Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Saint

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Those words aren’t enough to erase the hurt I saw when she was at my place. The hurt I ignored because I needed to have words with Sin. If I let myself think about it, I wouldn’t have been fucking nice to Sin.

I got the feeling, standing there, blood hot in my veins, stomach ice, that she might not deserve wrath.

Belle’s gaze is on me, and it’s fucking compelling.

There’s hope shining in those eyes, along with the hurt that shadows behind it. I feel like a complete piece of shit.

Especially when she says, “For what?”

“Belle.” I stop. I’m not fucking good at this. The problem is, the little teacher gets to me in ways that are so unexpected they take my breath.

She’s sweet with spice hidden inside, open, funny. She’s things I never thought I’d want. Never thought I might need.

A fool might say I’m used to independent women, and she’s not that. But she is. Fiercely so. She’s simply a different breed of independent than I’ve ever experienced.

With her, words come easy, and I stumble over them.

Tonight, I should’ve guessed Sin wasn’t out to cause trouble. If she was . . . Belle’s smart enough to handle it. For all the tricky, wild ways that Sin has in stamping me as hers and chasing off what she perceives as threats—things I’ve let her do in the past because I’d never been into those other women who were interested in more than good times with us—were no longer there.

Plus, she’s fair in she knows it’s done, and has known it for a long time. And she never tried anything on me since she showed up.

So, I don’t get my falling over myself, tumbling into unknown territory to try and protect Belle, to keep the thing between us as ours.

“Belle,” I say again, “I?—”

“What?”

“Fuck. I’m not good at this shit.” I run a hand over my head. “I needed to get some things straight with Sin. I don’t need her sitting about like that.”

“I don’t know, she’s pretty hot.”

“Not what I fucking meant.” I take a slow breath. “I don’t want you seeing her in her fucking underwear and jumping to the wrong conclusion. I don’t want her causing trouble. She’s out of here tomorrow anyway.”

She nods.

I smile. “And I’m pretty sure two days are all I can handle folded on that sofa.”

“You’re too big.”

“Yeah, well, I might not be a gentleman, but I was raised right.”

Belle’s silent for a long time.

“Do you want to come in?”

“I do,” I say, my smile growing, “but I wondered . . . would you like to come for a ride with me? A proper one?”

“It’s a school night.”

I raise a brow, and her scandalous look warms me inside. Mainly because there’s excitement hiding in there.

“Live a little, Red.”

Her smile teases. “I don’t know.”

I hold out a hand. “What have you got to lose?”

Belle’s hands wrapped around me as the wind whips is bliss. I like the flirt with uncomfortable, with the carnal excitement that builds.

I’m borderline erection because she’s soft and hot against my back, and the unsteady, wild beat of her heart rings through me.

I pull up at the garage space, and she climbs off the bike. She pulls off the helmet, looking around at the empty street.

While we’re close to a lot of things, this strip shutters down at night, which means if I wanted, I could fix bikes all night long. Last night, I was here late, which is why we’re here now.

“This isn’t much of a ride, Saint.”

“Pit stop.”

She takes in the space as I lead her over. There’s no sign, nothing. I’m not here long enough for that, but word’s already spread, so I’m going to be busy until I leave.

“You take a girl to the nicest places.”

“Some have the Ritz. I have this.”

She laughs. “This is yours? Where you make your motor magic happen? Or bury the bodies?”

“Cement floor.” I unlock the door and push it open with a squeal of steel against steel.

“You’re going to let something small like that set you back? I’ll bring in my class, they’ll work it out in no time. In fact, you’ll be drowning in ideas.”

I laugh. “Now, that’s a way to fucking go. Drowned by ideas.”

“There are worse ways.”

She follows me in, and Red’s instantly captivated by the place. She’s wearing a cream dress with green flowers and purple tights. She’s got a rust-colored coat on. This is the first time I’ve taken note of what she’s wearing today.

None of it should work, but it does. And with the colors, grease and dirt’s gonna cling and stand out.

It’s the outfit of a teacher, not a woman who likes to play in dirty spaces.

But she’s wandering about, touching things, picking up tools, running her hands over the bike I’m building for someone, some of the pieces on a workbench, the rest in a corner.

