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“Deal.” I meet his sunglass-covered gaze in the side mirror. “As long as it comes with a double-strength latte. Being up this early is a cruel and unusual form of torture.”
His chuckle makes me swoon and I stall as I go to take off when the light turns green.
The burning sensation fanning up my neck and into my cheeks alerts me that my embarrassment is visible. Even so, I’m ecstatic when I come to a stop in the parking lot and Zeke climbs off from behind me. After kicking down the stand, I dismount, pulling my helmet from my head and swinging around in a circle.
“I did it! Oh, my God. I rode a freakin’ Harley.”
“Never had a doubt.” Zeke takes off his helmet, then he pulls me in for a hug. I wrap my arms around his neck, my helmet bouncing off his back as he presses his palm to my lower back and holds me tight to him. My breasts pillow against his chest when I tilt my head back to look up at him. “You’re fuckin’ amazing… don’t let anyone tell you any different.”
His praise makes my mouth run dry. Blinking slowly, I stare up at Zeke as I take in his gorgeous face, then I mentally catalogue each delectable part of him as he shows no sign of ending our embrace.
The leather and denim clad man I love—because that’s what he is now, a man—is just over six foot. He’s exceptionally well built, despite finishing his amateur Rugby career in order to devote his attention to the Shamrocks. Zeke’s abs are the stuff of legends—an eight-pack that I’m personally acquainted with he hardly ever has a shirt on when he’s working. The wide shoulders I have my arms over should belong to a much taller man. His thighs, one of which is now pressed between mine, are thick and strong.
As I smile up at him, his naturally sculpted arms clasp me tighter.
Covered in tattoos that travel from his wrists, over his biceps, across his shoulders and down his back and chest, Zeke’s the most heavily tattooed member of the Black Shamrocks MC. Each piece of ink tells a story of his life. A living canvas. Breathing art. I’ve hardly catalogued them all, especially the ones on his legs and lower belly, but the ones I’ve seen are quintessentially Zeke.
His road name. Venom.
His club. The Black Shamrocks MC.
His trauma. Dead-eyed skulls.
His soul. The angel-winged dagger surrounded by lilies.
From abandoned son to hellion teen with a protective streak to the violent man who’ll cross lines others won’t approach—Zeke oozes bad boy appeal whilst making the females of our species believe that we will be the one to heal his obvious damage. Hot. Badass. Biker. Three words that sum him up perfectly. But it’s the fourth word that springs to mind when you really observe him that truly encompasses Ezekiel Miles.
Tortured.
Sure, his shaggy, copper-brown hair—long on the top and shaved at the sides—and his tattoos camouflage his sorrow-filled disillusionment with the world at large, however it’s clear to see in his uniquely coloured eyes if he allows you to look at him properly. The golden-brown irises with yellow and green flecks and a blue ring around them are lit from within by Zeke’s openly rebellious, don’t-give-me-shit-’cause-I’ll-fuck-you-up attitude at the same time they’re dimmed by the big heart that lies beneath the rugged surface.
His eyes are my favourite feature.
Today, though, my gaze is transfixed by his kissable mouth.
I dart out my tongue, wetting my bottom lip, before drawing it between my teeth like I wish I could do to Zeke’s. His gaze drops to my mouth. Hunger flares, hot and sexual, widening his eyes an instant before he drops his hand to my backside and uses it to propel me harder against him.
Our lips meet.
Drawn together like magnets.
We pause to breathe each other in.
He stares at me with wonder in his gaze, then my arms tighten around his neck, and he urges me to lift my legs to circle his hips. The growl that rumbles deep in Zeke’s throat is the only warning I have that he’s going to devour me. His tongue sweeps across the seam of my mouth, then his teeth drag my bottom lip free. I blink, a shiver runs the length of my spine, and my skin tingles with goosebumps when he nips at the sensitive flesh. My resulting gasp is swallowed when Zeke touches his tongue to mine. We taste each other, sucking, nibbling, savouring, while his hands roam my backside and he grinds his hardness against my core.
I thread my fingers through his hair as I match his intensity.
This is it.
This is what I wanted.
My heart races.
My brain rejoices.
My body floods with desire.
“Zeke,” I half-moan, half-whisper. “I—We—” Whatever I was about to say is forgotten as I’m dropped back to my feet and Zeke stumbles backward. I take one step to follow him. He takes hold of my hips and holds me away from him. “What’s wrong?”
