Eve
LITTLE KIDS DON’T bottle their feelings up. When the five-year-old girl spots me from the doorway, tiara twinkling in the scorching sunlight, her eyes go wide and a grin splits her face. I’m pink, I sparkle and I’m there for her. That’s all it takes.
Princesses rock. Yes, I read all those magazines by the supermarket checkout counter. I got up early to watch Kate and Will tie the knot and once upon a time I knew precisely how many unmarried princes were running around Europe in expensive sports cars and designer wear. I watched brides emerge from medieval churches, all big smiles because they’d landed their princes and were about to get on with the happily-ever-after part of the fairy tale.
I don’t really want a prince. I don’t need to be a princess either, although pretending’s fun. The last ten years taught me how to take care of myself, and more importantly, Rocker. Independence is worth more than any crown of diamonds. Still, the way Mary Jane looks at her husband makes me think of princes and endless, public, fairy-tale kisses shared with princesses.
Sort of.
Because Tío is no prince.
He’s a biker.
He’s also big, his ratty T-shirt promoting a second-rate rock band that will still be playing Vegas lounges when his daughter’s friends are old enough to drink legally. But he listens when his wife talks. He brings her a cupcake and a beer. He runs his hand down her hair, her arms, her back, and yes, her butt. He can’t get enough of her and he’s clearly anticipating the moment we all get the hell out of his yard and he can take her inside and show her how much he cares.
Exhibit A? He calls her pumpkin and plants a big, smacking kiss on her cheek before stepping out to take a call.
“Wow.” Samantha watches him go. “You think he’s for real?”
Yes. Yes, I do. Mary Jane has that look in her eye. It’s part satisfaction, part happiness, and part keep-your-hands-and-your-eyes-off-my-man. She knows she’s got a keeper and no one’s making a move on him. Between the diamond bands on Mary Jane’s ring finger and Tío’s leather vest with its Hard Riders patch, her Tío is safe. I need no more bikers in my life, thank you very much.
Instead, I focus on making today’s party the best party ever. It’s the secret to my success. I treat each birthday like it’s my first and best party ever, and whichever little girl (or boy) is birthday queen receives my undivided attention. I perform. I sing, I dance and I kill the dragon.
Afterward, while party guests scream and mainline cake, I pack up my props. The house is gorgeous, the kind of place I’ve secretly dreamed of owning years in the future. Mary Jane’s kid is cute and her husband hot. I’m just not sure where or how the MC factors in. I didn’t even know bikers bought real estate that wasn’t a dive bar, pawnshop, or some other seedy enterprise. The bikers I’ve known had addresses like Lovelock Correctional Center and Ely State Prison.
Mary Jane hums off-key as she saunters up to me to hand me an envelope of cash. “Thanks for making my daughter’s day.”
“You’re welcome.” If I had my way, every kid who wanted a princess party would get one, too. I’d spend my waking hours in tiaras and tulle.
Mary Jane’s silent for a moment and I try playing it cool—but we’re both staring at Tío and Rev. Sprawled in lawn chairs on the opposite side of the stamped concrete patio, they hold longnecks and watch the kids’ antics like there’s nowhere they’d rather be. I’ve always assumed bikerly debauches involve adult women, kegs and salacious X-rated activities, but they seem to be having a good time.
“They’re great guys,” Mary Jane says with a little sigh.
“Uh-huh.” I pack my shit faster. Rev’s a gorgeous guy, and I’d have to be blind not to notice. My libido wakes up when he’s around and it’s easy to forget he’s a biker and a badass watching him listen intently to a five-year-girl explaining why purple is her favorite color. And another part of my anatomy stirs when he announces that his favorite color is blue. I’m sure he’s just being polite (although Rev is one of the least polite people I’ve met), but the girl nods and runs off happily. I like that he listened. That it didn’t matter to him that she wasn’t discussing the fate of the nation or the tanking economy or supersecret biker stuff. He listened. He volunteered a few words of his own.
Hell, I like blue, too.
He stands up, so I stare some more. The man has legs that deserve to be looked at. The faded denim of his jeans tightens with each step he takes—and I’d like to start at the bottom and work my way up. When he stops in front of me, I’m still staring. He plucks the plastic box of props out of my arms and aims a crooked grin at me that should be illegal. Hell, the entire man is a walking felony.
He tips his head at the box. “Where to?”
The question would be easier to answer if I stopped staring. His eyes are warm and heated, a dark brown reminding me of my favorite things. Chocolate. This great faux-fur blanket I bought for my house. Puppy dogs and cowboy boots. I bet he’d taste as good, too. Bet he’d feel—
“Evie?” He sounds amused.
“Yeah?”
“You wanna tell me where to put this?” He hefts the container higher in his arms, in case I need the visual. Which I totally do. I’m staring at the man like I’ve been on a no-carbs diet for a week and he’s the world’s biggest, sweetest, tastiest doughnut ever. I’m pretty sure I’m drooling.
It’s not my fault his package is so appealing.
“The RV,” I blurt out.
“Uh-huh.” He shoots me that crooked half grin again, as if he can see the X-rated party taking place in my head. He brushes past me, his arm rubbing some very non-PG areas. I follow because he’s got my stuff and I have questions.
“Why are you really here?”
Behind us come the sounds of Mary Jane wrapping up the party. He opens the door to the RV and steps inside. This is the point where I’d like to pretend I stop following him and do something strong and independent. It’s not like I want or need to knee him in the balls to assert my ability to stand on my own two feet, but he’s just so effortlessly in control that it grates. I hesitate, but he disappears inside my RV and I’m not done talking with him. To him. Fuck if I know what I’m really doing here, other than going in after him.