When she’s done there, she takes off her coat and does something so sacrilegious I kind of fucking love her for it.

She hangs it on the handlebars of another bike.

Then she spins and comes to a stop near me. “So, this is your day job?”

“The corporate grind.”

“I know, this tiny little cubicle and not even a window spot.”

“My office is open plan.”

She grins. “Your office? This is a cubicle.”

“Red . . .” I take hold of her, arm around her waist, and draw her in. The thump of her heart a vibration in me as I pull her flush against me. “I would never be caught dead in a cubicle.”

“Or a nine-to-five job.”

“I have a trade I’m good at,” I say, using my thumb to wipe some grease from her cheek.

Her face is tipped up to mine, and her gaze goes to my mouth. That look pulls me deep inside, sends blood pounding, and my dick starts getting hard.

“It’s warm in here.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the beauty of renting from someone whose brother had this place outfitted for comfort over bare-bones functionality.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah, more money than sense, but I reap the rewards of having an excellent kitchenette and heating system. That stray cat loves it in here when I’m working.”

“Where is he?” As she says it, there’s a sleepy meow, and I know exactly where the little bastard is.

Curled up on the cat bed, I might have got him, that sits in front of the heater.

“Here, apparently.”

“Saint,” she whispers, “I want to kiss you, but . . . Sin?”

I stroke my fingers over her lips, tracing along the bottom one, dipping into the wet heat. There’s plenty I could say, like we talked about it, but I get it. I think. “Nothing going on there. It’s been over a long time now.”

“She’s so gorgeous.”

“Yeah.” I lean in. “But so are you. And my taste seems to run to pretty red-headed teachers. And I never do things I don’t want to do. That includes her.”

Her gaze slips down, and she says, “I know. She’s just . . . you.”

“Don’t tell Sin that.”

“Not what I meant.” Her gaze snaps back up to me. “Just that she’s the perfect person for you. A biker, a free spirit. Thrilling. I’m not.” She goes to pull away, but I don’t let her. “Crap. I sound pathetic. It’s not what I mean. I just . . . I guess I don’t get why you like me.”

“Anyone would, Red. I like you because you’re funny, smart, and sweet. You’re fierce and honest and good. And you’re fucking hot in bed. You taste like the best kind of sweet with an edge of dark spice. I just fucking like you.”

I go silent.

Those words.

They’re all true.

I just. I don’t. Fuck. I’m not a guy who goes around fucking saying shit like that. Yet with her, I wanted to, and I meant every word.

There are so many words pushing to get out, words I don’t know what to do with, so I just shut them down by hauling her right up hard against me so she knows exactly how I feel. She can’t not, I’m so damn hard.

Then I use the language I know. The language I’m good at. The non-verbal kind.

I kiss her.

Her mouth opens, and we combust, the kiss turning wild, hot, and erotic in moments flat. I walk her back until I hit the workbench, lifting her so she’s on it and her legs come around my waist.

It’s a kiss born of wild, untamed things, the sort of things better felt than said. And I want her. I want her bent over the table. I want to fuck that sweet cunt, feed her ass my dick.

She breaks the kiss, biting me on the chin through my beard. The sharp little bite’s a livewire down south, and though I didn’t think I could get harder, I do.

“I want . . .” she says, breathing hard, “I want to do this.”

Belle pushes me back, and then she gets off the table. Her fingers slide into the waistband of my jeans, right at the front. She fumbles, undoing the belt and then the buttons of the denim, and she reaches in.

Oh fuck. She wraps those fingers around my cock. They’re cool, and yet they make me hotter. The tug, the slide over the tip.

“Belle, stop.”

“No.”

“Belle, you don’t have to?—”

“I know.”

But she is. She slides down onto her knees and frees my cock, and then she takes me in her mouth.

I’ve had technically better blowjobs. I’ve had women do some really fucked up porn-style things.

But nothing, and I mean nothing, is as hot or as erotic as Belle’s mouth on me.

She’s stretched around me, her tongue exploring as she starts to bob, licking, sucking, tasting. Her fingers are squeezing at the base, stroking my tight, high balls, and I’m so on the verge I can’t stand it.

I want this moment to end. I want it to go on forever, right on that cusp, me fighting the urge to come, and she sucks me down deep, so deep she gags.

