But he’d taken the wind out of her sails, and she stood there for a beat of a second, her heart catapulting all around her chest, confusion in every exhale.
“Fucking hell, sweetheart.I missed you. I missed you so fucking much.” He rasped with his face pressed into her neck. His grip grew firmer, squeezing the air out of Lisa.
Ryan had her pressed to the wall; his every exhale blew into her neck.
And all Lisa could think was.
What. The. Hell. Was. This?
THIRTY
Splice
Goddamn. His woman felt good in his arms.
Every second without her had felt like a lifetime, and he hadn’t liked it one bit.
His lungs had ceased working the moment he saw Lisa stride into the club looking like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, but so fiery, determined, he’d nearly burst out of his seat to grab her, to bury his mouth against her pulse and drink her down like a drowning man. But he’d forced himself to remain seated, to let the sweet bottoms fawn over him.
He’d fucking hated it all.
Hurting Lisa hurt him, and he wanted to rip his guts out and hang himself with them.
“Let me go.” She struggled, but he locked his arms tighter, unable to let go until his heart calmed down, which would be any time next year.
“Not yet,” he rasped.
“Ryan.Now.” She pushed harder, and he let Lisa put space between them. She slid out from the wall immediately and stared at him, blinking with her lips gaped open.
“You’re... you’re...” was all she said, and he advanced to her again and cupped her face, dropping that mask he’d had to wear out there in public.
Two of the longest days of his life.
“I love you.” He said, unable to hold the words back anymore.
Shitty timing? Yeah. Fuck timing. He couldn’t bear looking at the face he’d hurt minutes ago. The woman he’d been hurting for days by ghosting her.
Lisa, his beautiful, perfect goddess, blinked, and he saw rage fill her narrowed eyes. Any other time, he would have grinned to witness her demeanor changing like this, but he stood ready.
“You don’t have amnesia, do you?” she intoned.
“No, sweetheart.”
He never did. He wasn’t even in a motorcycle accident.
Everything from the moment he left the clubhouse the other night had been a fabrication, carefully constructed by him and his patched brothers around an emergency church meeting table.
One strategic call after another, he set his trap.
“Let me explain.” He whispered, keeping his voice low enough so anyone walking by wouldn’t hear him. Only those men at the church table knew the truth and why it was happening.
“You don’t have amnesia, and you never did.” She repeated, like his Lisa had to taste the words to believe what she was saying. And then he watched how fast her eyes brimmed with tears, and his guts spilled out onto the floor. Trying to reach out to her, she knocked his hands away. “You absolute little shit.” She burst out, and she was the one who came to him, going toe-to-toe like his beautiful love.
She pushed on his chest with her bunched fists.
“Do you know how worried I’ve been? You lying jerk! How many times I cried!” She pushed and pounded on his chest, and Splice took it, hardly feeling a thing because his gaze was glued to her face as one tear strayed down her cheek. That was his limit; he couldn’t stand not being close enough to touch her, and he grabbed her around the waist, hauling her in, trapping her pounding hands against his chest. Splice cupped the back of Lisa’s head, confining her.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. So fucking sorry. I’m sorry for worrying you. I’m sorry for leaving you alone.” He was so sorry. Splice had weighed his options before he’d taken this one, knowing how much he’d regret what he had to do, so it would seem he’d detached himself from Lisa for the outside world to see.
