel of the wind around us, the freedom, it’s exhilarating. I tilt my face up to the sun and laugh—a real, genuine laugh that bubbles up from some place I thought was empty.
Journey’s hand drops from the handlebar to squeeze my knee once, and I press my smile against the warm leather of his cut, inhaling the scent of him.
Far too soon, we turn onto a long dirt road lined with tall cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss. The sun filters through theleaves in dappled patterns across the ground as we ride deeper into what feels like nowhere. After a few minutes, a massive compound comes into view, surrounded by a tall fence topped with spirals of barbed wire.
My arms tighten around Journey’s waist. This place looks more like a military base than a clubhouse.
“Home sweet home,” Journey says as we approach a gate manned by a biker who waves us through with a two-fingered salute.
The compound is alive with activity—men in leather cuts moving between buildings, bikes lined up in front of a tall building, music thumping from somewhere inside. Journey parks at the end of a row of Harleys and cuts the engine.
“You good?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“I think so,” I reply, unclenching my fingers from around his waist. My legs feel wobbly as I climb off the bike, and Journey steadies me with a hand at my elbow.
Without a word, he removes the bungee cords holding my suitcase to his bike and slides his free hand into my back pocket like it belongs there. The gesture sends heat flooding through me.
Seeming totally unphased by the looks we’re drawing, he steers me toward the largest building—a massive, three-story steel structure that looks like it could withstand a hurricane.
Inside the Kings clubhouse, it’s exactly what I’ve always imagined—pool tables, a fully stocked bar, a stage with a stripper pole, and tables and chairs scattered around. But what catchesmy eye is the corner table where three women sit, heads bent together in conversation.
“Over there.” Journey guides me toward them, his hand still tucked in my pocket. As we approach, the women look up, their gazes assessing.
“This is June,” Journey says. He nods to each woman in turn. “Roxy,” he points to the older redhead. “Foxy, Tacoma’s ol’ lady,” he points to the beautiful blonde that I now realize has a hand resting protectively over a little pooch.
“And baby mama,” Foxy adds with a smirk, patting her belly.
Journey rolls his eyes and points to the last woman who looks the same age as me. “And Frankie, my VP’s ol’ lady.”
