the hell his connection with her or Adamson is. There’s still no proof she’d ever belonged to that cult, and every clue we’ve found on Adamson still invariably ties back to her.
I can’t let what happened with Gary soften me toward her.
I’ve always looked on Penny and Jules like the sisters I’ve never had. Ben is probably the closest thing I will ever have to a son. When I see that kid, I feel almost like he’s mine as much as theirs. And this is what pisses me off about what Emma did. Her actions make it a lot more difficult to view her the way I have to see her—as my prisoner. As an object of my desires, a plaything. They’re a temptation, calling me to trust her, to let her in again. I can’t let myself fall for her. To do so is to allow myself to become weak. Even the possessiveness I feel for her is dangerous in its intensity. This kind of all-consuming possession distracts a man, allowing the object of it to become a thing your enemies can use against you. It puts a man in danger of losing his edge, exactly the way Dragon thinks I already am.
Still. When I’d joined the Outlaws, I’d promised myself I’d never let anyone hurt what’s mine. My club. My brothers. My family. My friends. Like it or not, she is mine, and that means she’s endangered my property. I can punish her, I can fuck with her head, I can use her body and damage her soul. It’s mine to do with as I damned well please, but I cannot—I will not—forgive her or let myself care for her. Not even if she did come within a hair’s breadth of death, and not even if she protected people I consider family.
I’d been pissed at her when I’d left, and it didn’t make me feel any better that by the time I’d reached my bike, I’d been shaking. I’d pictured her taking a bullet, and I’d been physically fucking shaking.
No woman had ever had that affect on me. Not ever. Dragon would have never let me hear the end of it.
And then I’d made the mistake of calling Ben.
I’d phoned Ruthie’s to check up on him, and the kid had launched into an adorable babble-fest about how she’d saved his life. He’d said she was his hero, of all things, and then he’d asked when he could see her again.
If I’d been pissed about my reaction to her, Ben’s admiration of her had almost pushed me to the brink of madness. His hero. Fuck me. She was too good. Too perfect. The awareness of this threatened to shatter any hope of maintaining the dark hold I had to keep on her. It choked the beast inside me, the beast I needed in order to survive, with a fist of steel.
If I hadn’t had to come out to California looking for that little pissant, I’d have tied her to one of the pool tables in the middle of the packed bar, whipped her little ass black and blue, and then fucked her senseless for everyone to see.
For Dragon to see. Let him say I’m losing my fucking edge then.
The image of Emma bent over a billiard table with her bare ass in the air, the fading bruises from my belt coloring her skin, makes my cock instantly throb.
Shit, I imagine her fucking ankles cuffed to the legs of the table, spreading her wide open for me, her arms stretched across the green and tied to the other end. Those gorgeous dark curls wrapped around my fist while I plough into her hot wet cunt to the rhythm of her helpless screams. I’d slap her already stinging ass and stuff a sock in her mouth too, not to silence her, but because I love the way her angry cries sound when her mouth is full.
The vividness of the image makes my dick ache to the point to the pain.
My lips peel back in a smile that probably looks more like a snarl. How in the hell did I let her get under my skin like this? I can feel her there, burning in my veins like fire. A drug I’ve somehow become hopelessly addicted to.
The imagined sound of her muffled cries takes over my mind until I nearly slam into the back of a car that’s just pulled in front of me to switch lanes.