Page 83 of Kneeling to Candy

“Candy?” His voice edges on nervousness. “You know we’re in this for the long haul, right?”

“Bikers don’t ask women to be their old ladies otherwise,” I say matter-of-factly, answering his question.

“And you’re good with this arrangement? Us together indefinitely?”

Why is he being weird all of a sudden with this arrangement? He’s the one who moved me in here and was saying I was his property—rude as hell, but bikers aren’t exactly known for being courteous.

Still, why is he acting cryptic? We have nothing to hide from each other. His behavior seems bizarre.

“Getting cold feet already?” I accuse, raising an eyebrow at him in a teasing manner to lighten the seriousness of his questioning.

Butch releases a humorless snort. “Like hell I am.”

“Then why are you being hesitant with me? Say what you need to say, or else I’m going to assume the worst,” I admit, trying to stop my own nerves from escalating.

“Not trying to make you think the worst. Far from it. My questions are to determine if we’re in sync,” he explains. “You want me, right? I’ve claimed you, but you want me, too, right, Candy?”

Ah. The truth comes out.

My biker has been transparent with me, and he’s asking for the same in return.

“I get wondering if you’re wanted. I was in your shoes last night, demanding if you wanted me. Remember? And you gave me verbal and physical reassurance you wanted me. I can’t believe I overlooked giving you the same courtesy in return.”

Butch eyes me wearily, waiting for my answer.

Gazing at him, I say, “I want this. I want us.”

“And you’re okay with more between us?”

I’m about to ask him what he means by more when there’s a knock at the door.

Flay’s deep voice rumbles through the thick wood. “Church meeting in ten. Bring Candy.”

Butch hangs his head, cursing under his breath.

I lift his chin with my fingers, pecking him on his lips. “We’ll talk and play later. Time to work.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CÚ SIDHE

My phone goes off for the third time in a row in a matter of minutes. I ignore it like I did the previous calls. This is not the time to bother me.

Someone has a lot of fucking nerve to hound me while I’m in the middle of cataloging our latest inventory for the upcoming auction. Time is money. The images of the women need to be uploaded quickly to get as much interest as possible. I mask my annoyance by grinding my molars, showing nothing on the outside, as I continue working.

When my cell rings for the fourth time, I lose my cool. Grumbling, I push away from my computer and yank out my cell from inside my blazer pocket.

I glare at the name of the caller.

Fucking Patrick Duffy—a never-ending pain in my arse.

I miss the good old days, where I could redirect Duffy to Lorenzo Bianchi or Lucky Luca. But one of the leathcheanns got himself run over, and the other is MIA—most likely killed off by the someone he wronged. Alas, I’m stuck managing Duffy by myself these days.

No rest for the wicked.

Preparing myself for Duffy’s bullshite, I answer with a bark, “What?”

“About time you answered,” Duffy blurts into the phone, his voice winded. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. You had me running to my car. I was ready to come to you if you didn’t pick up.”

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