she asks, and she sounds vulnerable, like she’s not used to being able to depend on people. I don’t want to be one of the ones who’ve let her down. The corner of my mouth tugs up, and I can’t help teasing her. “If you’re nice.”
She pierces me with her gaze. “I’m always nice.” Then she looks across the quiet yard. “That’s a lie. I’m not always nice.”
My grin widens because I know she’s drunk, and I wonder how much talking she’ll do before she passes out. “No one is, darlin’.”
“Some people are. Hayley is super nice.”
“Super nice?” I chuckle.
“No, really, she is. She’s the one I called when…”
Her voice trails off, and I frown. “When what?”
She bites her lip and runs a hand through her gorgeous hair. It’s gleaming with streaks of spun gold in the streetlights. I long to sink my hand in it and feel its silken strands glide over my fingers.
“When I needed a ride home from your place. She didn’t hesitate to drag herself out of bed at dawn and drive across town to get me.”
“I’d have driven you home, babe. All you had to do was ask.”
She looks at her hands, her fingers playing with the rings she wears.
My hand hangs over the top of the grip of my handlebar. I study her. “Never figured you for a coward, Tess.”
Her gaze flashes to mine. “I’m no coward.”
“Then talk to me. You don’t have to be afraid of me, angel.”
“I’m not afraid of you. It’s that damn cut you wear.”
“Look, I don’t know what you remember from back in the day, but things are different now. The way the club was when you were a kid?” I shake my head. “It’s not that way anymore.”
She gives me half a smile. “Sure it’s not.”
I climb from the bike and move toward her. I take her hand, threading our fingers, and walk her up to the door of the small house she rents. I don’t usually provide drunken girls taxi rides home, and I sure as hell don’t escort them to their doors. But she’s been drinking, and I want to make sure she gets inside safely. I’m not sure where all these manners are suddenly coming from, but I can’t deny the protective way I feel about her, and I’m sure it’s only partly because she used to be the club princess. Whether she wants that title or not, it’s how I’ll always think of her.
But it’s more than some duty I feel, I won’t even try to kid myself into believing otherwise. This girl is getting under my skin. Maybe she’s been there since that first night we spent together three years ago. Maybe she burrowed in and never left.
We stop at the door, and I turn to her, studying her in the silvery-blue moonlight. Her hair gleams with an ethereal sheen. I can’t help lifting my hand to touch a long curl and twisting it around my finger. Before my brain kicks in and I talk myself out of it, I tug her forward. She comes easily, willingly, and my blood surges. Her palms land on my leather cut even as my other hand drops to the small of her back and pulls her closer. I stare down into her angel face, knowing this is a big mistake. Right now, my dick doesn’t give a damn.
I can see the desire in her eyes. She’s not fighting this; she wants my kiss as much as I want hers. I drop my mouth and drink my fill, pressing soft gentle brushes along her satin lips. I tease her until we both want more, then I sweep my tongue inside and deepen the kiss.
She tastes like Fireball Cinnamon Whisky, and I can’t get enough. I take her head in both of my large palms and hold her still as I kiss her endlessly. Fuck, I want this girl. The urgent desire surging through me is stronger than I’ve felt in years. Three years to be exact. Hard as I tried to replace her and wipe those memories from my mind, no woman has been able to hold a candle to the fire we had.
I twist and press her against the door, my hips pushing against hers, and I’m sure she feels my bulging erection.
When I finally lift my mouth from hers, she puts her hand back to steady herself against the wooden door, and I have to remind myself she’s had too much to drink to consent