My phone rings. I don’t even have to look at the caller ID to know who it is. It’s him. Snake. Prescott. The man I’ve loved since I saw him from across the crappy bar almost two years ago.

I moved to a sleepy little Canadian town when I turned twenty-five. It wasn’t because I’d wanted to. It was because my uncle, a grumpy ass old man, had become ill and needed help with his bar. He didn’t have kids; he didn’t have anyone. He’d served in Vietnam, and as soon as he came back to the US, he packed his shit and went to Canada.

A lot of people assumed he’d been a draft dodger, but he wasn’t. He served his country and did it with pride, but it fucked him up, so he left. My mama didn’t blame him even a little.

So, when he got sick and couldn’t run his bar, she packed my bags and told me to get to Canada and help him out. Didn’t matter that she hadn’t seen him in decades, family was family, and family helped family.

I’d always been a kind of lost soul. Nothing called to me after high school. I fooled around at community college but never found anything that interested me. At twenty-five, I’d been working aimlessly at a waitressing job. Mama said I was the only one who could go because I was the one most like Uncle Cash.

My first night there, Uncle Cash’d frowned when I showed, but he didn’t push me away. Instead, he pretended as if he’d known me my whole life, and he started showing me how to run his business, coughing every so often and holding his stomach. He had cancer, pancreatic; there was no beating it.

On my third night, a Friday night, my eyes widened in surprise when a wild group of men came inside around midnight. They were outfitted with leather vests, holey jeans, tight t-shirts, beards, muscles, chains, and boots. I’d never seen so many sexy men in a group in my entire life.

One stood out to me, though, as if he was a beacon. He was almost the tallest, but not quite. He was the most muscular, and I swear, his beard made me drool a bit. He was beyond the word sexy. I didn’t know what word fit him. Maybe it hadn’t been invented yet.

I sucked in a breath and made my way over to their table. I didn’t want to, I didn’t feel steady enough, but Uncle Cash said I couldn’t hide behind the bar and wait for customers to come to me. He said I needed to get out and push the booze. So, that’s what I did.

The stranger eyed me up and down, then the rest was history. He took me home that first night and every night after. I had his name tattooed on my body - my neck - by the three-month mark, and by six months we were fighting. The back and forth was exciting, stressful, and heartbreaking.

I was about to surrender, give him the control he wanted over us, our main reason for fighting. I was trying to be in charge, but Snake was a man, a leader, a president of a motorcycle club; no woman could be in control of him—ever.

Then I was kidnapped. Held for months by the scariest, cruelest men I had ever encountered in my entire life. It’s hard not to think about, the countless number of hands that have been on my body, pawing at me, then violating me.

I try not to think about it, to pretend that it didn’t happen, but every time I close my eyes, it’s right there slapping me in the face—the cold hard reality that it was indeed my life for a time.

Now, six months after my rescue, I don’t feel worthy of Snake. I’m damaged, and I’m not good enough for him. But he won’t leave me the hell alone. Why won’t he just leave me alone?

“Hello,” I say bitchily into the phone.

“Hey, peaches,” he murmurs, his voice deep, husky and too damn sexy for his own good.

“Prescott,” I whisper, using his given name instead of his road name.

“How you doin’ today?” he asks.

It’s the same question he asks me every day.

“Better,” I answer.

It’s the same answer I give him every day.

“Miss you,” he mutters.

I close my eyes, pinching them closed so tight that I see stars in my vision. I usually don’t answer him when he says this, but today, I do.

“You shouldn’t, but I miss you, too,” I admit as I open my eyes. Tears start to fall down my cheeks.

“You ready to come home to me yet?” he asks.

“No,” I whisper.

“Bar’s doin’ good. Brothers are runnin’ it, turnin’ profit,” he says, changing the subject.

Uncle Cash passed away three months after my arrival. He left me the bar in his will, as well as his house. The house was wrecked. Snake and his brothers helped me fix it up, then Snake moved in. I kicked his ass out, but he still came over when we’d be on again, at least to sleep with me.

“I’m glad,” I say, bringing my knees up and resting my chin on them.

“You need anything?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

He’s set up an account for me and deposits money into it, claiming it’s my income from the bar, but I know better. I know him better. I don’t mind, though. I’m keeping a tally, and I’ll pay him back once I get back to Canada, back to my life—which I should probably do, sooner rather than later. It’s been six months. It’s been long enough.

I end the call and turn to my computer. I don’t even have to fill out my information, or Ginger’s, anymore. I’ve sent her so many boxes of chocolate that both of our addresses and my credit card number is saved in the system. Chocolate covered pecans straight from South Georgia. I know they’re her favorite, and from her home state, my little Georgia peach.

