Page 63 of Thornhill Road

I wasn’t sure what he was saying as he stared, but I stared right back.

A second later, his fingers were in my hair and his lips were on mine for a short, hard kiss.

It was over before I knew it, and then he was halfway across the room, headed toward his daughter, who was bouncing in excitement.

The last hour had been a whirlwind—but as I watched him from where I stood at his kitchen island, I grappled with not a single doubt.

Father. Protector. Badass biker. Wild Stallion.

Thatwas my man.

Mustang hadn’t exaggerated. Thelineup of bands that night wasawesome. I was glad I’d been at the bar early to snag a seat, because it was standing room only by ten o’clock.

There was no way the crowd wasn’t a fire-safety hazard.

There was also no way everyone in the crowd lived in Gillette.

Judging by the number of Wild Stallions patches I saw, I ventured to guess that a good number of that night’s attendees had made the journey from Cheyenne or the chapters in our neighboring states.

Earlier on in the night, one such Stallion sidled up next to me at the bar. The patch on his chest let me know his road name was Pistol. He was, apparently, an enforcer—his final patch cluing me in that he belonged to the Missoula chapter. He ordered a drink, then proceeded to strike up a conversation with me. This lasted all of about ten seconds before Mustang hollered, “That one’s not on the menu.”

No sooner had he said it than Buck was at my back. He was younger than the other Stallion, but that didn’t stop him from tapping him on the shoulder and suggesting he scram. The warning glare that came from behind the bar helped, too.

From that point on, Buck stayed close to keep me company.

Or, more accurately, mark me as off limits—but I preferred to consider him company.

I even made him talk to me a little, which was how I came to know he was a prospect with the club. He’d been working on earning his patches for the last nine months. He had one more to go before he was a fully patched member.

I wondered what all that entailed.

Obviously, babysitting wasn’t off the table.

While a normal bar might have started to empty out after one A.M., Steel Mustang felt like the party was just getting started. Even though my phone hadn’t rung all night, I cut myself off after my first ranch water. Experience told me I’d regret staying up into the wee hours, but I didn’t want to leave. Not without Mustang.

At two in the morning, he and his bar manager—the redhead I’d learned was Phoenix—shut down alcohol service, which was reason enough for the revelers to go looking for a change of scenery.

Lucky for them, they didn’t have to go far.

After the bar was emptied, when Mustang pulled me behind him through the clubhouse, I caught a glimpse of just how wild the Wild Stallions could get after dark. What I saw was nothing in comparison to what I’d seen the first night Mustang brought me there. Part of me wanted to stay and watch it all unfold—but a bigger part of me wanted to focus all my attention on just one man.

Mine.

Seeing as he didn’t stop until he had me alone in his room, I knew we were on the same page.

We made quick work of removing each other’s clothing, and it wasn’t long before he had me flat across his bed.

He made me come with his fingers first.

A while later, a fistful of my hair in his grip, I came on my hands and knees with him inside of me.

Not long after that, he found his own climax before we both collapsed, panting for breath.

This time, when he left me to go deal with his condom, I didn’t fall asleep.

My moment alone brought back the events of the day, and all the questions I hadn’t yet had the chance to ask.

I was sitting with his top sheet tucked underneath my arms, my knees pulled up to my chest when Mustang returned. Whatever party was going on in the main room didn’t sound like it was even close to dying down.

---