Page 25 of Brash for It (Hellions Ride On #11)

My hand drifts south, not sneaky, just greedy.

She curves into it, wordless yes. The counter digs the backs of her thighs.

I slot a knee between hers and she rides it without shame, chasing what she wants like tonight taught her she’s allowed.

Her head tips back, throat exposed, and I take the invitation to lay my mouth where her pulse hammers, to mark with lips and heat, not teeth.

“Kellum,” she breathes, and it wrecks me. Every time.

I slide a hand to the waist of her jeans, pop the button, draw the zipper slow.

She’s already there, body ahead of thought, ready.

I cup her and she shudders; I work her with the patience I’ve learned pays off, a firm circle, a slow drag, the little pressure that turns the noise in her head into music.

She chases it, hips grinding, mouth open, hands in my hair like she’s trying to hold on to gravity.

“Look at me,” I command, and she does, eyes blown and honest. “You’re doing it.”

Her laugh breaks into a moan. “You’re doing it.”

“We’re doing it,” I correct, and push her that last inch.

She comes with that sharp, clean break. Her body bows, then melts, her hands finding my shoulders like she’s saying thanks without words. I ease her down slow, kissing the corner of her mouth, the spot under her ear, the place on her jaw that makes her go soft.

We stand there for a minute, breathing. The porch light hums. A car goes by and the driver doesn’t know something just happened in a kitchen that smells like garlic and dish soap.

I right her jeans without rush, zip, button, press my palm to the flat of her stomach for one more second because I like how it feels to have her keep the heat.

She blinks up at me, wrecked and bright. “You’re… unfair.”

“Probably,” I state.

Her hand slides down, tests how unfair I am, and finds me rock hard.

I hiss through my teeth, grip the counter harder, try to remember every rule I invented for nights like this with her.

Anyone else I would have fucked senseless weeks ago.

With Kristen it matters and I have mentally talked myself down almost every night for months.

“Kristen,” I warn, and she smiles like the woman who told a rich boy to leave her porch.

“Adults,” she whispers kissing my jawline. “Consenting adults. You wouldn’t deny me, would you.”

“Consenting isn’t always smart,” I warn.

She pouts just for show. “You won’t?—”

“Not tonight, darlin’, but soon.” I explain. I make it a promise, not a punishment. “You earned something bigger than chasing another adrenaline rush. You earned a night where the loudest thing you hear is your own voice telling a man to leave your house.”

She exhales, a laugh bumped into by a sigh. “You make restraint sexy.”

“I’ve got a lot of practice.”

“I hate that you want to be good to me sometimes,” she admits, and leans up for one more slow kiss that tastes like wine and wreckage and the quiet after a storm.

I will my cock to calm down because tonight isn’t the night.

We clean the counter because life goes on, then we step outside because the night is too good to waste and the moths deserve an audience for their poor choices of dancing with the heat.

She leans against the porch post; I lean beside her, fingers brushing, breath mixing like I want our bodies to soon.

Somewhere there is a dog whining about being inside.

Somewhere a kid laughs at something on a screen.

The world is the world. Our porch is ours.

“You okay with me calling the cops if he comes back?” she asks after a while, not looking at me.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I got nothing to hide, darlin’.

My house is clean and always will be. Outlaw life doesn’t mean outlaw home.

And are you okay with me calling our lawyer if he tries anything cute with your job?

Should tell you, you’re gonna have a man on you for a bit.

Probably a prospect, but until Brian has moved on with his life, I would feel better having Hellions eyes on you. ”

She smiles. “I like your brand of security.”

“Low-tech. Reliable.”

We don’t say the thing that weighs the heaviest. The ex might be a coward with resources, but those kind of men sometimes use their connections for devious intentions.

Instead we plan like we always do—practical, step by step.

Camera for the porch tomorrow, a heads-up for Trina, a note in the notebook so it doesn’t get lost in the heat of memory.

When dinner is settled in our bellies, we make our way inside to unwind.

In bed, she doesn’t hesitate. She comes to me like a habit that’s good for you. I roll onto my back. She folds across me.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper into her hair. “Sleep.”

“Bossy,” she counters, and I feel her smile against my chest.

“Also true.”

She hums. The sound sits right in the place where the restless usually chews. It doesn’t tonight. Not after that. I stroke her hair without thinking, the rhythm that has become our truce with the dark.

“You know,” she murmurs, sleep climbing her bones, “it felt… good. Not just to yell at him. To not have you fight for me. To do it myself and know you were there if I fell apart. I knew you would take my back but I will always cherish that you gave me the space to fight my own battle.”

“That’s the point,” I explain, and somewhere inside me, a fifteen-year-old kid rebuilding a motor with his dad notes that this is a different version of calm, and it counts just as much.

She’s asleep in minutes. I lay awake longer, because I’m me. I watch the cracks in the ceiling become a map that could lead anywhere. I feel the heat of her on my chest and the heat of earlier in my blood, and I don’t move. I don’t make it about me. I let it sit, quiet.

Morning smells like coffee. I’m up first, because that’s how my bones work.

I take the trash to the curb; the bag is heavier than it should be for two people.

I pile the dishes we did into the cabinet.

I check the front steps for any sign of last night besides the water stain from the hose. Nothing. Good.

Kristen wanders in the kitchen with sleepy hair and a T-shirt that is another one of mine.