“You get your woman handled?” Free, my vice president, asks as he walks into my office.

“Fuck, no,” I grunt, closing my eyes after I press confirm on the chocolate order.

“It’s been six months. She stays away much longer thinkin,’ she’ll get some fucked up shit in her head and it’ll be hard as nails to get her stubborn ass back here,” he advises.

“Yeah. I’m leavin’ tomorrow,” I admit.

“Yeah?”

“Think you can hold the fort down for a week?” I ask.

“A week?” he chuckles.

“It’s gonna take a day for me to get there, a day to talk her back into my bed, two full days of fuckin’ her to talk her into coming back with me, a half a day for her to talk herself out of coming back, another half a day to talk her into coming. Then two days to drive her ass back here,” I say, counting the days on my fingers.

“Got her all figured out, do you?” he asks with a big smile on his face.

“Fuck yeah, I do. Love that woman. Know everything there is to know about her,” I shrug.

“You sure about that?” he asks as his eyes darken, most likely thinking about the time she spent held hostage by those sick fuck racists.

“Whatever I don’t know, she’ll tell me,” I state.

“Don’t count on it,” Free announces as he stands up and walks out.

I watch after him, cursing to myself. I forgot about his woman. A woman he loved back when we were younger—a fuck’ve a lot younger. A woman who was brutally raped and then ended up taking her own life. I remember her, pretty little thing. She had been hurt, but she refused to talk about it. The weight was too much for her to bear, and she swallowed a bunch of pills one night when Free was on a run.

It was years ago, but he’s never really gotten over it, never recovered from losing his first love the way he did. I don’t want that for Ginger. She’s got too much good in her life to leave it behind. I’m going to not only bring her back here but bring her back to life.

She’ll never hurt again. It’ll be my mission to make her smile at least once a day. Fuck. I’m turning into a giant fuckin’ pussy.

I go to my room. Looking around, it doesn’t feel like my home anymore. Ginger’s house, the place I helped her remodel, that’s home. I make a decision; one she’ll probably be pissed about, but I don’t care.

I pack all my shit, carry it down to my pickup truck, and ask a prospect to drive it to her place, following behind him on my bike. I’m moving home, bringing my woman back, and marrying her as soon as fuckin’ possible.

This shit ends now.

Once I’ve moved all my shit into her house, not that I had a bunch, I decide to go to bed, wanting to leave before the sun rises tomorrow. Laying in her bed, my head on her pillow, I inhale and close my eyes in defeat. She’s been gone so long that I can’t smell her scent on her pillows anymore. I should have swallowed my pride when she disappeared. I should have known she wouldn’t have walked away from her uncle’s bar like that—abandoning it.

I should have known.

I should have looked for her.

I’m swimming in a pool of guilt over her kidnapping, over her abuse. It’s my fault. One of the men from my club, a man who was supposed to be my brother—a man who ended up being nothing but a piece of shit traitor—he hurt her, my sweet Georgia peach. He fuckin’ hurt her.

I close my eyes and force myself to get at least a couple hours of sleep before I climb on my bike and haul ass to bring my woman home. She’s been gone long enough.

I curl up in a chair and sip my coffee, watching the birds fly from tree to tree from my front porch. It’s my morning routine and the calmest part of the day, the sun shining down on me, the warmth of my coffee filling me from the inside out. I feel older than my almost twenty-seven years, but I also feel smarter than the woman I was just two years ago.

That is—until I hear the sound of a familiar motorcycle buzzing down my street.

I stand and walk over to the porch banister, setting my coffee cup down before it slips out of my fingers. I watch as none other than Prescott—Snake—Gordon pulls up in front of my house. His head turns, and though I can’t see his eyes behind his helmet and sunglasses, I know that they are aimed right at me. I can almost feel them searing my skin, seeing through the little short and tank set I’m wearing.

I wrap my arms around my stomach, a stupid move to try and protect myself, but I’m frozen as he lifts his leg, swinging it off of his bike. He then takes his helmet off and sets it on his handlebar before he begins to march up my walkway.

I’m staying in a house the Notorious Devils club in California, owns. It’s a little, two-bedroom, one bath home that they rent out when someone needs help. It just so happened to be empty, so they let me move in for a while.

“We gotta talk,” he says, running his hand through his long hair.

I’m surprised to see that it no longer just brushes the tops of his shoulders, but hangs below them now.

