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My phone vibrates in my back pocket after a couple hours. I wipe my hands and check it discreetly.
Corbin:
Diesel said he’s got you. Figured you’d go out to your death trap or find Lennox. When Pres found me, I knew my answer.
Corbin:
Why’d you run Spitfire?
I bite my lip, thumbs hovering. I should ignore him.
Me:
Had shit to do. It’s not running. Last night was a mistake. I was drunk.
Corbin:
Bullshit. You carved your fucking name into me while you came on my cock. That wasn’t a mistake. That was you claiming me.
Heat floods my face. I glance around the yard to find Corbin across the field, barking orders at pledges. He looks pissed—cut tight across his broad shoulders, jaw clenched. Even from here, I can feel his eyes on me when he turns.
Me:
It was the tequila. Let it go.
Corbin:
You licked my blood off my skin as my cock was inside you, Tatum. Tell me you don’t want that again.
I squeeze my thighs together, arousal spiking despite the guilt. Diesel glances over, raising a brow. “You good?”
“Yeah, fine,” I mutter, pocketing the phone and focusing on the bike. We work in silence for a while, swapping out spark plugs and checking chains. The sun climbs higher, sweat sticking my shirt to my back. Another buzz.
Corbin:
Meet me behind the garages in five.
I ignore it.
Corbin:
Don’t make me come pull you away from Diesel. You know I will.
My heart races. Across the yard, he’s watching me now as he talks to Pres, Judge, and Ledger.
Me:
Busy. Club needs bikes running.
Corbin:
It does but I need you running on my cock again. Stop fucking running from me.
I glance up. He’s moved closer, despite being busy this morning. I cave a little.
Me:
What do you want from me, Corbin?
