“Actually,” she said, reaching between them, gripping him hard.“I wasn’t finished.”
The TV cast blue light across the living room, some action movie playing low in the background.Cassie was seated cross-legged on the couch in nothing but Nash’s T-shirt.Beside her, Nash lounged bare-chested, the sharp cut of his hips framed by low-slung gym shorts, both of them picking at leftover fried chicken from the fridge.
They’d spent the entire day tangled up in each other, unable to keep their hands to themselves.On the kitchen counter while the coffee brewed, on the hallway floor, even on his back porch, her cries mixing with cricket song as the sun slid behind the mountains.And now her body felt liquid, beyond sore, used up in the best ways imaginable.Everything in her had gone soft and unstrung while she drifted along in some hazy space outside reality—nothing but sensation and taste and the deep, throbbing ache between her legs—
Nash’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.
“Yeah,” he answered.“Tell him the parts are in the warehouse…Tuesday delivery, no delays…through Kentucky, same route as before.”
He hung up, tossed the phone aside, and pulled her legs into his lap; taking her foot he pressed his thumbs into the arch.
“Oh my god,” she muttered, sinking back with a sigh.“Don’t stop.”
Almost immediately the phone buzzed again.
“What?”A pause.“No, I don’t give a damn what price they’re cuttin’.We don’t undercut on quality.”
He kept kneading her calves as he talked, Cassie’s gaze drifting lazily across the dark room.Maverick’s house had been nice—one of the better places in Clifton—but this…this was something else.Clean lines and open space, glass stretching wide to pull the mountains right into the room, the dark wood and stone keeping it from feeling cold.Everything about it felt deliberate and thought out.
“Just fuckin’ handle it,” he finished, and hung up again, shifting his grip higher on her leg, thumb tracing slow up her shin.“Territory’s been keepin’ us busy.”
She hummed, noncommittal.She didn’t care about the club.She was merely a tourist in this world now—and this thing with Nash was nothing more than another reckless indulgence with a stranger.
But this wasn’t a stranger.This was Nash Walker and—
She shoved the thought down, focusing instead on his hand working up her calf.
“We run three counties,” he continued.“Workin’ with the Demons we finally forced the Vultures back across state lines last year.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Maybe.But anything worth doin’ always comes with a warning label.”His fingers found a knot behind her knee.“’Sides.The club’s stronger than ever.My old man never thought past these hills.”
“I always knew you’d end up running things,” she said softly, before she could stop herself.
His gaze cut to hers—sharp, surprised.Then he hooked a hand behind her thigh and pulled her into his lap, settling her astride him.
“That so?”he murmured, low and rough.
“Mmhmm.”Her hands slid up his chest and over his shoulders.
“You always saw me different than everyone else,” he said, voice gone quiet.
One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back as his mouth hit her neck, his beard scraping a shiver straight down her spine.He kissed a path along her throat, licking and nipping hard enough to bruise.By the time his mouth reached hers, she was already chasing him, her body falling into its own rhythm against his.
“Shit, Strawberry,” he breathed, half-laughing, half-wrecked.“I ain’t got a drop left in me.”
Cassie didn’t slow.“You started it,” she shot back, panting.
“That dress started it.”His hands shoved the shirt higher, palms gliding over her ribs before cupping her breasts.She arched, and his grin sharpened.
“You and dresses,” she murmured.
“Youindresses,” he corrected, leaning in to suck her nipple, his hands sliding down to grip her ass.“Can’t nobody think straight when you’re wearin’ one.”
She was reaching between them—finding him semi-erect—when his phone buzzed again.
“Leave it,” she whispered, stroking him.
