Page 209 of Outlaws of Tulsa

Dragon is a monster.

I’ve seen what he can do. Hell, he almost did it to me, too.

A shiver ripples down my spine, forcing me to burrow my face against Dragon’s solid back to ward off the chill. His scent is leathery from his cut and maybe even a hint of cigarette smoke. Just like any biker.

Lies.

Beneath that he smells like sex and sin and something so uniquely him that it maddens me.

Fire.

He smells like fire.

I try to think of anything else besides his scent, but it’s invading me against my will. Infecting my every cell. Sinking into my every pore. I’m intoxicated by him.

I’m an idiot.

Always had a soft spot for danger.

Calla, my sweet twin, always seemed to have the sixth sense I was missing. Since Stormy was a Fed, I’d say she has it too. But me? It’s like I’m called to it. The danger is a pulse only my ears can hear, luring me toward it like a siren to the sea.

By the time we reach the motel, my dick is painfully hard in my jeans. I’m sure Dragon is well aware of that fact since I’ve been pressed up against him this whole time. It annoys me further that he’s probably smug over it too.

He kills the engine and climbs off. Smooth and coordinated and deadly. Not unlike how he stalked me that night, his green eyes ablaze with intent to attack, destroy, kill. I fumble my way off the bike, nearly tipping it over in the process. Cursing, I steady it before meeting his penetrating stare.

Amusement.

If I’ve learned anything since I came to be a part of the RBMC, it’s that Dragon is a different breed than what he was at the hotel. Still dark and dangerous and fucking crazy, but also more human. Everyone but Katana and Stormy give him a wide berth, respecting the fact he could snap at any second.

I’ve seen the snap.

Been the prey during the snap.

His amusement is just a layer hiding the fire-breathing dragon he is beneath. I can see him for what he is. An enemy.

Dragon unlocks the motel room where we’d tossed our bags earlier—two queen beds—and walks inside. I follow him, the hairs on my arms standing at attention. Being alone with him makes me nervous.

“Go to bed, Baby Prospect.”

With his back to me, he whips off his cut, tossing it on the desk chair. Then he grabs the back of his shirt just below his neck and pulls it off. My traitorous eyes drink in the inked up, muscular skin as it’s revealed to me. His black jeans hang low onhis hips, giving me a peek of the sexiest back dimples at the base of his spine.

Fuck.

He tosses his shirt onto the bed before disappearing into the bathroom. As soon as the shower starts, I groan just thinking about him soapy and naked. This is torture. Finding your nemesis hot is a punishment fit for some circle of hell.

Quickly, I strip down to my boxers and slide beneath the stiff sheets that smell like cheap laundry soap. Because I’m a greedy bastard, I snag Dragon’s abandoned shirt, bringing it to my nose.

God.

Why must he smell so fucking good?

With my nose buried in his shirt, I rub my dick over my boxers. My wicked mind conjures up the soapy shower image with no problem. I imagine him stroking his thickness in time with the way I rub at my own dick.

I clumsily shuck out of my boxers, eager to feel the skin of my palm on my bare length. My filthy thoughts are still with Dragon in the shower. Sure, I try to remember Nick’s mouth—the way his lips felt around me. Soft and wet and hungry. But each time, I’m imprisoned by the image of Dragon’s green eyes boring into me as he takes me into his throat.

The bed dips with the weight of another person, making me halt my furious stroking. How much time has passed? I pray to fuck it’s Nees or Katana already back from the bar.

Somehow, I know, though.

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