“Saber! Fuck, don’t stop!”
He doesn’t stop. His pace builds, rougher, more desperate, and his mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s all teeth and breath and want. My second orgasm hits. Every muscle locks down, and I clench around him so hard his rhythm breaks. He lets out a broken, filthy curse that sends aftershocks rippling through me.
His hips slam forward twice more, erratic, uncontrolled, and he buries himself deep and goes rigid. His cock pulses inside me, releasing his seed, and the groan that tears out of him vibrates against my neck where his face is pressed. His arms are shaking. All that composure, all that control—gone.
He collapses onto his forearms above me. His breath is ragged against my collarbone, and his thumbs stroke lazy circles on my ribs.
I push his hair off his forehead.
“Now you’re ready for your first day,” he murmurs against my skin.
He won’t tell me where we’re going.
The route from the ranch should take us straight through town toward the community college, but Saber turns off thehighway a mile early and heads for the clubhouse. I tap his arm, but he doesn’t look back, and the Harley rumbles down the dirt road.
We pull into the lot behind Bones and Bucks. The bar is closed—it’s barely eight in the morning—but there are two trucks parked out front.
Saber kills the engine and swings off. He holds out his hand, and I take it, and he walks me around the side of the building to the front entrance.
I stop.
The old sign is gone. The one that was a clip-art catastrophe and had a font that belonged on a ransom note. In its place is a new one—hand-painted wood, clean lines, the crown-and-skull logo reimagined in a style that looks rough and vintage and deliberate. Below it, BONES AND BUCKS in block lettering that reads from fifty feet.
My sketch. My design. Translated from charcoal on paper into paint and wood, and bolted to the front of a building.
My hands go to my mouth.
Saber is standing behind me. His arms cross over his chest, and he’s watching my face for this reaction—shock and pleasure.
My throat closes. “How did you do this?”
“Took the sketch from your book. Had Razor’s guy build it.” He drops his arms. “The club voted. And if you want it, you’re the marketing person for the bar. Part-time, on your schedule, around classes. Paid.”
Part-time. On my schedule. Paid.
I’m not broke anymore. I’m enrolled in school. I have a bank account in my name. And the president of the Hellborn Kings is standing in a gravel parking lot offering me a job that I want to do while I’m in school.
“I want it.”
He pulls me in by the front of my cut and kisses me hard.
How did I get this lucky? How did I find a man who will never stop giving me things I didn’t know I was allowed to want.
The community college sits on the east side of town. Low buildings, a parking lot that’s mostly dust, and a handful of students milling around with backpacks and iced coffees.
Saber parks the bike. I swing off and pull my bag onto my shoulder, and my stomach flips. Nerves. Good nerves. The kind that mean you’re about to do a thing that matters.
Three bikes idle near us. Prospects. I recognize them from the clubhouse. They’re young and trying very hard to look casual. They’re failing miserably.
I turn to Saber. “You can’t be serious.”
“They’re keeping an eye on things.”
“It’s a community college. I’m taking a marketing class, not infiltrating a cartel.”
He doesn’t answer. He’s looking past me, toward the entrance, where two guys in their twenties are leaning against a pillar.
They’re staring at me, or they were. Then their eyes land on Saber, six-three and covered in ink with a president’s patch and a face that has never once been described as friendly. Both of them pivot so fast they nearly trip over each other.
