And one thing I was definitely not gonna do was lie to myself aboutit.
I’d lie to Taze. I knew for a fact that he lied to me. That there was a ton of shit about his life I’d neverknow.
That was the way it usually went with bikers—outlaw bikers—a breed of which I’d dated a few. And yes, they’d all lied to me. Or lied by omission. And I’d accepted those lies. I’d accepted those men as they were, and I’d accepted Taze just thesame.
Fornow.
But what I wouldn’t do was lie to myself about how Ifelt.
Running into my own personal dark horse—which was exactly how I’d come to think of him now—at Jesse Mayes’ rock star wedding, ten months ago, had quite honestly stirred up all kinds of feelings inme.
And not just feelings. Memories.Regrets.
Longings.
All thatcrap.
Running into himagainat Jessa Mayes’ meet-the-baby party six days ago didn’t exactly helpmatters.
Especially when he cornered me, alone, in the baby’s room and virtually incinerated my clothing with thatlookin his hellfireeyes.
Seeing him up close, those molten, panty-melting eyes of his, the thick muscles bulging from his black T-shirt… Hearing his voice,fuck, that deep, rough voice of his… Fuckingsmellinghim, that intoxicating alpha male smell of his… It all just reminded me of how he’dfelt—naked, withme.
How fucking amazing his skinfelt…
So smooth… silk poured over hard muscle, sliding againstmine…
Yeah. I wasalmostthere…
Then Taze’s phone started buzzing on my bedside table and simultaneously blaring AC/DC, “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap”—and fucking shattered myfantasy.
Not unusual.Unfortunately.
Taze picked it up, also not unusual. Right when I wasthatclose.
I groaned and slapped hisshoulder.
I knew it was one of his MC brothers because they all had that same fucking ringtone. There was definitely too much of a good thing, and that ringtone wasit.
Especially when I was soclose.
Taze knew I was close, so he didn’t stop fucking me, though his efforts were far less than half-assed as he carried on a stilted, brief conversation—mostlyUh-huhandYeah, brotheron his end—whilehe fucked me. He’d slid half-off of me, his upper body twisted to the side so he could lean on his elbow next to me as his hips kept grinding. But the angle was no good forme.
No good atall.
I groaned in frustration again as he hung up. He looked at me, his hazel-brown eyes half-lidded with sleep and sex, and blew out a breath. “I’ve gotta go,” he said, his morning voice all raspy with pre-orgasmictension.
I said the only thing a woman could say in thissituation.
“Fuck. Off. Are youserious?”
He dropped the phone and shifted over me, pumping into me a few more times—you know, just to make things worse. At least he looked regretful, especially when I pressed up against him, panting, seeking friction. Then he swore under hisbreath.
“I gotta pull out,babe.”
Then he did pull out. Before I couldcome.
I went limp in defeat as I watched him ease off the condom and pull on his jeans. “I can’t believe you’re fuckingserious.”