His dark green eyes settle on me, and I swear my breath is completely stolen. I hadn’t forgotten how handsome he is; at least I didn’t think that I had. I press my lips together, afraid that if I don’t, I’ll say something really stupid.

He wraps his fingers around my bicep and slides them down to my wrist, gently tugging me until my feet start to move as he pulls me into the house.

Once we’re inside, he turns and slams the door closed before he flips the lock shut. Then he faces me. I’m holding my breath, afraid—terrified to say or do anything.

I whimper when his warm hand wraps around the side of my neck. His forehead lowers and presses against mine as his green eyes close and his breath fans my face. I force myself to breathe as well.

“I missed you, peaches,” he whispers before he inhales deeply.

Tears stream down my face as his hands wrap around my waist and his fingers dig into my flesh firmly.

“You should go,” I whisper.

I feel his body jerk, but he doesn’t move. I lift my eyes and look up to see that he’s smiling down at me.

“Not goin’ anywhere, peaches,” he murmurs.

“We can’t be anything anymore. You need to go,” I say a little firmer. His smile just widens.

“Not leaving you. I love you,” he says.

“It doesn’t matter. You need to go,” I practically yell.

“Not happening,” he says, shaking his head and smiling like I’m crazy.

“Prescott!”

“Shut up, Ginger,” he growls.

I scream as he picks me up by my waist and carries me to my bedroom, accidentally turning into the empty guest room, before he finds my bed and drops me onto my ass. I bounce once before he falls to his knees, his waist and chest between my thighs and his face directly across from mine. His hands cup my cheeks, pain clearly etched on his face for me to see.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry you were hurt, baby,” he whispers, the agony in his voice too much for me to bear.

“Pres,” I cry.

His gaze stays connected to mine, and he wipes the tears from beneath my eyes with his thumbs, not saying a word. Then he moves closer, his lips brushing mine sweetly, his warm lips rough from his ride. His hands move from my face, sweeping over my neck before they travel to my sides. He lifts the hem of my shirt just slightly. His fingertips skim my waist and then gently glide up my back while his lips tease mine.

“I’m so sorry, baby. So fuckin’ sorry. I’ll never forgive myself for what happened to you. My sweet Georgia peach,” he rasps.

I don’t know how to respond to his words, so I don’t. Instead, I kiss him back, tasting his lips with my tongue. He applies pressure to my back, pulling me closer to him while he slides his tongue along mine, and then takes over the kiss.

I whimper again, but for no reason other than my want for him. I want him, too—every inch of him. It’s as if my entire body has gone up in flames. I wrap my hand around his biceps and pull myself closer to him, wanting to feel that chest that I know is warm and strong against me.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he says as his lips travel down my jawline, then my neck.

“You need to leave,” I weakly demand.

“Never,” he whispers against my skin.

His tongue snakes out to taste my collarbone before his mouth moves to the tattoo I still have on my neck.

Snake is scrolled in cursive across my skin.

It’s pretty and delicate, but it’s still on my neck. I’ll never be able to cover it unless I wear turtlenecks for life. He wanted it visible always, and I gave him what he wanted. He picked the place and the design.

“Missed my name on your neck. Missed seeing it every day, kissing it—fuck, peaches, I just missed you,” he says, his voice deep and husky.

“I’m no good to you now,” I state.

I sit up, my eyes narrowed on her, and my lips pressed together. She’s panting, her face flushed, and I can tell she wants more from me. Her big, brown eyes stare at me, but beyond her pain, I see what she thinks she is hiding inside of her—dirty, wrong, no good. It’s all bullshit. She’s perfect.

“Why is that?” I ask.

I know her answer, I just want her to speak the words; want her to hear how fuckin’ stupid they sound after they pass her lips.

“I’m dirty,” she whispers.

“Because of what they did to you?”

“Yeah, and how many of them there were,” she says with a nod.

I shake my head. Goddamn. My sweet girl. She’s been so fucking hurt, destroyed by vile men.

“Peaches,” I moan, the pain in her eyes slicing straight through me. She’s not better. Fucking shit, she’s still stuck back there, and it’s up to me to bring her home.

“You’re fucking perfect. Nothing about you is dirty. They’re the fucking scumbags; and if they weren’t dead, I would hunt them down and torture them one-by-one. I’d let you watch, too, if that’s what you wanted.”

“Prescott,” she gasps, looking halfway horrified, but halfway excited at the thought of watching them suffer. My woman. So goddamn strong.

“They’re still looking for more,” I say as my head dips and my lips press against hers again.

