Page 5

Chapter 5

Mira

I’m not sure what to expect as far as a biker clubhouse, but when we arrive, loud music and laughter spill from within. It sounds like there's quite a party going on in there.

Ghost doesn’t take me in through the front door, though. Instead, he guides me around back and up a staircase, his large hand clasped around mine, gently and firmly pulling me along. The worn wooden steps creak beneath his heavy boots, but he moves with surprising grace for such a large man.

We encounter no one on our way up. Ghost unlocks a door and ushers me into what can only be his private quarters. The space is spartanly furnished but meticulously neat—a few pieces of solid wooden furniture, a leather armchair in one corner, and a large bed dominating the room. The whole thing is lovely, far nicer than my cramped, damp place, but...

A bed. One bed.

The realization dawns on me, and a knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach. Is this...? Does he...?

"Where should I sleep?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Ghost nods at the bed.

"Right. And you? Where will you...?" My voice trails off, already knowing his answer.

Another nod at the same bed.

Right. Fine.

He crosses his arms over his chest casually, a brow raised, as if waiting for a response from me.

The tension in my shoulders tightens just a fraction more as I contemplate the bed—our shared space for the night. "Okay.” Embarrassingly, the word comes out as more of a squeak than actual speech.

Ghost's eyes fall on the damp duffel bag I'm hugging to my middle like a shield and with casual confidence, he crosses the room, shrugging off his cut and hanging it with careful reverence on a hook by the door. The muscles in his back ripple beneath his t-shirt as he bends to pull something from a drawer.

"Bathroom's through there if you want to change," he says, handing me what appears to be one of his t-shirts. "Should work as a nightshirt."

I manage a withering smile despite my nerves, before retreating to the small attached bathroom, desperate for a moment alone to collect my scattered thoughts.

Inside the bathroom, I take a steadying breath, lean against the closed door, and think about the strange turn this evening has taken. What is Ghost expecting tonight?

Sex, of course. Duh, Mia.

A delicious thrill runs through me.

I've never had sex before. Not because I lacked opportunities, if you want to call men like creepy Dave opportunities, but because I've never wanted to do it with anyone—until now. Until Ghost.

In this moment, I'm overtaken by a sensation so rare it's almost foreign to me. Fortune. If I'm going to lose my virginity, I'm fortunate it's with a man like Ghost. A real man—one who radiates a fierce masculinity and primal strength. A man with honor.

Honor?

He’s the president of an outlaw biker club, not to mention he came dangerously close to ending a life right in front of you tonight. Can you really call him honorable?

There’s an undeniable darkness to him. But he acted to shield me, and that knowledge alone sparks tingles in my belly.

My heart races wildly, chaotically, and I have to employ my breathing exercise again—four counts in, four counts out.

It seems to work.

I almost giggle aloud as I fumble with his t-shirt. It's warm and smells faintly of leather and spice. When I slide it over my head, it swallows me whole, the hem falling almost to my knees. There's something vaguely erotic about wearing the t-shirt of a huge biker and shivers of nervous excitement slither through me as I anticipate his rough hands taking it off me.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is a tangled mess, and my eyes betray my excitement. There's a faint flush to my cheeks that makes me look more like a girl about to go to her first dance than a woman about to share a bed with a man like Ghost—a man whose very presence intimidates.

In here, I can hear faint sounds wafting up from downstairs—shouts intermingled with the rhythmic base of the music. The energy feels alive, almost electric. I can't shake the curiosity creeping in. This is his world. What would it feel like to belong here?

What would it feel like to belong anywhere?

When I emerge from the bathroom, Ghost is reclining on the bed, his arms behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankles watching me with those intense dark gray eyes. He's wearing nothing but tight boxer briefs, putting his well-built body on full display. Intricate tattoos cover his muscled chest and arms —dark swirls and sharp angles that almost, but not quite, hide the collection of scars marring his skin. Powerful thighs, strong calf muscles, and deeply-defined abs are clearly visible, as is a tempting V that points the way to the large bulge beneath the waistband of his briefs. He's magnificent.

My cheeks heat and a wave of arousal drenches my panties. He’s so big and sexy and masculine.

A relaxed grin is plastered on his face.

"Better?" he asks, tilting his head toward me, his voice low and smooth like warm honey.

"Yeah. Better." I nod, enthusiastic but still teetering on that precipice of nerves.

I take a tentative step toward the bed then stop. This is it. My first time. My first ever sexual experience. Despite my nerves, I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from grinning like a lunatic.

And then he opens his mouth and my excitement crashes and burns.

"You don't need to worry," he says quietly. "I don't plan on touching you tonight."

I want to beg, I want to plead—touch me, please! And I almost do, but the words catch in my throat and stay there.

I simply nod, trying to hide my slight disappointment.

Silly. I'm silly. Of course he doesn’t want…

He's only being honorable, offering shelter to a woman who’s having a shit night. Nothing more.

Finally willing my feet to move again, I climb into bed. The sheets are surprisingly soft, and the mattress is far more comfortable than my lumpy futon.

Although I'm careful to maintain space between us, I can feel the warmth radiating off him. His powerful presence is intoxicating.

He reaches over and switches off the bedside lamp, plunging us into darkness. For several long moments, we lie in an awkward, charged silence.

"Tell me something," Ghost says finally, his deep voice rumbling in the darkness. "How is someone who works as hard as you living in a flooded shitbox?"

I'm mortified. I stare up at the ceiling, fighting back the burning in my eyes as I search for the right words to explain. How much to reveal? What parts of my unsavory past do I lay bare? I already feel like a charity case, do I really want to lay my sob story on him?

No, I don't, but something tells me he's not about to let it go, so I feed him a half-truth.

"I can't rent anywhere decent. My credit is ruined."

"How did that happen?"

Is that judgement I hear in his tone? I really hope not. This is already embarrassing enough. I swallow hard, setting my shoulders back as I steel myself for the confession.

"My last foster parents,” I start, my voice steadier than I feel, “they... they used my social security number. Opened credit cards, took out loans. Wracked up huge bills. I didn't even know until I tried to rent my first apartment."

Ghost's rumbling snarl startles me. It almost sounds like he growled the word "motherfuckers."

"There's not much I can do." My voice cracks and I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.

When he asks, "Have they been prosecuted?" I'm suddenly overcome with shame.

"Um...well, no. I thought about going to the police, but I don't need that." It’ll only make them hate me more and possibly come after me. By way of explanation, and praying I don't sound as pathetic as I feel, I add, "It's hard to fight a legal battle when you're all alone and mere survival is kicking your butt."

Ghost rolls onto his side to face me, and even in the dim light, I can see the intensity burning in his dark eyes.

"Look at me." His voice is commanding but gentle. When I meet his gaze, the fierce protectiveness there steals my breath. "You're not alone anymore. You've got me now."

I suck in a sharp inhale and before I can stop myself, I whisper, "Do I? Do I have you?"

"You're fucking-A right you do."

An unfamiliar warmth blooms in my chest—a feeling so overwhelming it brings tears to my eyes.

They're not tears of sadness or frustration this time. They're tears of hope. Of gratitude. Of relief.

My emotions override my brain, and I act before I think. Rolling my body toward his, my eyes still damp with unshed tears, I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him.