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“Yeah,” he said, looking down at it. “In the future, the near future to be sure. I want my name on you. Want my scar on you.”
I was utterly and genuinely blown away. For a variety of reasons. Granted I had been out of the game for a long time—technically forever if you looked at my history—but I wasn’t aware that branding people was something romantic partners did with one another.
Then again, people lied about what romance was every damn day. Books, movies, people who we had dinners with. If you asked any of them, they’d say mine and Preston’s relationship was the most enviable of them all. Was the most ‘normal.’
Who was I to think branding someone was outside the realm of possibility? To think it was screwed up?
Except I didn’t think it was screwed up. Which made it all the more confusing. I liked the idea of it.
What was confusing was that Swiss had known me for such a short time. Unless this too was a common occurrence.
“Is that…” I trailed off, my throat dry. I swallowed and tried again. “Is that something you do with a lot of women?”
I could not suddenly assume that I was special. How narcissistic of me. I’d seen the lifestyle of these men, seen all the women hanging off them at the club party. They were sexually free and open—as they had the right to be, as long as everyone was consenting. Just because I’d lived some square life with good Christian ideals drilled into me did not make me any kind of authority on how many sexual partners one should have, and if one should or should not brand those sexual partners.
Again, as long as everyone was consenting.
Heck, there was probably a whole gaggle of women out there bearing Swiss’s brand.
His eyes were stormy as I came out of my head. “No, Kate,” he ground out. “That is not something I do with a lot of women.” His grip tightened at my hip. “That is not something I’ve done with any woman.”
I blinked at him, my body sagging with relief but my mind still reeling. “Why do you want to do it with me, then?” I whispered.
Swiss stared at me with raw male intensity.
A loud knock on the door made us both jump.
“Get the fuck up, lovebirds. We’re having brunch!” a male voice yelled from beyond the door.
I stared at Swiss. “You guys do brunch?” I asked, flabbergasted.
He grinned, showing straight, white teeth. “Babe, our president, sergeant at arms, and second in command all have Old Ladies. Those Old Ladies are generally kick-ass bitches. They are also very intense bitches. Therefore, they are serious about things like scented fucking candles—which I don’t hate—flowers—again, nice touch—and brunch.”
He kissed me quick and close mouthed. “As much as it probably endangers my cock and balls to say this, I fuckin’ love brunch.”
I stared at Swiss for a hot second, waiting to see if there was a punchline. There was not one. He was dead serious.
Once I realized that, I threw my head back and laughed.
This biker. The one with the muscles, the air of badassery, the one who moments ago had been talking about branding me, loved brunch. And flowers. And scented candles.
Once I got hold of myself, Swiss came back into focus. He was staring at me with that soft, intense look on his face once more. “You’re fuckin’ stunning when you laugh, Kate,” he murmured.
I blinked at him. It was such a simple compliment, but it made me want to burst into tears. I actually had to jab my nail into the inside of my palm in order to stop my eyes from welling up. I was well trained in hiding my emotions, in making sure that no one would glimpse a single trace of a tear in my eye.
Still, Swiss tilted his head ever so slightly and his lips flattened as if he could see the swirl of emotion behind my mask.
I stretched a false smile onto my face. “Shouldn’t we get dressed?” I asked, moving out of his grip.
For a second, I worried that he wouldn’t let me go, that he would call me out, demand to know what was behind my eyes.
But luckily, his hands only flexed for a moment before he released me. I busied myself with finding my clothes.
“Fair warnin’, baby,” Swiss said as we dressed. “There’s probably gonna be a bunch of nosy fuckers out there,” he nodded in the direction of the common room, “waiting to meet you.”
“Me?” I repeated as I buttoned my jeans. I was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Although Swiss had tried to insist I wear his tee again, I argued it wouldn’t work as well in daylight. He did not agree, but he also didn’t push the matter.
“Why would anyone want to meet me?” I asked, nerves building up.
