So I’m passing, no matter how pretty his package is. I lean up, press a kiss against his cheek because I’m weak enough to want that much contact, and step away.
“Thanks. Tonight was fun.”
I’m moving toward my car before I’ve finished speaking, just in case Vik has other ideas. Because well-used or not, I won’t stand firm if he puts that mouth of his to good use. His fingers. His pretty, pretty...package. Yes, I sneak one last look at the impressive bulge in his jeans as I hightail it away. It’s like taking a final peep at the Grand Canyon or some other natural wonder. How can you not look?
He raises a hand, looking amused. “Later.”
Oh, I hope not.
Don’t I?
CHAPTER SIX
Vik
I WAKE UP way too early for a Sunday morning. We had one hell of a party out at the clubhouse. Fun times. When I was twenty-one and wet behind the ears, it was about the booze and the babes, tapping the ass I could and generally showing life my middle finger. I don’t like to plan shit out, but now it’s about hanging with my brothers, celebrating another day on the road, another milestone, remembering the good times and not forgetting the bad. On Friday, Hun had officially beaten the charges against him and we’d all raised a beer to that.
I’ve known plenty of bikers, and we all have stories behind our road names. Some stories are funny, others less so, but I’ve never figured Hun’s out. Depending on his mood, he’ll give a dozen different reasons for his label, but they boil down to one of two things. Either he fights with the cunning intensity of a Hun, or he possesses legendary aftercare skills with the club’s female hangers-on. He claims the ladies nicknamed him Hon’, Honey Bunny or Honey Bunches of Oats because he’s that goddamned sweet to them. Most of the brothers just take turns punching him when he says shit like that.
Last night, though, was good. Hun walked free, and we celebrated. Party time’s not about knocking back the beer and tequila anymore. Life gets all too real, too fast, so it’s important to slow down and savor the good moments. Harper is definitely shaping up to be one of those.
Or if I’m a lucky bastard, a really bad, downright filthy moment. No matter what my old man wants, I’m not a long-term man. He’d like me to find an old lady and settle down, but that’s not happening. I don’t look past the next weekend, although for Harper I might make an exception and give her more than a night or two. She’d be worth at least a week.
I get out of bed before I can do something really stupid like jerk off to a very fucking fond memory of Harper’s heels. Black, leather and a bow tie. Those are the ultimate cock tease in shoes and I’m not dead. I love the way she owns her height. Those four-inch heels scream I can measure up or not. She can take me, leave me, do me—if I’m man enough.
My dad’s parked in the living room in his boxers, watching Oprah reruns and eating toaster waffles. I take a better look at the plate he’s holding and revise that to syrup with waffles. I need one of those services that ships meals in a box. Or maybe a breakfast place that delivers. Even fruit would be a step in the right direction. That much Mrs. Butterworth’s can’t be good for his arteries. Fuck if I know anything about taking care of an old man, but I’ll learn.
My old man’s not perfect, and neither am I. Between him and the club brothers who patched me in, they kicked my ass into a man who I can mostly face in the mirror. My old man’s crotchety and he has a sweet tooth—the rest of him is blunt as fuck. Own up to your mistakes and raise a beer to the successes. That’s what he taught me, so now that he needs me to be more, I just have to figure it out.
I give him the side-eye as he waves his sticky fork at me in greeting. “Morning.”
It would be better if I’d been waking up with Harper by my side. Or underneath me. On top of me. I’m not picky about her position as long as she’s naked and screaming my name.
I grunt a greeting in my old man’s direction and grab for the coffeepot. After sex, riding and ink, coffee comes next. Some people fantasize about banging on a beach in Fiji, but I’ve always thought I’d like to give a coffee plantation in Kona a whirl. Wonder if Harper would be up for that?
I resist the thought and stagger back to the kitchen table. “You have a good night?”
He beams. “Played poker with Lora.”
Lora’s awesome. She sits with my dad when I go out. She’s assured me that she’s okay with his incessant flirting, and she also does her best to make sure he’s fed and safe. She’s a good woman, and I don’t need my dad cleaning her out.
“You shouldn’t take her money.” I empty the coffee as fast as I can. It tastes better than the beers I knocked back last night.
“Won two socks, a flip-flop and her bra.” My old man cackles like a maniac. “She refused to ante up her panties.”
Jesus.
“But she cleaned out that young man you stuck in the hallway.” My old man shoots me a sidelong look.
“Goolie?” Goolie’s only been prospecting with us for a month. He did two tours in the Middle East and has a strong preference for not shooting shit anymore.
My old man cackles. “She had him down to his boxers in minutes. Think the bra might have been a decoy.” He shakes his head. “She’s an awesome fucking woman, and that boy