I step inside.
“Where does this go?” He hefts the box. There’s not much space inside the RV. In addition to the built-in table and benches, there’s a bed, a tiny bathroom and a galley kitchen consisting of a Mr. Coffee, a toaster oven and a mini-fridge whose capacity maxes out at a six-pack.
“On the bed. Why are you really here today?”
He deposits the box and turns around, reminding me the RV’s short on space. Without even trying, the man consumes every inch and then some. He’s even bigger than Mary Jane’s Tío and the way his shoulders brush the wall just calls attention (my attention) to his body.
He shrugs. “You made the rules.”
Words blah blah words. I fight the urge to step forward and run my hands up that big, broad chest.
“About?”
He looks at me like he’s never been more serious in his life. “Dating.”
“And you’re playing by my rules?” Hello. It’s hard to imagine Rev putting the brakes on anything at my say-so.
“I’m giving it a shot, princess. The way I see it, if I hang out here with you, I can keep an eye out for the Colombians. They’re not gonna give a shit that you’re a civvie in this war.”
“So you’re here entirely as my bodyguard? To protect me?” I take a moment to imagine Rev as my bodyguard, pressing me beneath or behind his big body at the first hint of danger. Taking the Colombian business seriously is hard because I’m not sure I’ve ever met somebody from Colombia, let alone a somebody who engages in illegal drug-running and wants to maim or kill me. The only danger right now is to my panties and that’s all Rev’s fault.
“Entirely?” He looks amused. “Let’s give it 30 percent, okay?”
“I only merit a 30 percent effort?”
“No.” The man moves. God, he has great moves. He closes the space between us in two steps that are part swagger, part prowl, and that’s not even the best part. Nope. The RV is so small that now he’s pressed against me. He threads his fingers through mine (I’m in no mood to resist) and draws my hands over my head with one of his. Pretty sure he notices the shiver that rocks me with that move.
“Ask me about the other 70 percent,” he whispers, mouth against my ear. “Ask nicely.”
Holy. Shit.
True confession time. “I’m not sure I’m capable of conversation right now.”
His free hand finds my hip and his mouth moves over my ear—is he tasting me? Whatever he’s doing, I’m melting. “Thirty percent for the fucking Colombians because I promised to keep you safe and I never break a promise. The other 70 percent is my favorite part, though. You said I was supposed to chase you. You made it a fucking rule, babe.”
“Those were dating rules,” I protest. Not hard, mind you, because who wouldn’t enjoy this?
“This was a party. You’re dressed up. There’s beer and good times. Sounds date-worthy to me.”
The party’s over but—details. I thread my fingers through his. We fit together, our fingers meshing like we’ve done this a million times before.
Like we really do belong together.
“Do you want it to count?”
“If we were on a date, I’d want to kiss you good-night.”
“Are you asking me if I kiss on the first date?”
We’ve had dirty sex, but we haven’t had a date. Rev’s crooked grin reaches his eyes and makes me want to smile back. To nod my head and agree wholeheartedly with whatever he proposes. I can’t think when I’m around him—all I do is feel.
Feel wonderful.
Alive.
On fire for him.
He runs a finger over my bottom lip and I feel his touch everywhere, from my mouth to my pussy to parts in between that feel suspiciously like my heart.
He’s the best kind of trouble, his fingers exploring my mouth, leaving shivers and heat where he touches. He doesn’t push, doesn’t hurry. Just takes his time as if we have hours, days, just plain forever to kiss.
He sucks my finger into his mouth, his tongue exploring my skin. Licking, teasing, coaxing me into relaxing and letting go because the feelings fill me up until I forget where we are and all the reasons to slow this thing down still further.
When he nips my bottom lip, I catch his lower lip between my own teeth and bite right back. Harder. The sensations threaten to drown me, sweeping over me in bright, hot waves of pleasure. He kisses me and kisses me, like he doesn’t want to lose the contact either, taking and then taking more. His hand settles on my thighs, his palms easing upward beneath my dress.
And then he stops because, clearly, the man is a born tease. He turns his face until his cheek rests against mine, his face buried in my hair.
“Go out with me.” I feel his question on my skin.
“Kiss me again,” I counter.
“Answer first.” He gives orders, but he also gives me what I need.
He covers my mouth with his, his tongue parting my lips. The sweetest of pressures and he’s in, his tongue stroking mine as he goes as deep as he can. He tastes like the vanilla from the cupcake frosting he stole, like chocolate and all the things I shouldn’t crave. He’s a wild, wicked flavor, a million guilty calories and midnight cravings, and I won’t say no. This is just a kiss, but Rev is someone special. I can’t help but recognize the truth even as he slants his mouth deeper, taking more.
When he lifts his head, my fingers are digging into his shoulders. He’s not close enough.
“You got an answer for me, princess?”
“Remind me of the question.”
A look of smug contentment flashes over his face. He’s earned it.
“Go out with me for real.” He cups my face in his hands and rests his forehead against mine. “Fucking dying here, Evie, so help me out.”
He’s never asked me for anything before. Told, yes. Ordered, absolutely. But asked? Never. I can’t help but wonder if he knows his thumb is stroking my skin.
“One date,” he says. “A dozen. You don’t have to like me. Fuck, you don’t have to put out again. I just want the time. With you.”
The lost look in his eyes makes something inside me turn over.
“Yes,” I say, because I like that look. I like him.