Page 14 of Grave Games

“What about this?” With his beautiful, sea-colored eyes on mine, he slowly opened his mouth and nipped the tip of my forefinger. “Give me your feedback, Shy. You feeling any of that?”

“Um…” Somehow, we were now inside the ultra-cool, strategically edgy store filled with mood lighting and the masculine scent of leather and danger—a scent that reminded me fiercely of Romeo.Mayday, mayday… “Okay, yeah. I’m feeling that.”In my tingling girlie parts, but whatever.

“Yeah?” He turned and before I knew it, he’d walked me backwards into a space between a display of Harley-Davidson T-shirts and half a motorcycle that looked like it was blasting out of the wall. “One last test, baby. Let me know if this makes you, y’know… feel anything.”

Then he slipped my index finger completely into his mouth to be sucked on and teased by his tongue. I was already a big fan of what that tongue could do. For some reason, though, feeling it caress the pad of my finger made me wish it was stroking along my inner thigh to the channel between my legs, the very same channel that bloomed with an achy wet heat I couldn’t ignore.

“I…” He leaned into me, imprinting the feel of his much bigger body against mine. Despite the winter layers, I swear I felt every bulge and curve of his spectacular frame. “Wow.”

I watched his eyes crinkle with a hint of a wicked smile before he slipped my finger from his mouth. “Wow, what?”

“You made me forget what I was going to say. Something about feeling… something.” I tapered off as he moved on to my middle finger and sucked it into his mouth all the way to where finger met hand. As if we had a sudden mind meld, I knew exactly what he was thinking—that he wanted me in front of him, on my knees and taking his dick into my mouth all the way, until he was down my throat and pumping hard, fucking my face until he blew, and this was his way of getting me to think on that same level.

Neat trick, really. Now I couldn’t think of anything else.

“Hey there, brother, welcome to Harley-Davidson. I know it’s crazy cold out there, but we’ve got the best gear for the road for any kind of weather. You two looking for matching leathers?”

“Gloves,” I managed to croak out, because damn, I was so into the fantasy of taking his cock down my throat I could almost feel it there. “I need gloves.”

“Trying to keep my ol’ lady’s hands warm. Weather like this, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” Looking at me for so long I forgot I needed to breathe, he at last glanced at the sales guy who’d been brave enough to approach us. “I’m thinking gauntlets, waterproof, with touchscreen-sensitive pads and sheepskin lining. I’d go for black, but my girl is a goddess in green. Matches those killer bedroom eyes of hers.”

“Or, just knit gloves would be okay,” I offered, trying to take control of the conversation. Then what he said sank in and my gaze jerked to his. “Goddess?”

“Don’t know how else to describe you.” He reached up to close a hand around my hair, then stared at it with a kind of wonder that staggered me. “For weeks I’ve dreamed of getting my hands on this hair, Shy. Taking it down from that tight little bun you always keep it in and letting it flow over me. Caressing me. Feathering across my chest, my stomach, my lap, my—”

“Gloves, seriously. I need gloves.” I turned an over-bright smile on the salesman. Romeo laughed under his breath while heat rolled through me so hard my thighs began to quiver. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I thought we could get out of there with a quick glove purchase, but Romeo hadn’t been kidding when he said he wanted to spoil me rotten. I absolutely refused to tell him my sizes on anything, mainly because I hated all things motorcycle world, and that definitely included Harley-Davidson.

That didn’t stop Romeo, though. After a brief discussion, the guy who’d approached us got one of their female employees to come over, who was just about my size and build, and together we did a tour of the store. Without hesitation, Romeo picked out items I would never wear even on a dare—black fishnet tights, a denim skirt no bigger than a placemat, and a skimpy top made out of a bandana, all with the Harley logo stamped somewhere on it.

Holy crap, did people actually wear stuff like this?

At some point I realized my bad attitude wasn’t going to prevent this shopping blitz from happening, and all it did was make me look like an ungrateful jerk. So I allowed myself to relax enough to ask what sort of thing he might want or need from that kind of store. To my surprise, he turned to give me a complex, appraising look that did weird things to my pulse.

“You thinking about me and my needs, Shy girl?”

At first I thought he was talking about sex. After all, he was a man, and an insanely virile man at that. But there was something in his tone that went deeper than sexual innuendo, so I nodded cautiously, unsure of what he was getting at. “Of course. I mean, why wouldn’t I? That’s not weird. Right?”

“Right,” he said faintly, as if his thoughts had already zoomed off a mile down the road from where we now stood. Then his gaze softened before he reached out and touched my cheek, almost like he was testing to see if I was real, before he seemed to force himself to glance at the saleswoman. “We’re hitting the boots next and then the fitting rooms. You can go ahead and take off.”

“Fitting rooms are strictly one person at a time,” she intoned like she’d already said the words a million times before. “She can model the outfits for you out here after she puts everything on. Corporate rules.”

“Rules,” I snorted as the saleswoman vanished back into the heart of the store. “So much for the ‘born to be wild’ way of life. Or maybe I’m wrong and bikers have become meek little rule-slaves since I last checked.”

“When was the last time you checked in on a biker’s way of life?” As he spoke, Romeo led me to the back of the store, where a section of the store had been cut out to display rows of hardcore biker boots in varying heights and steel adornments, but the color was pretty much the same—black leather, as far as the eye could see. “In fact, why do you hate this store?”

“Silly me, I thought you didn’t hear me when I said I hated it.”

“I heard. I just didn’t understand.” As he spoke, we went to the men’s section, where he plucked up a boot that was easily the length of my forearm and knocked on the toe—steel, of course. “Wanna clue me in?”

“Not really.” What was the measurement of my forearm, anyway? Eleven inches? Twelve? And was it true what they said about men and the size of their feet?

Hm.

“That’s not an answer I’m willing to accept, Shy.” Without sitting down, he unlaced the boot he wore and kicked it off, grabbed a box from the shelf and shoved his foot in, then immediately grimaced and kicked it off. “Too small. Grab a size sixteen for me, baby, and then tell me what your deal is with Harley-Davidson. They make good shit that lasts forever. Who doesn’t like that?”

“It’s not the store, or even the brand name. It’s the lifestyle behind HD that I don’t like.”

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