I don’t let her push me away; not that she’s even trying as I lift her shirt over her head. She’s braless, and I almost whimper at the sight of her luscious tits, tits I thought I’d never see again—let alone touch, suck, and kiss.

My mouth travels down to her hard nipple, gently sucking it into my mouth and licking it with my tongue. She arches toward me, urging me on, and I take her signal, going soft, gentle, and slow.

I’m not going to rush her at all, and I’m not fucking her hard.

At least not this first time.

She moans as my hands move down to her little shorts. I tug at them and she lifts up so that I can pull them off of her sexy legs.

“Pres,” she breathes.

I glance up at her, and she’s looking down at me. Her eyelids at half-mast, her face flushed, and her chest panting. Wrapping my hands around the backs of her knees, I lift her legs and watch as she falls to her back. Then I spread her thighs before my mouth is on her. When her taste floods my tongue, I can’t help the groan.

Fuck.

She tastes better than I remembered.

Ginger’s hips roll as her hands fist my long hair, pulling me closer. I don’t deny the feeling of victory as she lets out a deep moan of her own, her thighs trembling. I flick her clit with my tongue before sucking on it, and then I fuck her pussy. I want nothing more than to make her come hard.

I focus back on her clit as her hips roll and jerk, her legs shaking next to my head. When I slide two fingers inside of her tight, wet heat, she gasps before her body starts to tremble almost violently. She lets out a scream, her cum coating my fingers. I wait until her body relaxes before I sit back and slide my fingers out of her.

“Prescott,” she whispers as her head lolls to the side.

I crawl up her body, my fingers painting her parted lips with her release. With wide eyes, she watches as I slide them into my mouth and lick her taste from them; then I dip my head and kiss the rest of her taste from her lips.

“How many women have there been since I left?” she asks.

I look down at her in surprise. “Ginger,” I warn.

“I shouldn’t care, but I do,” she whispers. Her eyes are wild, looking everywhere but at me.

“I haven’t touched another woman since I got that phone call from Fury,” I admit, watching that news sink in.

I’m not tellin’ her shit about the two months she was gone. I thought she’d just walked away from me.

“Really?” she breathes.

“What kind of man do you think I am?” I ask, standing up, anger filling me to the point where I feel like I might explode, which is the last thing I want to do toward her.

“I just, six months is a long time,” she whispers.

“Yeah, it is. But I’m a man, baby. I don’t need to fuck someone every time my dick gets hard. My woman’d been hurt—fucking brutalized. You’ve been my main focus for six fucking months. You know how hard it was not to come down here and cart you off? Bring you back home? Getting updates from MadDog? Instead of taking care of you myself?” I practically yell, my body vibrating with anger.

“Prescott,” she murmurs.

“Killed me every fucking day to wake up and go about my day knowing you were hurting, and there was nothing I could do to make you feel better, to hold you while you cried, to make you feel like the beautiful woman you are.”

Without another word, I watch as she stands, completely naked, and wraps her arms around me. She buries her face in my chest while her body starts to shake with sobs. I feel her tears soaking my shirt, but I could give a fuck.

My woman wants to cry in my arms, she can fucking cry.

I reach down and grab the blanket that’s on the end of her bed and wrap it around her naked body before I walk us over to the top of the bed.

It only takes a couple seconds of adjusting before my back is against the headboard and she’s curled into my side, still crying. I run my hands soothingly up and down her back, letting her get all her shit out.

“I’m sorry that I refused to go back with you,” she hiccups.

I tug on a piece of her long blonde hair and she looks up at me. Her face is splotchy and puffy, and yet she’s never looked more beautiful.

“You needed time to heal. I’m not angry. I’m glad that you took that, baby. It’s time to come home now, though,” I say.

“Home?”

“Yeah, peaches, home,” I grunt, giving her a smile.

“What does home look like?” she asks, staring at me while she worries her lip with her teeth.

I almost laugh, but I don’t. I run my fingertip along the side of her face and down her jawline to her mouth. Tracing her full lips, I smile.

“You, my Georgia peach. Home looks just like you.”

“Me?” she exhales with wide eyes.

“Yeah, baby. You. It’s you lying in my bed, exhausted from taking my dick. It’s the lazy satisfied smile you aim at me when you think I’m not looking at you. It’s you pressing up against me and curling into my side anytime we’re anywhere near each other. It’s us building a life that is gonna last forever,” I explain.

“Prescott,” she whispers.

“Ready for you to come home to me, peaches,” I say. “You ready to come home?”

“I think so,” she sighs.

“Thank fuck. I missed the shit outta you,” I grin.