Page 22 of Loving Smoke

“You did good.”

Our bodies were close, almost touching, and she didn’t resist or pull back. Her eyes said yes and when her lips parted I covered them with mine, and it was fuckin’ amazing. Our tongues twisted and fought for control as my hands slipped around her waist and traveled down to her ass. I palmed her perfection and pulled her closer until our bodies were flush against each other.

“You know, this is the worst fuckin’ idea ever.”

Her innocent eyes connected with mine—troubled, tainted, haunted eyes. “Mmmm, but it feels so good.”

I couldn’t disagree with her. Right now, the worst fuckin’ idea turned into the best fuckin’ idea real quick. I could easily hoist her up on the saddle of my bike and drive into her so deep she’d be feeling me between her legs for a week.

I didn’t need any more encouragement. This woman was all in and so was I. Sure, I swore I wouldn’t do this until I got my shit straight, but I was also human and when a hot as fuck woman was throwing it at me big time a dog like me reacted.

I spun her around, wrapped my hands around her tiny waist and lifted her onto the saddle of my Harley. Then I stepped between her legs with my palms still on her ass. Just as I suspected—a perfect fit.

I captured her lips again and when she opened her mouth my tongue found hers in an erotic dance until we were both panting and moaning. I knew where this was going and I wanted to get there right the fuck now.

I jerked my head toward the house. “Why don’t we take this inside?”

She shook her head. “Can’t.” Then she pushed me back and hopped off the seat. “I have to go in.”

“We can be quiet. Your roommates will never know we’re here.” If I let her go now my dick would never forgive me.

“It’s not that, it’s . . . I live with my parents.”

“No, shit.” I sure didn’t expect her to say that.

“I really have to go.” She maneuvered around me. “My father is very protective.”

“I don’t blame him, so let me walk you to the door. After the shit-show tonight I wanna make sure you get in safe.”

“Not necessary . . . and my father wouldn’t approve.”

“Wouldn’t approve of me?” It wasn’t a total shock. In all my thirty-five years I’d never met a woman’s parents. I didn’t have actual relationships, I had hookups, and I sure wasn’t the guy you brought home to daddy. I got it, but it still stung a little, and that bothered me too.

“My father is very old-fashioned.”

Fine. The next time we’d go to my rooms over the club. Didn’t fuckin’ matter to me.

“He wants me with a Mexican man.” She lowered her eyes to the concrete sidewalk. “And you’re not Mexican.”

“That, I’m not.”

I had no clue of my lineage. I spent my growing up years in foster care, and my teenage years in and out of juvie. I’d seen my sperm donor father exactly twice in my whole life. Once at a court hearing when child services took me away from my junkie mother and declared him unfit cause he didn’t have a job or a place to live.

The second time he heard I patched in with the Bastards. The bum figured I’d be an easy touch for a handout and some free dope. Neither of which he got. The conversation was short but not sweet and we certainly never discussed my ancestry. More like I told him to get his deadbeat ass the fuck out of my clubhouse and never come back.

Marisol leaned up and kissed my cheek shaking me out of my minute of retrospection. Then just as quickly she turned up the narrow driveway and disappeared around the small house going in the back door.

I loved the effortless, graceful way she moved, sexy without even knowing it. The tank top she wore with The Tropics logo along with the bootie shorts were just like every other female waitstaff, but somehow she managed to make it look classy. She wore makeup but it was never too heavy or dramatic. Even her hair flowed down her back in soft waves. She didn’t have the instinctive toughness of the other local girls either. Another angle that didn’t quite fit.

I stood there another few minutes staring at the little stucco house like an asshole thinking she might reappear. Of course, she didn’t so I threw my leg over the saddle and throttled my beloved Harley. The one thing that never let me down.

9

Ientered the back door, and Rita sat at the kitchen table nursing a steaming cup of espresso. She looked up and smiled, the same smile I’d seen since I was a little girl nabbing freshly baked cookies in our kitchen at the villa.

“Are you all right?” she asked me in Spanish.

“I’m fine.” I joined her at the table and we sat in silence as I collected my thoughts.

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