Page 12 of Egg Me On (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #1)

Aiden

Dinner was a resounding success—I’d prepped big foil packets of sausages, veggies, and potatoes in advance, and cooking them over the campfire had been fun and simple, resulting in a savory mix of flavors that the crew had wolfed down.

I’d paired it with Dutch oven cornbread soaked in honey butter, and they’d praised it like it was ambrosia from the gods.

And the group campground even had a shower. It was basic, but felt luxurious as I washed the dirt and grime of the day off my body, paying close attention to the parts of me Cash might want to touch.

Was that silly? Maybe he wasn’t into me at all. But something had shifted between us today. I was sure of it. Mostly. Kind of.

Okay, not really sure at all, but hopeful.

As night descended, wrapping the clearing in velvety darkness pierced only by the crackling fire that painted everyone's faces in dancing amber light, I started to question that more and more.

Everyone had been welcoming, cheerful, and fun.

Everyone except Cash, who had been avoiding me.

Or perhaps avoiding the entire group, staying on the fringes of the crowd, never quite engaging.

He’d set up a tent for the two of us to share, and it was difficult for me to focus on anything but the thought of spending two nights in that tent with him.

Still, I tried to enjoy the company of the rest of my new friends. Tried not to focus solely on Cash.

I wasn’t sure what he wanted,

A little away from the crowd, Cash sat on one of the picnic table benches, with one boot propped on a rock, his posture relaxed but alert, like a predator at rest. Firelight played across the angles of his face, catching in his eyes when he occasionally glanced my way.

Each time our gazes connected, something electric shot through me, only to be broken when he'd look away, taking a measured sip of his beer.

"So there I was," Silas was saying, hands gesturing to emphasize his story, "bike dead in the middle of nowhere, no cell service, and this bear just wandering out of the trees like he owns the place."

"Bullshit," Marcus called out, laughter rippling through the group. "It was probably a large dog."

"I know a fucking bear when I see one," Silas defended, though his eyes crinkled with good humor. "Ask Cash. He had to come get me."

All eyes turned to Cash, who shrugged one powerful shoulder, then nodded, taking a sip of his beer.

“When he got there, I was up a tree.”

“Bro. What were you doing? Bears can climb trees!” Dylan gasped.

The group erupted in laughter, someone passing Silas another beer as consolation for his embarrassment.

I laughed along, feeling oddly privileged to see this side of the FRMC crew—relaxed, playful, sharing stories that built the foundation of their friendship.

For all their tattoos and motorcycles and tough exteriors, they were a family.

Dylan was on the log beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. As he leaned in and cracked another joke about Silas and the bear, his breath brushed across my cheek. But he wasn’t the one I wanted to be touching.

Across the fire, Cash's posture had changed, spine straightening, shoulders squaring. His eyes flickered to Dylan's knee where it nearly touched mine, then back to my face. I could see his jaw working, the muscles there tightening and releasing like he was grinding his teeth.

"The food truck must bring in all kinds of interesting people," Dylan said. "Ever had any celebrities come through?"

I launched into a story about the time a minor reality TV star had ordered every item on my menu, grateful for the easy topic.

Dylan was attentive, laughing at all the right moments, occasionally offering a quip that kept the conversation flowing.

He was charming, attractive in his own right, and under different circumstances, I might have been interested.

But every few seconds, my eyes would drift across the fire to Cash, who was now gripping his beer bottle so tightly I feared it might shatter in his hand.

His knuckles had gone white, and though he seemed to be listening to Marcus's newest story, his eyes kept returning to Dylan and me with unmistakable intensity.

"So why a food truck?" Dylan asked, his shoulder now firmly pressed against mine as he leaned in to be heard over the raucous laughter erupting from another part of the circle. "Why not a regular restaurant?"

"Freedom," I answered honestly. "I didn’t like working under a chef at a big restaurant—I wanted to make my own recipes—and I like being able to move, to bring food to different places, different communities. Plus, the startup costs were way lower."

Dylan nodded, looking genuinely interested. "Smart. Mobile business model, lower overhead. And then you get to meet people like us," he grinned, gesturing around the campfire. "Lucky you."

"Lucky me," I agreed, returning his smile.

Cash abruptly stood, the movement drawing my attention immediately. He stalked over to us and stopped directly in front of us, looking down with barely contained... something. Anger? Jealousy? His chest rose and fell with slightly too-rapid breaths, fists clenched at his sides.

“Hey, Cash,” I said, grinning up at him.

He reached down and wrapped strong fingers around my wrist, tugging me to my feet with surprising gentleness despite the obvious tension radiating from him.

"You want to go to bed? So soon?" I asked, bewildered but undeniably thrilled by his touch, by the possessive way his fingers encircled my wrist.

He was already pulling me away from the fire, from Dylan, from the curious eyes of the FRMC crew.

"Don't mind us," Dylan called after us, laughter in his voice. "Just pretend we're not even here."

