Page 56 of Thornhill Road

Nodding, I proceeded to do as I was told.

Twenty minutes later, Mustang got my heart rate up.

We went one round. On the couch. I came twice.

I was beginning to wonder if he was more than he appeared.

Perhaps he was a sex goddisguisedas a badass biker.

Or maybe he was merely a generous lover who got off on getting me off.

I was happy either way.

Because either way—he was mine.

After our highly pleasurable workout, I got in the shower while Mustang got dressed and then kicked back in front of my TV so he could wait for me to get ready. In an effort not to take forever, while I bathed, I mentally sorted through my closet, piecingtogether an outfit that could transition from an afternoon at the clubhouse to a night at the bar.

By the time I’d dried myself off, I knew I was going with my fitted, single-shoulder, burgundy, sleeveless top with my light-wash, high-waisted, wide-leg distressed jeans. They had a hole in each knee, and a cut across the left thigh.

I didn’t have a pair of designer heels that would work exceptionally well with the look, but I did have some nude, peep-toe, booties with three-inch chunky heels I liked.

I kept Mustang waiting forty minutes, and then I finally descended the stairs, ready to go. After a really hot, greedy kiss—Mustang’s way of telling me he thought I was worth the wait—we were on our way to the compound.

It was the shortest distance we’d ever ridden together, but I thought that was for the best. When we parked in front of the clubhouse, I didn’t feel wild with desire—just a manageable amount.

Then a thrill danced up my spine when Mustang grabbed my hand possessively and led me inside.

The door was barely closed behind us before a little ball of energy came racing our direction. A boy, no older than five or six, crashed into Mustang’s leg and greeted, “Uncle Stang! Where’s MK?”

“Hey, Otto,” said Mustang, rustling the boy’s hair. “She’s not with me today. Next time.”

Momentarily disappointed, he frowned and said, “Okay.” The very next second, he ran back across the room. He stopped at the pool tables, where two teenage boys were playing a round. He stood beside another boy, who looked just a couple years older, and both of them watched on in vague interest.

“Hey, Uncle Mustang.”

This greeting had come from the bar, where a girl sat cross-legged on the counter, reading a book in her lap. She wasn’tquite a teenager, but she looked to be well on her way. She also looked an awful lot like Mustache—sans mustache, of course—who sat in a chair at the bar next to her.

“Hey, Marlowe,” greeted Mustang with a chin lift.

In approximately thirty seconds, I’d learned two very fascinating things.

First, the clubhouse appeared to be kid friendly when the sun was up.

Second, Bull and Mustang weren’t the only Stallions with kids.

Mustang escorted me further into the room, toward the others. There were two men behind the bar, and another bellied up to it with a woman occupying the seat next to him. Bull and Winnie were close by, Bull on the couch with a bottle of beer in his hand, and Winnie on its arm.

When Winnie turned and saw me, she smiled. “Hey. Good to see you again.”

I returned the sentiment, then Mustang did a quick round of introductions.

“You know Bull, Winnie, and Wrangler. That’s Marlowe, his oldest,” he said, whereupon I learnedMustachewasWrangler. I glanced at his kutte and also learned he held the office ofEnforcer.

That wasn’t at all intimidating…

Then again, I knew him to be not scary but flirty.

“That’s Buck and Maverick,” he continued, pulling me from my thoughts. The two men behind the bar dipped their chins at me. “And this is Twister and Lyla.”

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