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I jerk my head toward the passenger door, then at Annie. “Get your stuff. He’ll hook you up, take your car back to the shop.”
“I’m not leaving with you. I’m staying with my car.”
“Hook it up,” I grunt toward Rodney as I walk to the side of her car and open the door, grabbing her purse, a backpack, an insulated lunch bag and her cell phone which is sitting on the passenger seat, tucking the phone into the inside pocket of my vest.
“Look, Charles.” She snarls my name like it offends her, but I don’t care. Hearing her say it for the first time makes me think of how she would say it when I was on top of her. “Unless you have a gun or a court order, I’m not going with you. This is getting boring, repeating myself.”
Rodney steps in helping a brother out. “Sorry, ma’am, can’t let you ride with me. He’s the boss. If he says no customers in the truck, that’s no customers in the truck.”
I give Rodney an approving sniff, then look at Annie, raising my eyebrows as I stuff everything but her backpack into my saddle bags.
Rodney gives her a quick glance up and down, and he’s probably my best friend in the world, and fuck it I know she’s a work of art, but his eyes on her make me want to break his jaw. I swing the backpack onto my shoulders and walk up to Rodney, my chest bumping his.
“Watch what you’re looking at,” I growl as Annie comes up beside me, tugging on the strap of the backpack, and the simple touch distracts me and makes the ache in my balls pulse.
“I’ll carry this.” She takes the pack and slips her arms through the straps. “This is stupid. Let’s just go. I don’t care who takes me home.” Her voice sounds defeated but the way my blood turned hot at the brush of her fingers makes the lust I’ve felt for two years burn through me in a relentless blaze.
She’s not happy about the situation, but I don’t care. She’s on the back of my bike as Rodney hooks up her Mustang and I rev the engine as her arms wrap around my waist.
The softness of her tits against my back reminds me of how long it’s been since I’ve been with a woman. I was in prison four years, I’ve been here two, and it was probably a year or more before I went inside that I had even a fleeting interest in the opposite sex.
Love’s never been on my radar. Too many miles, too many clubs, too many fights over pussy. But, Annie’s different. I’d wage war on my own for her. I know that already, and I know when I do get between her legs, I’m damn sure I’m not going to be gentle.
I see the humor and question in Rodney’s eyes as I pull past him and I hate myself for snapping at him, wanting to hurt my own brother just for looking at her but I’m sure he’ll understand.
I am who I am. I’m not pretty, I’m not kind, I’m not smart. What I am is focused. And right now, my focus is on the sweet, spread thighs against my back.
And soon, I’ll be taking up permanent residence between those legs. Because all of that, all of her, is mine.
Chapter 3
Annie
How quickly that one-eighty happened. So quickly, I have whiplash. Being close to him like that, I stood firm as long as I could, then crumbled like the Walls of Jericho.
I’ve been pretending for almost two years that Charles “Chewy” Drake is an irritating mosquito I can’t seem to smack away. Every time I’ve seen him around town, riding on his bike, sitting in the park across from the school pretending to talk on his phone like he just happened to pull over outside where I work…every time, a low, sonic boom lodges itself directly on my clit then proceeds to fill my belly with a tension I’ve yet to figure out how to undo.
He’s six foot four and good gravy if my mouth doesn’t water whenever I see him even though every logical part of me knows he’s not my type. He’s hard, rough, not just around the edges, with a crooked sort of face that could only be the result of fists and baseball bats. And the tattoos? That should only seal the evidence that this is guy not from my world. I’m a good girl. The romance world might tell you it’s a match made in fictional heaven, but life is not books and he and I are oil and water, we scientifically cannot mix.
But, dang if seeing him up close and personal, closer than we’ve ever been before, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the clear outline of a foot-long dong that hung down the leg of his worn, grease-streaked Levis. I know he saw me look, I practically eye fucked his junk as I stood there being as difficult as I could, and that’s because I hate two things: being told what to do and admitting I need help.
