Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Twenty-Eight
Melissa
We end up back in the kitchen after he shows me every room.
“I need to go back to the clubhouse, check on shit. You wanna come or stay here?”
I shake my head. “I'll stay here.”
He pulls me in under his arm, placing a soft kiss on the top of my head. “I won't be long. Food's in the kitchen, Netflix on TV.”
“Go!” I shoo him toward the door. “I'll be fine.”
As soon as the door clicks shut. I'm left with the lingering warmth of his lips on mine, and suddenly, everything seems too big. Too much.
My fingers trace the edge of a nearby table, the coolness of the wood grounding me. What am I doing in this place that isn't mine? The club emblem on a nearby jacket catches my eye, a reminder of the world I'm tiptoeing into.
My stomach twists. No whispered promises of 'old lady' status have passed his lips. I'm just... here. A fleeting moment. A shiny new toy for the big, bad biker to play with until he gets bored.
Still, I'm here, and that's enough. Whatever this turns out to be, I'll take it.
I take the stairs two at a time until I find the bathroom and the door clicks shut behind me. I crank the shower to scalding.
Steam fogs the mirror as I strip and step under the spray. His body wash stares back at me in a fancy amber bottle. I lather it everywhere, letting it sink into my pores until there's no trace of my own scent left.
The towel barely covers anything when I wrap it around myself. Water drips down my legs as I walk into his bedroom, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood.
Everything in his room is black or gray, with sharp edges and clean surfaces. No photos. No clutter. No evidence. The bed dominates the room—massive and perfectly made with military corners.
How many others have been in those sheets?
The thought hits like a fist to the gut. I could picture them if I wanted, really dig the knife in deep.
Stop. Don't go there.
His closet is rows and rows of folded shirts, stacks of cotton over a line of black and darker black. Of course.
I hitch the towel higher and reach up, fingers brushing over different fabrics until I catch on a white tee. Plain. Not plain. The club patch is sewn onto the chest; its infamous Taniwha is recognised all around the world.
I drag it down, the cotton clinging where I'm still wet. It smells like him and soap and something I can't name.
Lace bites up my thighs as I step into my panties. White shirt. Black lace. Too much. Not enough. Turning, I catch myself in the mirror and freeze. The tee hangs almost to my knees, swallowing me whole, sleeves past my elbows like I'm a kid playing dress-up in a killer’s closet. I shove the cuffs up, but they slide right back down, and something in my chest snaps.
“Fuck,” I mutter, grabbing the extra fabric at my lower back. I twist, bunching it tight until the hem lifts. My hips bare out first, then a strip of stomach, skin flashing in the gap. I knot it tighter.
Heat creeps up my neck. I look like I stepped off a biker fantasy poster. Thank God the house is empty.
I return down the wooden stairs to the kitchen and pull open the double stainless steel refrigerator doors.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. There's enough food stored in this fridge to feed an army. All of it — vegetables and meat, not a drop of sugar in sight.
There better be something sweet in the pantry. Potatoes, protein shakes, and more protein shakes.
Closing the doors with a sigh, I want to curl up and cry. I need a cheeseburger to deflate the revelation that this man takes his diet seriously. You'd know it by looking at him; there isn't a muscle on his body that isn't ripped. He's too much for me to handle on a good day.
“Melissa?” Jada calls out as the front door closes.
“Is the kid with you?” I yell out, looking down at my tiny underwear.
“Nah, he's staying home,” Jada says as she steps in with Millie, both pausing just inside the kitchen. A sly smirk curls on Jada’s lips. “Damn, check you out, barefoot, cooking, looking every bit like the wife. Hella oughta lock down.”
I splutter, beer dribbling down my chin as I set the bottle aside and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Yeah, no. Not happening.”
Chicken hits the pan with a sizzle. “So, what brings you over?” I opt to change the subject.
Jada leans against the counter, and I don't have to look up at her to know she's sniffing out all the things I'm hiding. “Got bored waiting for the guys. They're out late tonight.”