Page 109 of Playboy’s Purgatory

“Fuck,” his tone is full of admonishment, “don’t say penis.”

“But it is a penis?” My question is over the top innocent. I even throw in a little eyelash batting.

He hustles me away from his station and toward the office. The moment I step inside he practically slams against me because I freeze.

In the middle of his desk is a small pan of blueberry crumble. My favorite dessert.

Vanessa doesn’t care for it, and I don’t make it at Bunz Out because an individual serving of any type of crumble is not something I want to deal with. Combine those things and it means I rarely have the chance to enjoy it.

“That’s a blueberry crumble,” I say obviously.

“It is,” he agrees.

I whirl around and grip his shoulders like I’m about to shake him. I don’t, but I almost do. “Did you make me blueberry crumble?” My voice is higher than it normally is and I think I’m having an out-of-body experience.

Jettson’s grin is boyish. “I consulted Lorraine and a few of the other Old Ladies. We went over a few recipes and decided on this one to try first. If you don’t like this one, or if it’s not right, I have other options.” He clears his throat and looks away. “But I made it all by myself.”

“You made me blueberry crumble,” my words wobble a little this time.

“It’s your favorite and since today your tattoo is done, I think you’ve more than earned your favorite dessert. If you want, I already asked Stan and he said we could take it over there and he’ll top it with some ice cream.”

“No,” I’m quick to blurt out, “I want to eat it right here.

Jettson kisses me on my forehead and then I watch, dazed, as he plates up some blueberry crumble for us both to enjoy. It’s delicious. But I barely taste it.

I’m too focused on looking at my biker.

Now.

My heart whispers the gentle prompt just as I swallow the last bite. I put my plate on the desk and reach into the bag at my feet. When my gaze flicks to him, he’s already watching me. He normally is.

“I have a surprise for you too.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. When I stand up, I pull the cut from my bag and slip it on.

The way he watches me turns predatory. His muscles coil like he’s about to spring up from his seat, but I hold a hand up. He freezes but it obviously costs him something, like a little piece of his sanity and control.

“Jettson,” I start and take a deep breath before letting it out slowly, “you’ve become someone steady in my life. You’re there when I need you and you keep showing up. The entire time you’ve been working toward redemption, I’ve been holding back. It never seemed to bother you even though you knew I was doing it.”

“I’ll wait, no matter how much time you need.” He doesn’t even hesitate.

“I know,” I whisper. “I wasn’t sure I was going to do this today, but I realized I look at you and rarely think of that other version of you. Now I just see the man who lets Vanessa paint his nails and who shows up with dinner unannounced and uninvited.”

He chuckles, but he doesn’t apologize. I don’t expect him to.

“You’ve loved me without expectation, and you’ve done it with your whole heart. Now,” I run my hand down over the leather of my cut and his eyes heat, “it’s my turn to love you.”

He shoots up from his chair so fast that I take a startled step back. I’m in his arms before I realize it. One of his hands is braced at the small of my back while the other is between my shoulder blades as he bends me backwards slightly.

I’m not afraid of him dropping me. I never am.

“Say it,” he growls, the sound bordering on feral.

“I love you, Jettson.”

The words seem to echo around us, bouncing and coming back, hitting him again and again as his brown eyes memorize me.

“Again.”