Page 29 of My Knight

But I was never home. I worked long hours, traveled for shoots, and edited late into the night. It wouldn’t have been fair to leave a dog waiting, bored and alone, just so I could say I had one. So I didn’t. I loved them from a distance. Pet every dog I passed on the street. Volunteered at shelters when I had time.

And now, sitting out here in the crisp morning air with Harley and Davidson like a pair of oversized, lazy toddlers?

It felt… nice.

Needed.

I chuckled softly to myself. Only a motorcycle club would name their dogs Harley and Davidson. It was too on the nose, and somehow still perfect.

I had woken up a while ago with the sunlight just beginning to peek through the curtains. Pirate had been out cold beside me with one arm tossed above his head and the slow rise and fall of his chest keeping time. I hadn’t wanted to wake him, so I just laid there for a while and stared at the ceiling. I listened to him breathe and tried to wrap my head around the fact that I was here. With him.

Crazy.

Eventually, I slid out of bed and moved slowly and carefully so I didn’t make any noise. I grabbed one of his sweatshirts from the closet and tiptoed to the door. I eased it open and nearly walked face-first into Yarder.

I froze, mid-step, and expected a scolding or a barked order to get my butt back in bed.

Instead, he just gave me a tired smirk and said, “I was on my way to let the boys out. Want some coffee?”

I blinked at him, then nodded. “Uh… yeah. That sounds great.”

“Cool. Head on out. I’ll bring it to you.”

So I came out, let the boys loose, and settled in the grass with them. That had been a while ago. Yarder still hadn’t returned with that coffee.

“I think your dad doesn’t know how to work the coffee maker,” I murmured to Harley and Davidson.

Harley snorted in response—maybe at the sound of my voice, maybe at the insult to his owner. I scratched behind his ears in apology.

The back door creaked open behind me.

I turned, expecting to see Yarder, but it wasn’t him.

Pirate stepped out barefoot with two cups of coffee in his hands.

No shirt. Just a pair of jeans slung low on his hips.

Goddamn.

The man was a walking sin.

His chest was a canvas of ink—tattoos layered and detailed, some bright colors, some just black, but all perfectly Pirate. His arms were the same—sleeved and strong, muscles flexing just from the way he held the mugs. His hair was messy, falling around his face like he’d run his fingers through it half a dozen times, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep.

He walked over, quiet and unhurried like there was no reason to rush.

“Hello,” I called softly.

“Coffee?” he offered, voice rough from sleep.

I nodded quickly. “That would be great. I think I’ve worn out Harley and Davidson enough that they won’t knock it out of my hand.”

He passed me one of the mugs. I wrapped both hands around it and soaked in the warmth.

“You okay?” he asked and watched me as he settled into the chair closest to me.

I nodded. “Better than yesterday. I might need a crane to get me off the ground, but otherwise I’m good.”

He chuckled and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankle. “I didn’t even hear you get up. I was worried something happened to you.”

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