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Leon could be good for me.
Or the whole thing could be a total disaster.
Either way, I’m sure I want to keep exploring it.
“This is me,” I say, unlocking my car door with my key fob. “Thanks for the coffee—and the conversation.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”
“Me too.” I’m sure my smile gives away how excited I am—I know Control would tell me it’s stupid to give away too much information too quickly—but I can’t bring myself to care.
Especially not when he stares at me with those piercing eyes of his and asks, “Would it be okay if I kiss you?”
His words hang in the air, creating an electric tension that envelops us both.
I’ve heard people say consent is sexy—but until this moment, I didn’t quite understand how hot it could be.
I can’t even speak, so instead, I simply nod and step toward him.
The warmth of his breath flutters against my skin as he leans in, his eyes locked onto mine.
Time seems to slow down, and my senses heighten as his hand gently brushes against my cheek, tenderly cradling my face. At that soft touch, my heart flutters. I step closer, drawn to his intoxicating proximity.
His lips are a revelation, warm and inviting, and they effortlessly mold against mine as if they were made to fit perfectly. His tongue teases my lips open, then sweeps through my mouth, sending heat racing through my veins.
His hands encircle my waist, sliding around to hold his palms against the small of my back and pull me toward him. A tremor rolls through me at his gentle touch, and my head tilts back as I close my eyes.
The world around us fades into a blur, leaving only the two of us lost in the intoxicating bliss of the present moment.
Leon is one hell of a kisser.
* * *
“Where’s Control?” I ask as I walk into the main meeting room in the clubhouse half an hour later, still floating from Leon’s kiss.
“He went out to Birmingham to check out his new market, and then he’s going to meet with the partners,” Flirt says. She’s a clubwhore who hooks up with Control pretty regularly, and most of Control’s men just tolerate her, but over the last few years, I’ve gotten so I really like her. She’s genuinely kind to me, unlike the other women, who see me as either an irritation or as competition—no matter how ridiculous either view might be.
“Really? He’s gone?” I clamp down on my sudden inspiration. The last thing I need is for anyone to notice the gleam in my eye and report it back to Control.
“Yeah—he’s supposed to be back in a couple of days.”
“Any idea why he wants me to paint the clubhouse?”
“Yeah.” Rage’s voice came from the open doorway. “It looks like shit. He doesn’t want his new business partners to think he can’t handle his people—or the product that will be coming through. He wants them to know we’re a classy operation.”
Yeah, right. Classy. Like hell.
“Is he still planning to have the Mardi Gras party in a few weeks?”
“Of course.” Rage’s tone is condescending, but I ignore him, staring at the wall consideringly. Control isn’t wrong—it could definitely use a touch-up.
After all, I’ve used the clubhouse walls as a canvas my whole life.
But before I put my new plan into action, I need to make sure Control hasn’t left his lieutenants with too much information. “Did my father say anything about what he wanted me to do here?”
“He said he told you already,” Rage says. “What are you, some kind of idiot?”
I glance at Flirt and roll my eyes. She bites back a grin.
