Rev
SOME CLUB BROTHERS have permanent women in their lives, old ladies they love and protect. It’s a hell of a choice to make and not the kind of shit you can end in divorce court. The day your woman puts on your patch, you take 100 percent responsibility for her actions. She screws up—you pay. That takes more trust than there’s gold in Fort Knox. There’s nothing easy about being a woman in an MC. We’re ornery, protective, and don’t just demand respect—we fucking earn it. Play in our world and play by our rules. Not too many women can or will do it.
My future holds no old lady.
No keeper girl.
Evie Kent is a blip on the radar, a pothole in the highway of life. We have no future together. She’s untouchable, off-limits, property-of-someone-else material. She made that perfectly clear when she banged my brains out and proceeded on her way as if taking my dick deep inside her meant absolutely nothing at all.
She’s right.
Abso-fucking-lutely correct.
What went down on our ride was just sex—and not the reason my bike is parked across the street from her house when I could just order a prospect to watch her. Worse, I’m phone in hand, thumb poised to tap her name in my contacts.
Rocker’s not on board with ditching the cartel. It will take weeks or months to straighten his shit out. On the other hand, sticking close to Evie will make it easier to discover Rocker’s plans. If the Colombian cartel makes a move on her, I’ll be in place. And what’s the easiest way to stay close?
Make her believe I’m dating material not a quick bang.
We all see the problem here, right?
I don’t date.
Ever.
I am, for all intents and purposes, a dating virgin. Dating has the learning curve of nuclear physics—not the kind of shit you casually pick up over the weekend. Sure, fucking Evie Kent would rock, but I hadn’t been planning on date nights—or sexting, flirty looks and too-casual questions about the gals hanging at the clubhouse. Phone chats, shared plans and sleepovers? Also not on my to-do list.
Yet here I am.
Waiting on the curb.
Her place looks real cute. No kids, no cats or dogs, but bright red flowers march up the walkway next to a stupid-ass have-a-nice-day flag. She grows roses and owns wicker furniture with matching goddamned pillows. My throat actually itches and starts to close up at all this happy Suzy Homemaker shit.
Before I can text, she pops out, hauling a trash bag half her size. Her tiny cotton shorts don’t quite cover an ass that’s even sexier than I remember. The shorts are either way too small or they shrank in the wash. Or fuck me, maybe she chose them on purpose to drive me crazy.
Her evil plan is definitely working.
She flips open the trash can, going on tiptoe. The shorts get shorter—my view gets hotter. And yeah, I debate taking a picture since I have my phone handy. Decide against going all paparazzi on her ass because stalking isn’t wooing. She tosses the bag, slams the lid shut and starts back to the house.
Stops.
I am pretty hard to miss.
Just in case she’s short-sighted, I waggle my fingers at her. She flips me the bird and marches into the house while my head replays every ass fantasy I’ve ever had.
My phone buzzes.
EVIE: You’re a stalker now too?
ME: Just in the neighborhood.
I tap the smiley face button in my message app. Turns out there’s a million little pictures you can add to your message, most of which make absolutely no sense. Who the fuck needs pictures of bananas or broccoli? I pick one and hit Send.
And wait.
Maybe she’s writing War and Peace. Or maybe she’s taking a nap. On her bed in those sexy little shorts. I imagine a half dozen ways to peel those shorts down her legs. As the minutes tick closer to a half hour, however, I run out of patience.
ME: Should I apologize?
I’m not sorry at all for fucking her when she gave me the green light, but if she needs to hear the words, I’ll give them to her.
EVIE: You move fast
If that’s a complaint, I can happily spend longer eating her pussy. I’m still typing my text message when UPS pulls up and Mr. Brown bounds out carrying an enormous pink box. He rings the bell, drops his load on the doormat and leaves. While my inner caveman rejoices he’s gone, the rest of me wants more service. This is my grand gesture, after all. I need delivery with a fucking mariachi band and a big bouquet of overdone from the florist. Fireworks and a rocket launcher. Your standard dating shit.
ME: It’s safe
EVIE: Not scared
And because my Evie’s a doer and not just a talker, she yanks opens the door and stares down at the box. My dick promptly gets hard imagining what’s in the box. Her gaze finds me as the delivery truck pulls away.
Yes, I ordered her stuff. I tore her panties off her. I owe her new ones. Plus, shopping’s hard to stop. I got started. Each picture I clicked on the website became my new favorite fantasy. If Victoria’s Secret let you drag your girl’s face over the model’s, they’d sell a shit-ton more underwear.
ME: Open it and send me some pictures?
I make it a request. I may be stuck across the street, but I’m getting a handle on this dating stuff. I cross my legs and lean back against my bike. A few seconds later, my phone buzzes with an incoming text.
She’s sent me a picture.
Of her middle finger.
I so like this girl.
Her door reopens and her ass appears first. No matter how fast she stripped, I don’t think she’s had time to put my stuff on. We’ll have to work on that. If we’re dating, she needs to appreciate what I do for her.
