Page 82 of Savage Saint

So I do.

Not enough to scare her, just enough to make the Road Glide respond—vibrate through us—pulling another sound from her. This time, it’s a giggle that turns into a whimper, and she shifts closer, her hot cunt pressing against my lower back, hips moving subtly.

I don’t even think she’s aware of it, and that makes it all the more sexy.

The compound is close, and it doesn’t take long before the first gate comes into view. I slow the bike, nodding at the prospects standing guard. They quickly call out, “Evening, Presidente,” before stepping aside—the sky is dark, but the moon is bright enough to light the way through the private path leading to the clubhouse.

Genesis is quiet as she takes it all in. Last time, she was unconscious.

The closer we get, I see a few brothers outside. Toro and Rizos are sitting on a picnic table near the parking lot, each nursing a beer. Gallo and Maria are nearby, already on his bike, looking ready to leave, but both pause when I pull up.

All four straighten and start toward me, but stop when I get off the bike, and the woman behind me instinctively grips my vest. Not out of disrespect or fear, I think it’s a comfort. I’m not a stranger anymore.

Good.

The clubhouse doors open, and two of the club’s cueros walk out. One is new, a friend of Janelle’s. The other has been here for years, the same pink-haired woman I suspect of giving the foreign sicario information about my sister. She’s always been easy and needs male attention.

Janelle has tried and failed to get into my bed for as long as she’s been here.

Not my type. Not someone I’d touch, drunk or sober.

And when she spots Genesis in my shirt, on the back of my bike, the smirk she’d been wearing slips. The glare she gives my Pocket Doc is immediate, and so is the irritation that burns beneath my skin.

Wrong fucking move.

19

GENESIS

Whoever the woman with pink hair and a bikini top is, her denim shorts deconstructed and fringed to the point they look like underwear—doesn’t like me. More like hates me, if the glare aimed at me is anything to go by.

I don’t know her name; I've never seen her in my life, but something tells me I’ll lose my patience rather quickly with her. Never been one to take attitude and stand down.

Her glare starts at my face, dropping quickly to Saint’s shirt hanging off one shoulder and stopping mid-thigh, then moves to the motorcycle behind me.

Interesting. Telling.

When her eyes lift again, they gleam with malice and something else underneath. Possessiveness? Yes. But there’s also a hint of resentment, and I’m not sure who that emotion is aimed at.

Moreover, I almost smile. Almost.

Because I understand? Maybe, but something tells me her delusion is very much one-sided.

Could she be a possible ex?

It would make sense, but at the same time, it annoys me. I don’t like it. Her.

The way she gives him a wounded look.

My fingers are still curled into the back of Saint’s vest, something that’s caught everyone’s attention. The reactions don’t disappoint either: from surprise to amusement—to disgust. The latter from the two women who came outside looking for attention.

Don’t care as long as they stay away from Santos.

The thought slams into my processors with the strength of a battering ram, unapologetic and precise—possessive—and I’m momentarily shocked by it. That’s not me. I’ve never been the type of woman to get jealous of anything or anyone unless I’m hungry and they’re holding a snack.

I believe in trust. In being independent.

What is he doing to me?