The sound of a motorcycle echoed in the distance—maybe him, maybe another rider, but my body responded either way. Heart racing, skin flushing, that persistent ache between my thighs that had become my constant companion these past two weeks.
Something had to give. Soon.
Because I was running out of strength to fight this, and Wolf McCarthy was running out of patience to wait.
Even as I tried to convince myself I could keep resisting, I knew the truth.
This was already a losing battle.
I just hadn't admitted defeat yet.
CHAPTER 4
WOLF
Aweek. Seven days of avoiding Quinn Jenkins, and I was about to lose my goddamn mind.
After that night at the gas station, I'd made myself scarce. Stopped going to Bea's for breakfast. Took the long way around town to avoid the sheriff's station. Even skipped Buck's twice when Phoenix mentioned seeing her cruiser in the lot.
Because if I saw her again, if she looked at me with those eyes full of want and denial, I was going to do something that would probably get me shot by Sheriff Jenkins.
The mountain road curved ahead of me, empty at midnight on a Wednesday. I'd been riding for two hours, trying to burn off the frustration that had been building since I'd touched her face at the Quick Stop. The way she'd leaned into my hand, trembling, lying about being cold when we both knew exactly why she shook.
My bike ate up the asphalt, engine roaring in the silence. Up here, I could think. Or try not to think. Try not to imagine what she'd feel like pressed against me on this bike. Try not to imagine what sounds she'd make if I finally got my hands on her properly.
Christ. Even two hours of hard riding hadn't cleared my head.
The road straightened out, and that's when I saw it. Taillights ahead, hazards flashing. A sheriff's cruiser pulled onto the narrow shoulder, hood popped.
My chest went tight. Could be any of the deputies. Pike Creek had three cruisers, four deputies including Quinn. Odds were against it being her.
But I already knew. Call it instinct or fate or just dumb fucking luck, but I knew.
I slowed as I approached, and there she was. Standing by the dead cruiser in her uniform, hands on her hips, looking like she wanted to murder the engine block. Her hair was coming loose from its bun, wisps framing her face in the cruiser's dome light.
She turned at the sound of my bike, and the expression that crossed her face—relief, frustration, and raw need all tangled together—nearly made me drive off the road.
I pulled up behind the cruiser, killing the engine. For a moment, we just stared at each other. A week of avoidance, and here we were again. The universe really did have a twisted sense of humor.
"Let me guess," I said, pulling off my helmet. "You ignored the grinding noise."
"The department mechanic said it was fine." She crossed her arms, defensive. "Said cruisers always make weird noises."
"The department mechanic is an idiot." I swung off the bike, moving to the hood. Same problem as I'd suspected—alternator finally gave up, taking the battery with it. "When did it die?"
"Twenty minutes ago. My phone has no signal up here, and the radio's dead with the battery." She moved closer, and I caught her scent—that same jasmine under the leather and gun oil. "I was hoping someone would drive by."
"On this road? At midnight?" I shook my head. "You could be here for hours."
"You were heading home?"
"Yeah. Late shift." She moved closer, and I caught her scent—that same jasmine under the leather and gun oil. "You?"
"Riding. Clearing my head."
"At midnight?"
"Couldn't sleep." I straightened from the engine, turning to face her fully. "Haven't been sleeping much lately."
