Wrath (Heartlands Motorcycle Club #7) - Dani Wyatt Page 0,14

the music. It’s a risk, but I try the knob and the door opens, making me relieved but also pissed that anyone could fucking walk in, so that’s something that will need to be dealt with at some point. She needs to learn to lock the fucking door.

I reach down and adjust my growing erection, because the fucker has a mind of its own whenever I think of her or get close to her. The music is blaring inside the house and the desire she brings out of me is more than lust.

The instant attraction I had for her was one thing, but it was more. I just have this insane need to be with her. To look into her eyes. And there’s this pulling that feels like my heart is in a lasso and she’s tugging on the other end. She’s innocent, but smart and sarcastic and vulnerable all at the same time.

Add to that the music, the baloney, and I’m done for. For the first time in my life I want to be a gentleman. I want to walk down the street with her, making sure I’m always on the street side with my hand on that perfect sway of her back, just above her ripe ass cheeks. I know I’m crazy, I know it doesn’t make sense and it has disaster written all over it, but I don’t care.

No risk. No reward.

I turn the knob and push open the door, which opens into a nice living room. There’s a woman’s touch here even, though in the last year I’ve been watching I haven’t seen anyone that looks like a mother coming or going.

I assess the kitchen, neat, not overly extravagant but well put together and I guess I never considered a man of the cloth could lives so well. I guess I had it in my head the whole celibate and poor deal, but guess that’s not for the Baptists.

As I work my way down the hall, the memory of her sweet perfume makes my pulse race and the muscles in my back tighten.

I follow the music, which leads to a closed door toward the end of a hall with a bathroom, another bedroom and two more closed doors, one of which has music blaring behind it.

I stand outside, my hands on the door frame, and I squeeze until my knuckles pop. With my chin nearly to my chest, I consider walking back out the front door. This is crazy.

She’s making me crazy.

Instead, I straighten up, open my eyes and start to knock, but fuck it. Go big or go home.

So, instead, I grab the door handle and swing it open, stepping inside.

There she is. Sitting in front of a canvas on an easel, painting something that looks like the Ride or Die bar in some abstract impressionistic style.

As I enter, she spins in her seat and when she sees me she’s on her feet, backing up and throwing her paint brush down on a side table covered with tubes of paint, a glass jar full of milky gray water with the ends of ten other brushes standing up in it.

“What the hell!” She half screams. “You’re a fucking stalker. Get out of here.” She points to the bedroom door and I stop my forward motion, but I’m not leaving.

She’s wearing this sleeveless blue sweater, the color of a Robin’s egg, with black shorts that come down just below her knees. Her wardrobe reminds me of that sister from Happy Days. Joanie, I think? Only, on her, it’s fucking sexy as hell.

Her mouth hangs open a little, but her protest is silent and I don’t miss the way a blush covers her chest and her breathing grows harder. She’s telling me to leave but other parts of her are saying something else.

“Do you normally break into women’s houses and barge into their bedrooms?” She’s giving me the tough act, but there’s a hitch in her voice that tells me she’s not quite sure what’s going on.

Neither am I, I want to tell her.

“Nope. Never done it before.” I answer, moving forward again now that the fear is gone from her eyes. “But, then, no woman ever made me want to before.”

She lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Wow. Is that supposed to make me feel special?”

I shrug, raising my eyebrows. “You are special. If you don’t feel that way, that’s something I’ll have to change.”

She squints and shakes her head. “Are you affected in the head? You know,