“Fuck. Belle, oh, fuck.” I go to pull her off, but instead, I tangle my fingers in her hair. I move her head so I can get deeper and take control of the thrusts.

This is the most erotically charged moment of my life, and I’m counting fucking her for the first time, counting the way she comes around me.

She’s fucking deep-throating me as best she can. We’re not all the way there, and I’m not going to push, but oh fuck, do I want to. Every inch of me’s burning for her, and her little sounds and swallowing motions on the tip of my cock are fast pushing me to the edge.

It’s a wonder my balls haven’t vanished in me.

I’m hanging on to control by a thread.

I need to come. To claim, to release. I need to fling myself into pleasure and leave the ache and urge behind.

But I’m not coming down her throat.

“Shit, Belle,” I say, the words thick in the air. “I’m gonna come, let go.”

I try and pull free, but as I look down, she makes eye contact and she slides her hands to my ass and pulls me in, holding on.

Oh. Fuck.

I can’t hold it, and I surge deep as I come. My cock swelling, twitching, my orgasm intense as I spurt into her.

When I’m done, she lets me go, and she stares up as I half-stagger, grabbing the table for support.

“Come fucking here, Belle.”

I haul her up, and I kiss her hard. I know she’s swallowed. I felt it, and thinking of that was almost enough to push me over the edge and come again.

So, I tuck myself away, and I kiss her again, deep, slow, taking my time, dancing with her tongue and delving into her. I could kiss this woman for hours. I could fucking worship her forever.

I raise my head. “On the fucking bench, Red.”

“Why?”

“So, I can return the favor. Taste you. Make you come. I’d fuck you, but I’m gonna need about ten minutes.”

“Favor?” She frowns.

I take hold of her chin and drop another kiss on her lips. “I’m saying I want to go down on you and eat you out, and you feel the need to focus on the word favor?”

“But I?—”

“I’ve been dying to eat you out again, Red. It’s a favor to me for you to kindly serve your pussy up to me. So, get up on the fucking bench.”

She doesn’t. Instead, she breaks free of my hold and picks up a project I just finished. Belle’s not really paying it attention. Because she’s nodding to herself, then she glances at me before hugging the carry case to her chest.

“I want to, but . . . I did that for you, yes, but I did it also because I wanted to. For the first time, I really, desperately wanted a cock in my mouth. I wanted to see if I liked it.”

I have so many fucking questions, and most of them end with the fantasy of beating the shit out of a whole slew of men I know nothing about, and Lance in particular. But I say, “And did you?”

“Yes.”

“Well.”

“And I think I want that to sit, on its own, in me. As something I did for me and you—obviously—without any favors or scorecard keeping. Is that okay?”

Part of me wants to say, fuck no. I’m hungry for her. But I nod. “Yeah. But later?—”

“Is later.” Then she looks down. “What the hell is this?”

The ride’s great, she’s warm against me, soft, almost boneless in that satiated way women get. And Nomad?

It’s his maiden voyage, and when we stop and I unstrap the reinforced capsule carrier, he’s snug in there, wrapped up and safe, and the little fucker’s asleep. He opens an eye, looks at me, and closes it.

She’s wearing a big smile. “I can’t believe you made Nomad his own biker transport pod.”

“I bought one of those hard case carrier backpacks and modified it.” I frown at her. “That’s all.”

“He needs goggles and a helmet.”

This fucking woman. “He’s safe.”

“He’s adorable.” Then Belle looks around, her hand sliding into mine. I don’t hold hands. I’m a grown, badass biker.

I let her, and I close my fingers around hers. It feels good. Right.

“Where are we?” Her hand squeezes mine.

The grump factor wants to move in because she undoes me. “Up above the city, sort of. This is a gorgeous spot.”

It really is. There’s a pond and lots of trees. From here, we can see the city’s richer outer areas, and they’re stunning.

Belle goes still. But she’s not looking at the view or listening.

She’s staring at a sign.

In fact, she pulls her hand from mine and goes to it.

“That’s new,” I say as I go over to join her.

My heart sinks at her paleness and the stiffness of her stance.

Then I read the sign.

It’s for a future building project on this spot, and guess fucking who’s building?

Lance fucking Hastings.

Cunt.