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“I fuckin’ love you, you crazy woman.”
Oh, how that hit her—it hit her where she was on fire for him. She threw back her head, multiple highs carrying her into orgasm. “I love you too, you crazy guy.”
Her core contracted and went into spasm. Relief washed over her. His cock swelled and bowed inside her, then jerked and spent.
All that mattered was he’d said he loved her. She wrapped herself around him, kissing him, her hands roving back and forth over his head.
“I want you to know something. Everything I’ve done and will do is because I love you as my girl, not my stepsister.”
“Your girl?”
“Yes. My girl.”
She nodded, and then cupped his jaw, stroking his stubble with her thumb.
“Now put your panties back on and let’s get the hell out of here.” His eyes were filled with mischief.
Hurriedly, she pulled herself together, giggling as she did so.
Rory glanced at his watch. “We’ve got to go. Jackson’s going to be really pissed in about forty-five seconds.”
He climbed on the bike, urging her to get on behind him.
She wriggled her skirt back up a bit, hardly caring when it ripped as she climbed on.
“Such a rush!” She laughed joyously, not caring about the state her clothes were in, or that an incensed Jackson might appear at any moment. Not caring about anything, except what they’d done and what they’d said.
/> CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rory had a BMW on the rack for a full service. It was a methodical job, one he took great pleasure in, and it gave him time to think about Sky—which was just as well because she was always on his mind. He was so deep in his thoughts he didn’t register the conversation going on behind him until it got louder.
“You were here the other day, right?”
Rory turned his head and looked at the bloke standing with George. He was tall and heavily built and wore a hoodie with the hood up.
Instantly he thought Jackson had come for revenge, but a week had gone by and it would have happened by now. Jackson had obviously taken his warning to heart.
There were two guys in the workshop, the one in the hoodie, and a younger guy. George was talking to the younger guy. He was skirting the bikes lined up ready for pick up that evening. Rory recognized him. It was the lad who’d wandered in a couple of weeks earlier, who George had said he was like.
The lad nodded briefly and ducked down to look at a bike.
Rory observed, but stayed where he was, crouched down behind the bike on the inspection rack. He had a bad feeling about this.
The guy in the hoodie muttered something to which George grunted a reply. His attention was still on the scrawny younger bloke.
“Stop right there,” George boomed out across the workshop.
The hairs on the back of Rory’s neck stood up. Peering through the cluttered workshop, he struggled to see what was going on. George went to move, but the hooded guy was blocking his way.
Rory stood up, making himself known. He heard the familiar scrape of the cashbox. The younger one stood by the bench, cashbox clutched to his chest.
George cursed loudly, losing it. “You were scoping the joint the other day, weren’t you? Well, you picked the wrong people to mess with. Put the box down and leave.”
Rory strode over to the lad, grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket and tore the cashbox out of his hand. It twisted and fell, crashing to the floor, coins rolling in all directions. “Back away now,” Rory bellowed, “and I’ll leave your sidekick in one piece.”
The young lad struggled in Rory’s grasp but Rory held tight.
The hooded guy looked from George to Rory and back again.
