Cruz (Dark and Dirty Sinners' MC #5) - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,144
tonight was the night I was gonna tell you some stuff. Just didn't think it would be the drawings that triggered the conversation."
My brow puckered at that. "What conversation?"
He shrugged. "Who I am, why I am the way I am, what I'm doing in the MC..."
"Basic shit like that, huh?"
His nose crinkled, and I'd admit it was cute as fuck. But then, even though he was covered in ink, and those he had weren't exactly warm and cozy ones what with the negative tattoos that displayed the skeletal system, he was cute as fuck. And anyone who didn't say that was a moron.
Saying that though, the world was full of morons.
Pursing my lips, I told him, "I realized today how little I know you."
The sudden tension in him was impossible to miss. Around his eyes, clusters of stress lines appeared, and deep inside them, the color shifted somehow.
I knew what it was like to be at the center of this man's focus, to have every ounce of his attention. But that was nothing to now.
I understood how a butterfly felt as a collector pinned it to a sheet of card before framing it on the wall.
The way he looked at me, though not aggressive, had the small hairs at the back of my neck standing on edge.
I didn't feel in danger, just like I'd stirred a beast in its den.
And even though that should have made me feel powerless, instead, I felt alive. So filled with hyper-awareness, throbbing with life, like before I'd been dead.
A tremor whispered through my nerve endings, making them respond like his hands had caressed every inch of me, drawing me into wakefulness when I'd been asleep for a thousand years.
I'd never felt anything like it before, and definitely not outside of sex with him.
But he did this to me in a busy diner, when we were at the epicenter of a few patrons' attention.
I gulped when he broke the charged moment with a rumbled, "You know everything that matters."
"Do I though?" I dared ask, not because he scared me, but because I wasn't sure if he looked at me that way again, I wouldn't melt into a puddle of goo.
Somehow, he'd tapped into my being.
Somehow, he'd made it so that I was wet, my nipples erect, everything about me ready and open for him.
His gaze had dropped to my mouth, and a tad nervously, I ran my tongue along the outer line, well aware that he was watching the tiny move.
"Eat your sandwich," he ordered gruffly.
The command stunned me, because the way he was looking at me made me think he was about to yank me out of the booth I was sitting in, so that he could plunder me against the table. Not make me eat my damn dinner.
It bewildered me how much I wanted that.
How much I wanted him to kiss me, here and now. How much I wanted him to take control of me.
I was an intelligent woman. I was more than capable of making my own decisions. And yet, somehow, it was so wonderful when he took charge of me.
All the stupid thoughts disappeared, disintegrated into dust, and sometimes, it was just nice not to have to think.
And that was why I picked up my sandwich.
Though there were undoubtedly questions he needed to answer, secrets I needed to learn, I took a bite into the Rye bread, willingly putting off that moment, because he commanded me to.
He knew what was best for me, more than I did myself, and I accepted that with ease.
As I ate, he watched me, those eyes of his seeing everything, not missing a single movement. And I basked in it. Basked in his hyper-focus. Inside, I wriggled around with glee at owning this man as much as he owned me.
And even though it wasn't related, I came to a massive realization about myself.
All my life I'd thought about other people. I'd protected them over me. Thinking about their reaction to something that happened to me. I'd been tied in a cage, one of my own making, and this man had found the key.
So all of my past insecurities, every single one of them that revolved around other people's opinions, I shed them like they were a second skin.
I didn't care about the other patrons, didn't give a shit if he was a biker or not.
The danger? Fuck it.
Disapproval? Suck Satan's dick.
Freedom tasted better than the Reuben I was eating, and it was thanks to Cruz.