Page 46 of Havoc

“You ever date a biker before?”

She shook her head, her hands still resting lightly around my neck. She began caressing the side of my neck with her thumb. That simple touch? It sent a bolt of heat straight through me. Yeah, I was ten kinds of an asshole for not being able to control my body’s reaction. Good thing I was in complete control of my hands and my mouth, though, because I wasn’t about to push her for more tonight.

I wasn’t surprised to hear she’d never dated a biker. Most women hadn’t.

“Well, we’re a rough-and-tumble bunch,” I said, “but we know how to put our women first. So don’t ever think I expect more than you’re willing to give.”

Chapter 15

Riley

Looking down at Havoc’s rugged face, I realized for the first time that he wasn’t only handsome—he was sensitive. The kind of man a woman could settle down with and make a happy life with. The more I got to know Havoc, the more impressed I became with his kindness. Sure, he was rough around the edges, but he was also a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy. I’d had my fill of men who lied, manipulated, cheated, and told me they were loyal—only to prove the opposite.

Admiration and fondness bloomed in my chest for this gentle protector. He was offering himself for whatever I needed or wanted, with no pressure and no expectations. Something about that hit just right for me.

“Thanks for telling me that,” I said quietly. “I hope we can hang tough, shake Slater off, and spend some quality time with each other.”

“I’m up for whatever you want. Just say the word, and I’m there.”

His deep voice and steady reassurances were soothing in just the right way. I laid my head on his chest and toyed with one of the snaps on his cut.

“I like just lying here with you under the starlit sky, listening to the sounds of nature.”

“Yeah, I like that too,” he murmured. “It’s great to get away from people who all want to talk, complain, and argue. Here, there’s no traffic, no honking horns, no rush to get anywhere. I don’t think I could live here full-time, ‘cause I’m not a fuckin’ recluse, but grabbing a little downtime to recharge? That’s a definite yes.”

“Too bad this place is missing one thing,” I teased.

“What’s that?” he asked, curiosity in his voice.

“The throaty roar of a dozen or so Harleys.”

He snorted out a laugh. “For fuckin’ sure. We get that when all the brothers meet up here for club get-togethers. Happens a lot in the summer.”

“I’ll bet those are good times.” I paused before asking the question that had been sitting in the back of my mind. “Do all the brothers get along all the time? Surely, you fight amongst yourselves sometimes.”

“Hell the fuck no, we don’t fight each other. Most of us are veterans, and that’s something we just didn’t do. Soldiers are more disciplined than to tear into each other. Besides that, I like and respect my club brothers.”

“So in the entire history of your club, two brothers have never gotten into a fistfight?”

Understanding clicked in his expression. “I get where you’re going with this. Motorcycle clubs have a rep for being aggressive—and some are. Especially one-percent clubs. I know a club that settles all their disputes that way. They’ve got a fuckin’ cage made of chain-link fence. Just like that old seventies movie—two men enter, one man leaves. Their current club president killed two men in the cage the day he took over as prez. I wasn’t there, but I heard it was fuckin’ brutal.”

My mouth dropped open. I was well and truly shocked. “That sounds like it might be an urban legend,” I said, my voice low.

“It’s not, I promise. That happened at a rival club we drove out of town a long time ago. They’re still circling Griffinsford, trying to reclaim territory. Storm managed to broker a shaky truce with their new president, but we’re nothing close to allies.”

“So your club doesn’t associate with them?”

“No way. They’re one-percenters—pushing drugs, running guns, and trafficking women. The Dark Slayers won’t stand for that shit in this town. Not around our families.”

His words reassured me in a strange, grounding way. I rubbed my cheek against his chest and shifted the subject. “Do you know you almost always smell like leather?”

“Don’t go complimenting me again,” he grumbled. “There’s no need. I already agreed to pretty much anything you want.”

My head popped up as I laughed. “You consider smelling like leather a compliment?”

His hand slapped lightly against his cut. “It means our cuts are made of high-quality, premium leather. Our club uses only the best—thick, water-resistant, and durable. We take our cuts seriously. I take good care of mine.”

“You know, I’m not surprised to hear that. It’s a symbol of your brotherhood, right?”

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