She yawns, wide, unembarrassed, and pours coffee like a woman who knows how to operate a machine that someone else set up for her on purpose.

She takes a sip, grimaces like she always does at my brew, and doctors it into something friendlier.

“You sleep?” I ask even though I know the answer.

“Like someone who doesn’t have a past hauting her.” She leans hip to counter, looks at me over the rim of the mug.

She snorts more to herself than me, then she explains. “We need to buy a new doormat. The old one says WELCOME and that’s wrong.”

“Not wrong,” I reply. “Selective company only.”

“Welcome—unless your name is Brian.” She laughs, then sobers. “Do you think he’ll try something?”

“Maybe.” I don’t lie. “But not today. Pride’s been hurt. He’ll spend a few days telling himself a story about why he’s the hero. Then he’ll get bored.”

“And then?” she presses.

“And then he’ll poke the bear again until he moves on.” I shrug. “We’ll be ready. Cameras. Paper trail. People who answer when you call.” I nod at the phone on the counter, the one I put together and forced into her hand when she thought a thousand dollars was too much to accept. “You got numbers.”

She sets the mug down, steps closer, slides her arms around my waist under the hem of my T-shirt the way she’s learned turns me into a softer man. “I’ve got a person.”

“Two or three,” I remind, because the brothers count, and even my mother if you want to be honest about who shows up with toothbrushes, but one call from anyone who matters to her boys and she walks through fire for us all.

She squeezes. When she tilts her head up, her mouth is soft, night still in it. I kiss her once, morning-slow, only breaking away when I feel her sag into relaxation. Then I blow on the coffee for her when she goes back to it like I can’t help myself. She pretends not to notice.

We make breakfast—eggs in a pan that’s seen better days, toast that the toaster spits out easy.

She steals the better piece and I let her.

We eat at the table She opens the notebook, flips past A LIFE THAT CAN’T GET TOWED , and writes Brian—trespass/call if returns in neat letters.

Under that, Porch camera and tell work about camera install .

She draws a small box next to each one; she likes the feel of the check mark. So do I.

Her shift is later today, but she wants to go in early to explain why I have my team coming in for extra security.

Mine’s a morning of parts and a brake job that fights back.

We ride in the SUV because helmets don’t pair with hair she wants to wear to work today.

I pull into the spa’s lot and don’t kill the engine yet.

“You call me if he shows,” I remind. “You call the police first. Then me. Then Trina if you can’t get me. But you’ll get me.”

She nods. “Yes.”

“And if some asshole says ‘white trash’ again within earshot, you throw that word back at him with a question mark. Make him define it.”

She grins. “Yes, sir.”

I lift a brow. “Careful darlin’ I might like that a little too much.”

She laughs, steals a quick kiss, and slips out.

She turns at the door, taps the glass with two fingers, and disappears into rooms that smell like eucalyptus and acetone and women who, today, will get scheduled by someone who knows herself like never before.

I watch her go until the desk blocks her.

Then I pull out and head to the shop because life is two rails: the heart and the work, and I can ride both if I don’t look down too long.

Day does what it does. Bolts, belts, receipts.

Around lunch, my phone buzzes.

Kristen: Told the receptionist. She put my name on the “do not disturb” list for creeps. Trina says camera at the front door is already rolling. Also: a woman cried at the desk and I gave her a tissue without panicking. Gold star?

I type back, grease on my thumb: Two stars. Remember to eat.

An hour later: He didn’t show. I’m a little mad about how disappointed I am that he didn’t. Not because I want to see him. I just wanted to use my line again.

I text back: I’m sure you can come up with a better one if the situation presents itself.

By the time the sun starts to think about dropping, the worst of the day’s heat lets go.

I clean up, wash my hands until the grease gives up around the scars, and ride over to the spa because picking her up never feels like an errand.

She comes out with her tote bumping her hip, face flushed in a way that’s not stress.

She waves at Trina, says something that makes the woman laugh, and then she’s mine—walking across the lot eyes on me like the rest of the world ceases to exist.

“How was it?” I greet.

“Good.” She slides into the seat, buckles in like a person who is ready to go home. “I put a lotion sample in my bag for Jenni. Tell her it’s for knees. She’ll understand.” Her grin is wicked; my sister in law will, in fact, understand.

On the drive, she reaches over and fits her hand over my thigh just above the knee.

It sits there, warm, certain, not trying to steer, not testing me.

Just resting like it has a right. The porch comes into view and doesn’t look like a stage waiting for a fight anymore.

It looks like where we eat, where we relax.

We don’t grill tonight. We order takeout because the world didn’t end and because sometimes the best thing you can do for a day is put your feet up and let someone else drop dinner on your porch.

We eat noodles out of cartons with chopsticks that make me swear and make her laugh.

She tells me a story about a woman who wanted her dog’s nails painted and I tell her about a man who tried to pay with a jar full of quarters and we both agree that jars full of quarters are accepted currency, but still a pain in the ass.

Later, with dishes stacked and the list checked and the porch cam app sitting smug on her phone, we stand in the doorway where last night’s line was drawn.

The street is quiet. The moths are back to their light.

She turns to me with that look—the one that says I choose this.

In daylight. It’s the look I’ve been waiting for.

Our time is almost here. And something tells me once I have her completely, I might not want to let her go.

I’ve never felt this way before and if I’m being honest, it scares me just a little.