Every damn time.
When she retreats, I rip down the road on my bike, engine howling until the frustration shakes loose in the roar and rush. If that fails, I chase distraction in the arms of any woman who’ll have me, losing myself in heat and skin until I can almostbreathe. But it never sticks. The hunger always returns, sharper than before, gnawing through me with teeth that never let go.
We’re trapped in this endless loop of lust and unfinished business, and it’s devouring me from the inside out.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning back as the booth groans under my weight. “This place would be shit without her. She fits here.”
She glides through the diner, tray teetering above her head, slipping between tables and bodies like the floorplan is etched into her bones. My jaw clenches as every instinct zeros in on her, tracking her every move. I drag my teeth over my bottom lip, slow and hungry, letting my eyes linger where they want.
Her legs still ruin me. Four years ago, they were the first thing I saw. The way her golden calves flexed, the soft jiggle of her thighs begging for my teeth. Every inch of her became my new obsession, but when her eyes finally locked with mine, something inside me snapped. That was when I knew she’d take something I’d never get back.
Everyone craves the light Marigold puts out because it’s easy. It’s comforting.
It’s the darker edge beneath it that ensnares me. She wears tension like a secret, glimpsed only when she thinks no one’s watching. The way she startles at sharp sounds, the way her eyes sweep every room, body wound as if bracing for trouble. She’s fleeing something, and I see it, even if she stays silent.
Jealousy burns in my gut every time her attention slips from me. I hate how much I crave it, how hollow I feel when it’s gone.
She pauses at our booth, and my fists clench hard against my thighs, knuckles digging deep to keep me in check. Her scent—coconut and toasted marshmallow—hits me like a punch, sweet and warm and almost too much. I want to taste her skin, see if she’s as addictive as she smells, and shatter the fragile balance we’re barely holding onto.
“Joker,” she says, sliding him his plate with a grin. “Here’s your steak. Mooing and ready to walk off your plate just like you asked.”
She works her way around the table, serving my brothers, then tucks the tray under her arms and turns to me. “You sure you don’t want anything, big guy?”
I cross my arms, letting my gaze roam over her before meeting her eyes. “Oh, I want something, Goldie. The real question is…are you ready to take my order?”
Her sapphire eyes darken, heat sparking fierce and clear. She steps in, fingers threading through my hair, tipping my head back until my breath catches. My hand shoots out, gripping behind her knee to hold her close, and I swallow a desperate fucking sound at the feel of her skin against mine.
“And let you order the same thing you do from everyone else’s menu? No thanks,” she murmurs. “I’m a one-of-a-kind meal, baby. And that’s just not your flavor.”
She bites my bottom lip, quick and fierce, then slips away, hips swaying like she didn’t just wreck my control for everyone to see.
Laughter erupts from the booth from Joker, Savior, Butcher, and Pretty Boy. I must look stunned. Four years. Four damn years, and that’s the most she’s ever touched me. Now I’m starving for more.
“You’re in so much trouble,” Pretty Boy crows.
Beside me, Butcher inhales sharply. I glance over to find his eyes locked on the tiny, black-haired woman setting trays of baked goods into the glass case by the bar. Her curls spill down her back, skin pale enough to look almost ghostly.
“Who is that?” he asks, reverent.
“First time you’ve been in here since Marigold hired Snow?” I say.
“If I’d known she was here, I’d never leave this fucking place.” He shoulder-checks me. “Let me out. I wanna say hi.”
“Play nice,” I tell him, standing so he can slide out.
“I always play nice,” he replies with a wicked grin.
I watch, curious, as he approaches her. She greets him with that soft, storybook smile, and something about it flips a switch. His posture goes rigid, arms crossing over his chest as his expression darkens. Sunshine to grump in seconds.
Oh, this shit’s gonna be good.
The sensation of Marigold’s eyes on me pulls my attention back. She’s leaning against the counter, chin in her hand, staring at me. I lift a brow, daring her, but she just blows out a breath and shakes her head.
I need something—anything—to prove she gives a damn.
So, I do the dumbest thing I can think of.
A group of women in bikini tops and sun-warmed skin slides onto the stools near the bar. One catches my gaze and holds it, so I let a smirk touch my lips. She brightens, chest arching for me to notice. I do, but my body barely responds. No spark, no heat—just the dull annoyance of routine.
