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I shake my head, take another sip of wine, and paint.
A memory flashes in my head. It was one of the club’s charity car washes. I remember the classic black Mustang that Rafe stole later that night, and I’d tagged along just to experience the heady rush of adrenaline that driving a stolen car gives.
I’d told Mags all about it the next day. She was eighteen at the time and was still a club hopeful who hung around Razor and the other bikers. Mags was the big sister I never had, and we’d kicked up a friendship.
“Remember the Mustang Rafe stole that summer you came to us?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Being with Nico reminds me of that day.”
“Hmm, so you’re just doing it for the thrill? It’s just sex, right?”
That’s a good question since I haven’t even slept with the man. “It’s not—” I begin, but the sound of knocking cuts me short. “Uh, hang on, Mags. There’s someone at the door… I think it’s Cade.”
“Good, put him on. He owes me a call, too.”
Cade has shown up at my door late at night between undercover jobs and crashed on my couch more times than I can count. Nevertheless, wise woman that I am, I reach for my knife as I go to the front door and peer into the peephole.
Only, it’s not Cade standing on my front porch. It’s Nico. My heart pounds as I blink and look again just to be sure—not at all because I want another look at him.
“Um, Mags, I’ll, uh, have to call you back okay?”
“Shit, it’s him, isn’t it?” Mags guesses right, probably from the tremor in my voice, but I don’t respond. I simply disconnect the call.
“What are you doing here?” I ask through the door, trying to ignore the heat surging through my body and my suddenly drenched panties.
Wow. I’ve become Pavlov’s dog. How fucking great is that?
It’s only been one week since he was last in my office. One week since the damned phone call I can’t forget.
He just stands there waiting with his jaw clenched, looking like the poster boy for angry sex and sin and everything I shouldn’t want.
So, of course, I step back and open the door because it seems my self-restraint has puddled somewhere around my toes.
The light above the front porch shines down on him, highlighting his chiseled cheekbones and the hard set of his jaw.
I open my mouth to say something—though I have no idea what—but I don’t get the chance.
“I haven’t had sex in a month,” he says, his brow furrowed like this is a very serious problem.
I give him a thorough once-over, from tousled dark hair to the broad expanse of his shoulders down to the slender lines of his hips. “What, have you been living under a rock?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Because that’s the only scenario I can imagine where you’d struggle to get laid.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it, then he steps past me and into my home.
Okay, well, do come in. I wasn’t having an indulgent night of painting and pining—really.
I close the door as he looks around.
“You’ve been drinking,” he says as his gaze takes in the wine bottle and half-full glass on the coffee table. And painting.”
I chuckle. “Your observation skills are as keen as ever.”
“Are you drunk?” he asks as his brow furrows again.
I consider the question for a moment, then shake my head. A full glass of wine might mess with my restraint and brain-mouth filter, but I’ve not had even that, so my faculties are all there. “I’m sober enough to know this isn’t a good idea.”
“For who?”
