Page 14 of Mercy

Rough hands sliding over my skin.

The taste of beer on his lips.

The way he made me feel alive for the first time in years.

I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as I stretch, relishing the pleasant ache in my muscles.

God, it felt so damn good.

I still can't quite believe it happened.

Turning my head, I see Tor's breathing slowly and steadily rising and falling with each breath.

He's still sound asleep, his dark hair a mess against the pillow.

I have a sudden urge to reach out and trace the intricate tattoos that cover his skin, but I resist.

I should go.

I sneak back to my room before anyone else in the clubhouse wakes up and sees me doing the walk of shame.

But as I start to sit up, I realize there's a problem.

My clothes. Most of them are scattered in the hallway outside, victims of our frenzied rush to get to the bedroom last night.

I groan internally, flopping back onto the pillow.

"Way to go, Meghan," I mutter to myself. "Real classy."

I weigh my options.

I could wrap myself in the sheet and make a run for it, but knowing my luck, I'd probably trip and flash the entire MC.

Or I could wait for Tor to wake up and ask to borrow something to wear.

But then I'd have to face him, have to confront whatever this thing between us is becoming.

The thought sends a shiver of both excitement and terror down my spine.

I'm not used to feeling this way about anyone, let alone a member of the MC.

It goes against every survival instinct I've developed over the years.

Tor's sleep-roughened voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. "You're thinking too loud."

I turn to find him watching me with those intense green eyes, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

My breath catches in my throat.

"Sorry," I manage to say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Tor props himself up on one elbow, the sheet slipping down to reveal more of his tattooed chest. "You didn't. I've been awake for a while, just enjoying the view."

I feel heat rise to my cheeks and resist the urge to pull the covers up higher.

"Smooth talker," I quip, falling back on humor to mask my nervousness. "Do those lines usually work on otherhóras?"

Something flashes in Tor's eyes, and his expression grows serious. "You're not just anotherhóra, Meghan. You know that."

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