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Present day—The Dickxie Mansion, Nashville
“Fuck me,” I drawl, I’m alone in my bed. The memory and his scent still linger on the sheets; the only testimony he held me during the night, rocking me to sleep like he did ten years ago.
I put on my camo sweatpants before walking into the kitchen, yawning, the aroma of coffee waking me up in an instant. I stop dead in my tracks when I see who is standing there, wearing nothing but his black dress pants—no shirt in sight. His hair is tousled, like he has been running his hands through it the whole night. My breath hitches checking out the tattoo on his back: an eagle holding the American flag in its paw and the constitution in the other. He even has a couple of tattoos on his arms. I recognize Austin’s work from a mile away.
Fucking bastard looks like the rock royalty he is—hot as sin. And I hate myself when the butterflies start to flutter in my stomach like I’m sixteen years old again.
“Hey, bro. Coffee and breakfast? Man, can you move in on a permanent basis?” Frankie jokes, walking into the room and picking a piece of bread from the toaster.
Rone’s head jerks up. He is frying eggs and bacon like he lives here.
“Want some eggs, Frank?” His deep voice sends shivers down my spine. He pushes his hair back, the muscles in his arm flexing.
“Don’t mind if I do. I think Allie wants some too after she’s mopped up the pool of drool at her feet.” Frankie snorts.
Rone turns around and I have to blink a couple of times. The six-pack has become more pronounced. The defined V-shape disappears into his waistband. He’s all hard lines—not an ounce of fat there.
Shit, I’m daydreaming again, and drooling. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Navarone gives me one of those devilish smiles, and my cheeks heat like they always do.
He turns around when I take my seat next to Frankie at the kitchen island. Frank nudges me with his shoulder, fluttering his eyelashes at me. I push his face away and he roars with laughter while I keep staring at Rone’s muscled back and his tight ass. I never thought someone’s back could have this effect on me: sweaty hands and a sensation tingling in my core. Damn you, butterflies.
“What’s all this?” Gunner asks, pulling a black shirt over his head as he walks into the room. Gunn winks at us and pours coffee into a mug for me and tea for Frankie, who’s holding up his own cup.
“Thanks for this, dude. And I like the ink; suits you,” Gunner tells Rone before taking a sip from his coffee. “Have you seen mine?” Holding up the back of his shirt, he shows Navarone the all-black design of the Devil’s Sons MC club logo.
“Great, man. Austin’s the fucking ink-master in this town,” Navarone says, as Gunner hops on the barstool with a proud look on his face.
“And don’t mention it,” Rone drawls, motioning to the breakfast spread before putting a couple of eggs and some bacon on a plate and setting it in front of us on the counter.
Evan stumbles out of his room, still hungover judging by his bloodshot eyes, wearing one of Frankie’s shirts. Last week he wore one of mine; guy always ends up with someone else’s clothes when he’s been drinking.
“Thank fuck for food. I’m starving.” He sits next to me, scratching the side of his shaved head. His beard is longer and I have to admit he looks good, even with his hangover from hell.
“Where is Austin?” I ask before taking a bite from my toast. He is usually the one who’s up before the crack of dawn, going out for a run, and making sure the coffee is brewing before we all roll out of bed and I make the boys’ breakfast.
Frankie laughs. “You know the girl in the band he did the lights for?”
“Yeah,” I say with some reluctance. She was an evil bitch who’d strung Austin along for years, claiming she loved him while doing the lead singer behind his back when Austin was touring with them. “What about her?” I say, picking up a strip of bacon and taking a bite while trying to ignore the way Rone is leaning against the counter. His arms are crossed in front of him and those perfect muscles are straining in all the right places. I like the way his long hair falls in front of his eyes, and how his biceps flex when he brushes it away.
Evan grunts in response, not saying anything.
Taking a sip from his coffee, Rone catches me staring. Tapping his fingers on the cup, he doesn’t break eye contact with me while a slow smile spreads across his lips. I’m the first to look away, my cheeks heat again before warmth spreads to my pussy, and my clit twitches.
He grabs his dress shirt from the back of a chair and pulls it on.
Damn, there goes my view.
Rone sees my pout and winks.
Busted, damn it.
Checking something on his phone, Gunner almost drops his cup. His chair scratches on the floor, “fuck,” he grunts, letting out a childish giggle.
“Why is everyone talking so damn loud?” Evan groans, laying his head on the counter.
I reach out and stroke his back.
His sigh is content. “Yeah, right there, babe,” he pleads. And I see Rone following my every move. I raise my brow and he does the same. Fuck him. These are my friends and he knows it. Still, his jealous sulking brings that evil smile right back to my face.
