Page 72 of Reckless Hearts

“Fuck, Callie,” he murmurs into my neck, then sinks his teeth into it.

I whine, searching, and Colt reads me easily, sliding his fingers past my entrance and filling me completely, pumping them in and out at the same time as Maverick.

My head tilts back, straining my core, as my body goes white-hot, fire rippling through my nerves as I come again.

Maverick’s groan is guttural, coming from deep within his chest, as hot liquid covers my ass.

The room swirls, and Colt stands just in time to catch me, banding an arm around my back, holding me firmly against his chest.

His lips run soft kisses along my forehead, temple, cheek, crooning nothing but mindless praise, while Maverick trails his fingers down my spine, ghosting across the skin until he reaches where he’s marked me with his release.

His fingers swirl before dipping between my cheeks.

He hums low in his throat and releases a ragged breath.

“You look good covered in our cum.”

Chapter 22

Colt

The thick strapcuts into my palm as I haul the heavy bag over my shoulder and carry it the twenty feet between Jimmy’s door and his truck. When the guys knocked on my door promising beer in return for help loading their trucks, I was all for it. Have some drinks, joke around, and maybe even stretch out some of my sore muscles. Instead, it feels like I’m being baked alive by the sun.

This area’s normally dry, but the oncoming storm has the air heavy with humidity. It’s that uncomfortable feeling where everything clings to your clothes, hair, sweat mixed with dust. It feels like there’s a film of dirt coating my skin.

Normally, any rider who’s not set up with people to haul gear is in charge of getting their own equipment in and out of their room. It would be nice if they could leave their trucks loaded, but even in these small towns, it’s easy to get your stuff stolen that way. I hate to admit it, but it’s the other riders you’ve gotta watch out for.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had to worry about it. My gear’s now controlled by the company, and I don’t miss luggingaround my shit. Let’s face it, the real reason I’m out here helping is because I still remember how much it sucked when nobody helped me.

The truck shakes as Maverick dumps a large gray steel box into the bed. Speak of one of the devils who never helped me out. I may not like him, and he may not lift a finger for me which probably just pissed me off more but he’s a good guy to the rest of the crew. So I wasn’t surprised to see him already out here helping by the time I came down.

This is how it is now, our truce firmly in place, both of us wanting Callie to be happy.

We’ve got a routine going where Maverick’s asleep before I get into the room and gone before I wake up in the morning. It should be like sleeping alone with him firmly on his side and me on mine. It definitely shouldn’t be keeping me up at night.

The way my heart races, threatening the structure of my ribs, is because of the upcoming rides. Definitely not his soft, steady breaths or the heat that always seems to seep from his side, invading mine.

Cheeks hot, I look anywhere but at Maverick. That’s how I notice the large black smear running from the hem up the side of my shirt.

“Motherfucker…” I hiss under my breath and grab the edge, pulling it over my head. Scrunching it like a makeshift towel, I wipe it along the top of my shoulders to the hollow of my neck before flipping it over and using the other side to mop my brow, cleaning the dirt and sweat that stings my eyes.

Another large bag is dropped into the truck. Maverick’s looming presence at my side has me pulling my shirt away.

Dark, hooded eyes brand my chest. I suck in a breath, only to have Maverick turn without meeting my gaze.

There’s a tingling electric current where I can still feel the weight of his stare. It has my chest growing tight and my breath shallow.

Shake it off, man—you’re losing it.

I use the physical task of lugging gear, loading each rider’s truck, to keep my mind blank. Not that I have any reason to think of someone… nah, no reason at all.

My shoulder aches where the two thin straps cut into my muscle, and I start to regret all my life choices. The short distance to the truck might as well be a mile.

Stacking it on top of the rest of the equipment, I sag in relief, pressing my palms on the tailgate while I catch my breath.

I don’t notice Jimmy approaching from behind until he shouts, “Oh shit.”

I turn in time to see the large box he’s barely got control over, barreling toward my chest. I brace myself, muscles tensing for the inevitable collision.

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