Page 46 of Roar & Lizzy: A Forever Kind of Love

She laughed. "You should've been around before we attempted and told us that." She approached him in the doorway and stopped as if alluring him to push her back inside the room and shut the door.

"I'm here now." His voice vibrated in his chest. "You have an urge to walk or exercise, call me."

"You'll walk with me?" Her eyes lit up in amusement. "I thought you rode everywhere."

"I never said I'd walk with you, but I'll take you wherever you want to go."

"See, I'm figuring you out." She laughed softly and her gaze heated. "You're a protector."

He'd like nothing more than to protect and watch over her. To have her become his property, he'd defend her with his life. He wanted nothing more than to see the Slag property tag hanging around her neck on a chain or clipped to her purse for all to see and respect.

Not once in his life had he ever had the desire to make sure nobody touched a woman. To have the assurance that only his hands would ever be placed on her.

He wanted to touch her, mark her, make her his.

Lizzy walked out of the room, brushing her shoulder against his chest. He inhaled the essence of her. She was more intoxicating than the drink in his hand. A mixture of whatever she had in her hair, on her skin, and her. Her aroma was one of a kind. She was one of a kind, and he was addicted.

In the middle of the U-shaped upstairs, she paused outside the open doorway of where the remaining club members slept in the large room that would eventually be a dorm for the single men but was being used by the majority of the club.

She leaned inside the room. Her soft intake of air and stiffening back aroused his curiosity, and he stepped forward to look at what she was seeing.

At first, nothing caught his attention in the darkened room. There were cots scattered around and piles of sleeping bags against the walls.

Then, low moaning reached his ears. Harsh breathing and skin slapping happened under cover of darkness.

She glanced over at him. He met her gaze. His ways. The club's ways. Slag's ways were different than hers.

Pleasure was for the living and just because they were a motorcycle club and living in a different way than how others chose to live separately and privately, what happened in the club was normal to him.

He grew up with his parents, his siblings, in a house, just like her, but most of his time was spent within the walls of a clubhouse. Emotions were all over the place. He experienced love, anger, sex, commitment, and betrayal, and every single one made him into the man he was today.

President of the Slag Motorcycle Club, Portland, Oregon, and he would not explain his life to anyone. Including, her.

Lizzy stepped away from the door. The base of her neck tinted a pretty pink, she wouldn't look at him.

He led her the rest of the way around the upper floor and down the stairs on the other side. On the main floor, she pointed to the hallway. "What's down there?"

"Meeting room."

"Ah." She seemed to understand that it was a private area he couldn't take her in and peered around the room. "It looks different than when I was in here grabbing supplies for Mr. Reeves at Bistro Burger. Now it's a huge home."

His chest broadened. He was proud of his club. "Wherever there is family..."

"It's special that you have so many people who you claim. I bet you never get lonely." She lifted her glass and drank from it. "I know you have family members in Seattle but having others in your life when you're away from them helps. It's like with Coco and me. We've got each other."

He'd never found someone outside Slag so fucking attractive.

The music changed, going from background noise to vibrating inside the clubhouse. He took in the way she leaned toward him until she realized the room's shift of mood had to do with the party ramping up.

Before she could move away, he slipped his hand up her arm and palmed the back of her neck, needing to feel what her thoughts about the night were doing to her. She smiled up at him, approving of his touch, and that was all it took.

He brought her around until she had no option but to lean against the front of him and stop dancing around what was going on between them. In his life, he took what he wanted. Whether it belonged to him or not.

She stared up at him. Her confusion mixed with need. It was written on her face.

In his forty-four years, he'd never been wrong reading when a woman wanted him.

He set down his drink on the table beside him, removed her glass from her hand, then lowered his head, pressing his cheek against the side of her head and inhaled deeply. "You need to stop me," he said in her ear.

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