Page 18 of The Chase

She paused for a moment. She knew what she wanted, she knew her worth, she knew she was a beautiful woman, standing in front of a man, she trusted herself and her judgment and wasn’t afraid to go after what she wanted.

She looked back at him and straight in his eyes. “Yes,” she replied to him simply, unashamed.

Colt reeled his head back. “Look, Kitten, you were right, I’m empty handed right now, I have nothing to offer you, nothing for you…” He faded off. His throat constricted.

“I want to stick with you,” she repeated quietly, biting her lower lip.

He watched her do that. Watched with his big brown eyes, and adjusted his jeans. She was sure, if she looked down, she’d see a bulge there.

“I’m not what you are looking for,” he replied quietly, looking away, his modesty, his insecurity taking her by surprise.

She took a breath. Now was not the moment to back down, she knew it. She had to be brave here. She had to be bold.

He risked a glance up. She stared him down, defiantly.

“Don’t make me beg, Colt, that’s not my style. I want to stick with you.”

“You want more of this?” He indicated to his torso.

He was shirtless. And now that he was giving her permission to look, her eyes roved shamelessly over him. Despite himself, he smiled at her reaction. That little puff of pride almost undid her. She was sure that women had always loved his body. She was sure he had been arrogant about it in the past. But right now, the little gesture of modesty was endearing. In prison he must have worked hard to keep it toned. He had a tattoo over his shoulder and pec spreading down his arm. His nipple bar. She shamelessly stared. He seemed fascinated by her fascination.

“Do I want more? Yes. I want more from you, Colt. I want more of you,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. Straight into his soul.

“Fuck,” he said simply. The heat simmered there, between them, her eyes had glazed over, imagining what they could be like together. Imagining last night again, but less hurried, on a bed. With more touching. His breath on her damp skin, the heat of his thighs. He reached out a hand, cupping her chin, swiping a thumb over her lip in what she was realizing was a unicorn-rare display of tender affection from him.

A car turned into the cemetery, a noisy car, exhaust popping away. It was far up ahead, but it broke their connection, and they both turned, surprised, remembering their situation.

“We should go,” he said. The moment was broken. But the stage had already been set.

He grabbed at his T-shirt and cut, shrugging them on quickly. She repositioned herself on the back of the bike and he hopped on. Again, pressing herself forwards into his warm back. A place that felt much more like home than she’d ever thought it would be.

She had been incredibly uncomfortable on the bike for the second leg of their journey. First, she had just begun to loosen up after the night of clinging onto Colt’s back like a baby monkey. Second, she was turned on. She couldn’t believe it, in a situation like this. Now, in the middle of a crisis, in the middle of her life unraveling and a sleepless night spent on the back of a bike with a felon, she was feeling lusty, needy. She had arched her hips a little and felt the vibrations of the bike humming through her. She had pressed her thighs around his hips, around his neat, tight buttocks. She had looked him right in the eye and said she wanted him. She couldn’t believe her brazenness.

But she couldn’t deny she was desperate to get off the bike. Everything hurt. Every part of her body either hummed with pain or hummed with desire. All in all, she felt incredibly uncomfortable.

But then thankfully, after only fifteen minutes back on the road, they entered a small town and slowed down. They pulled into a car repair shop, the bike purring to a stop. The garage had its doors open, there were four bays, one had a car in it, jacked up already. There were no workers, except one, a man with gray hair and a giant gray mustache and beard. He sported a pot belly and a leather jacket. Without any patches, she noticed. Like Colt’s.

Colt pulled up next to the office building, a single story unit to the side of the garage. He shut off the engine and yanked off his helmet. April took that as her cue to do the same, reluctantly shifting away from Colt’s body. She was about to rise off the bike but his hand caught her wrist, urging her to stay seated. Her body screamed to stand but she followed his lead.

“Colt... as I live and breathe…” The old man slurred in a thick southern accent.

“Millhaus.” Colt nodded a greeting, but it was curt.

The old man, Millhaus, sauntered over to them. She felt Colt bristle. She’d assumed this guy was a friend, why would Colt take them to somewhere where they weren’t welcome?

“You told me, the last time you saw me, that you’d kill me. You said if I ever showed my face around California again, you’d put a bullet-”

“Yeah, I know what I said. Years have passed, old man, times have changed,” Colt cut him off.

“What? Your time behind bars made you reflective? Repentant? I never thought I’d see the day when the great Colt Kincade would be penitent about his previous hot-headedness,” Millhaus drawled.

“Something like that. You keep up to date then, knowing I did time,” Colt replied.

“Always got one ear to the ground.” Millhaus nodded.

Colt almost kissed his teeth. “Then you’ll have heard about the Black Coyotes. The ah… change in leadership?” Colt winced, sounding as though he hated saying the words. April sat quietly on the back of the bike, trying to read his body language through his thighs and his back, peering over his shoulder curiously.

“Sure did. Cleaver’s a dick. A rat’s dick. A mangy rat’s dick. There’s one way that MC is heading. Down,” Millhaus said.

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