She’s carrying a tray with two glasses of something brown with ice cubes. She sets it down, drops onto one of the chairs, and then looks at me and pats the cushions of the seat next to her. Apparently, my dick can get harder. Walking across the street is downright painful.
She crosses her legs when I get close. My gaze follows. Big mistake. Her left thigh brushes the top of her right, where I’ve had my fingers, run my tongue up her silky-smooth skin and hit the jackpot. No way she misses my reaction to that memory, because she’s sitting in the chair closest to the door and an escape route—so I have to brush past her to sit down. God bless the total lack of space because my erection rubs against her shoulder.
She sighs. “You’re impossible.”
Complaint or not—you be the judge. I sit, knees brushing hers as I angle the seat closer to hers. Be happy to pull her into my lap if that was what she wanted.
She hands me a glass of tea and launches her opening salvo. “You can’t send me underwear.”
“Already did.” I knock back half my tea. It’s actually not bad. Hanging around on the curb is hot work.
“Return it.” She launches into a stream of blah blah blah about not accepting presents from me and it’s totally inappropriate and how did I know her size because that’s creepy (I’ve had my hands all over her ass and her pussy—I can do the math from there) and who do I think she is? The words wash over me because I’m stuck on a visual of her in those pretty new panties that’s way better than the words she throws at me.
I’ve spent five years earning the respect of my club. Before that, I earned the respect of the men in my SEAL team. I don’t expect her to give me anything, but I do demand a chance. I set my glass down and interrupt the flow of talk.
“What’s a guy got to do to have a chance with you?”
She blinks and fidgets with her glass. “You really want to date me?”
She actually looks surprised. Maybe we’re both new to the dating game? Because that would actually be fucking awesome. We could make up our own rules.
“Yeah,” I say gruffly. “I sure do.”
She waves a hand and I’m goddamned lucky it’s the empty one. “We’re completely incompatible.”
I give her a slow smile because I sure as hell remember what went on between us. “Not everywhere. You like some things about me.”
“That’s just sex.” The cutest pink blush paints her cheeks.
“You fucking love dirty sex.” Truth.
She volleys right back.
“Which doesn’t mean I love you.”
“I don’t need that.” Love is on my personal no-fly list, remember? Evie developing feelings for me—other than the jump-my-bones kind—would be downright inconvenient. “Let’s date. Have some fun.”
“Have sex.” Now she sounds completely disgruntled.
Fuck, yeah.
I cup her bare knee with my hand. Her skin is warm and soft, and she jumps ever so slightly when I skim my thumb over the vulnerable curve. “Sex works for me.”
“There are rules for dating,” she says firmly. “You don’t like rules.”
“What if I played by your rules?”
She stares at me like that’s the craziest idea ever. “You can’t play by the rules.”
“Why not?” I settle back in my seat, stretching my legs out. My legs bump hers, and so far, this is pretty freaking awesome. “Tell me the rules.”
She makes a face. “So you can break them?”
“Hit me.” I’ve so got this. Doesn’t matter if I’m a dating virgin—she’s gonna spell it all out.
She leans forward and picks up my hand. “Five rules.”
I can work with that number. Club bylaws are larger.
“First rule?” She folds down my thumb. “I won’t cry about you. You don’t get to make me feel bad. If you piss me off, I tell you.”
No fucking way I want to make her cry. “You’ve been dating the wrong guys, princess. I can work with that, as long as you show me some respect in front of the club. You want to tear into my ass, you do it when we’re alone.”
Her fingers skim up the length of my index finger as if it’s my dick, pinching the tip lightly. “I do 40 percent of the dating work. You do the other 60. This is not a partnership, nor is it a dictatorship.”
I curl my finger around hers. “I chase you. Got it.”
She tucks my index finger into my palm and tugs on my middle finger. “Three? You pick me up and we go out. If we do this, I’m not your booty call. You don’t come over to my place and I don’t go to yours until we have a relationship.”
I can work with that, too, although celibacy is definitely not my first choice. Don’t think it’s hers, either. But it’s up to me to earn a repeat in her bed, and I’m good with that. Anything I’ve put my mind to, it’s come to me.
“Four. You plan ahead if you want to see me. You don’t just text or show up.”
“You’re gonna have to forgive me for today.” I lift her hand to my mouth and press a kiss against her fingertips. “Since I didn’t have the rulebook.”
She goes for the kill. “And we’re not having sex on the first date. Maybe not the second. If it happens again, it’s because I feel close to you.”
She wants the whole enchilada. Dating, a relationship, emotional intimacy. And then maybe she tosses me the sexual cherry and we get around to having hot, dirty sex. Sex is the epilogue in her book, when in mine it’s all of the chapters except for the afterword where we say our goodbyes and head in opposite directions. Still, the only hard and fast rule I’m hearing is the not-on-the-first-date thing. After that? Everything is fucking negotiable.
“And then what?”
She shrugs. “And then we see what happens. Maybe we have sex. Or a relationship. Maybe we head in different directions and it’s over.”
“Then we’ve got a deal. I’m playing by your rules and you’re giving me a chance.”