A few chuckles followed us as Cash led me across the clearing toward our tent, his grip on my wrist never loosening.

My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could feel my pulse beneath his fingertips.

What did he want to show me? And why the urgency, the barely contained emotion that seemed to vibrate through him?

"Cash," I began, confused but exhilarated. "What are you—"

Cash unzipped our tent and guided me through the tent flap, the nylon rustling, and his hands gentling as he helped me inside.

The small space was illuminated only by a battery-powered lantern hanging from a hook in the center, casting everything in a soft, amber glow.

I stumbled forward, thrown off balance by his urgency and the awkward crouch needed to enter the tent, and my foot caught on something solid—Cash's duffel bag, sitting open on the tent floor.

I pitched forward with a startled yelp, arms windmilling uselessly as gravity took over.

My hands hit the sleeping bags first, breaking my fall as the duffel tipped onto its side. Items cascaded out across the tent floor—a toiletry kit, a folded t-shirt, and then... oh.

Oh.

Three foil packets skittered across the nylon floor, followed by an unmistakable bottle that rolled to a stop against my knee. Condoms. And lube. High-end stuff, too, not the cheap shit from gas station bathrooms.

The tent filled with thick, stunned silence.

Cash froze in a half-crouch at the entrance.

He’d just finished zipping the door closed, and one hand sat on the zipper, eyes wide as he stared at the scattered evidence of his.

.. preparations. I stared too, my brain short-circuiting as it processed what this meant.

Cash had brought condoms. And lube. To a tent he knew we'd be sharing.

Slowly, I reached out and picked up one of the foil packets, turning it over between my fingers. It caught the lantern light, shiny and new and full of possibilities.

"Planning ahead for something?" I asked, trying for casual but hearing the slight tremor in my voice. I looked up at Cash, finding his face flushed dark beneath his stubble, jaw clenched so tight I could practically hear his teeth grinding.

He moved suddenly, dropping to his knees and scrambling to gather the items, shoving them back into his bag with uncharacteristic clumsiness. His movements were jerky, almost panicked, so unlike his usual precise control.

“It’s okay if you are.”

Cash's head snapped up, his eyes locking with mine. The raw hunger there stole my breath.

"You've been staring at me all night. You nearly broke that beer bottle watching Dylan flirt with me. Maybe you should have been flirting with me instead."

Cash's nostrils flared, muscles in his forearms flexing as his hands curled into fists against his thighs.

I twirled the condom between my fingers, watching his eyes track the movement. "And then you marched me to our tent like you were staking a claim."

A muscle jumped in Cash's jaw.

"I’m not complaining. I'd rather be here. With you."

Cash exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. When he dropped it, his expression had shifted from embarrassment to something darker, hungrier. But he didn’t move. What was he waiting for? Another month of quiet touches and hungry glances?

Fuck subtlety.

I lunged across the tent and kissed him, hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

The first press of our lips was clumsy, off center, tinged with desperation.

Cash stiffened against me, body going rigid.

For one terrifying heartbeat, I thought I'd misread everything. That he’d been fucking with me. The condoms and lube were all a joke.

Then he growled—actually growled—deep in his throat, and suddenly his hands were in my hair, angling my head, lips crashing back against mine with bruising force.

He kissed like he did everything else—with precision and intensity that left no room for half-measures.

His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming, exploring, telling me exactly how thorough he'd be with the rest of my body.

I moaned into the kiss, fingers digging into his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his t-shirt.

Cash responded by shoving me backward onto the sleeping bags, following me down without breaking the kiss.

His weight settled over me, delicious and heavy, one thigh pressing between mine.

I arched up against him, desperate for friction, for pressure, for anything he'd give me.

He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to stare down at me, eyes dark with desire. His breathing came in short, harsh pants that matched my own. One large hand framed my face, thumb tracing my lower lip with surprising tenderness.

There was a question in his eyes that he didn’t ask out loud.

I reached up, fingers tracing the edge of his stubbled jaw, making absolutely sure he understood.

"If you’re asking, the answer is yes. I want you to fuck me, Cash.

I've been fantasizing about you since the day we met," I confessed. "Lots of very dirty fantasies, and you know, maybe I shouldn’t be sharing so much? I don’t know. Oh, and I’m a bottom, but I don’t mind topping if you want to try that, but if you want to stick your dick in me, I’m all for that. My mouth is available—"

Something fierce and possessive flashed in his eyes as he cut me off with a hungry kiss. Then he dipped his head, lips brushing my ear, nibbling down my throat, hungry and wild, communicating everything with touch instead of words.

His teeth grazed my earlobe, sending sparks cascading down my spine.

I gasped, arching against him as his mouth traced a burning path down my neck.

One of his hands slid beneath my shirt, calloused palm hot against my skin, and I shivered against his touch, reaching between his legs to cup him, finding him rock hard. And very, very big.

“Okay, you’re going to need to do some prep to fit this inside me,” I said, grinning.