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He’s quick, though. He spots it moments later. I see the disbelief on his face, and it might be my imagination, but I think I see a flash of admiration in his eyes. I shake it off. I’m sure that is just my imagination—although I think I’d like this guy’s respect. He steps back just a little, letting go of my arm. I ignore the way his touch heated my skin. I definitely ignore the fact that once it’s gone, I miss it. I do notice that he doesn’t let go of my hair.
Does this guy have a hair fetish?
“You shouldn’t pull a knife on a man unless you’re sure you can finish the job and stay in control, Midnight,” he practically purrs. His voice has a hoarse, gravelly tone to it and heats every nerve ending I have.
“Try me,” I reply simply, not blinking.
“Fuck me. I think I’m going to keep you,” he responds, and I blink—sure I’ve misunderstood.
Disengage. Run. Danger.
The words repeat over and over in my head, and yet all I can do is stare up at the sexy biker and let his graveled voice cause goosebumps to rise across my skin and heat to move through my body.
I’m going to keep you.
My heart stutter-stops in my chest. Keep me? Those words should terrify me. They shouldn’t excite me.
What is wrong with me?
I mean, the guy is hot. He’s got a lock on that whole dark and broody thing. Dark chocolate eyes, inky black hair, laugh lines around his eyes and so broad and tall that I feel tiny even in my five-foot-nine frame. Then, there’s his ink. He’s covered. Everywhere I can see, except his face, has ink. His neck is a mystery design of lines, colors, and shapes that I would love to trace with my tongue. His hands and fingers are covered in words and designs that move up his arms and disappear under the sleeves of his shirt. Maybe some would see that as excessive, but all I want is to see if he’s that covered everywhere. He’s got an MC cut on, and I recognize the name of the club right away but trusting him? That’s a horse of another color. If nothing else, the past few months have made me very careful.
“What did you say?” I ask, keeping my knife poised, despite the hormones raging in my system.
“I said I’m going to keep you.”
“That’s funny,” I respond giving him a wry smile.
“I wasn’t joking,” he says quickly.
“Then, you’re going to be sorely disappointed, Train, because I’m already claimed by someone and it’s definitely not you.”
“I figured,” he says with a shrug.
“What’s that mean?” I ask, a little confused.
“Babe, no one that looks like you, works it like you, is all that is you would be single. I’m sure you have a man trying to keep you contained. It doesn’t matter. He’s doing a fucking piss-poor job of it—not that it matters. Soon you’ll be mine, and trust me, I will lock you down.”
My eyes widen in shock. My heart does that funny fluttering thing in my chest again and I’m left wondering once more why I’m turned on and not deballing him.
“You’re so full of it,” I laugh. “You could also be very wrong. I might be hitting for the other team, and she knows you can’t lock down a person because they are free to live their own life and make their own choices.”
“Nah, you like dick. There’s a small chance you like both, but I have you pegged to be all about the dick.”
He’s right, but he’s also annoying me. I can feel the muscles in my face tighten. I narrow my eyes at him.
“And why would you think that?” I snap.
“Your gaze keeps moving down to check out my package.”
I gasp—although, I couldn’t tell you if it was because I’m irritated at him for saying that or because I actually have been checking out his rather impressive bulge and obviously got caught.
“Please. You have jeans on. You can’t even tell what you’re hiding under there,” I lie because he’s hard, and you can definitely tell even with him wearing jeans. I mean, I wouldn’t mind if he was wearing some gray sweats, but you can still definitely tell he’s packing.
“Been checking me out, Midnight?”
“I only glanced down there because I’m holding a knife on you,” I reply drolly—again, totally lying. “I’d hate to slip and inadvertently do damage I’m not trying to give you.”
“Thoughtful of you,” he laughs, and I can tell he knows I’m lying, but whatever.
“I’ll be even more thoughtful and let you keep your balls and head home. You really should be careful about who you try to stalk in the future,” I warn him, flipping my knife closed.
“I thought switchblades went out of style in the eighties,” he says, and something about his smile sends warning bells through me.
