Page 11 of Heart of Stone (Stoneheart MC #1)
The space feels older and less touched despite the additions below it. But even here there are signs of the MC. A panic room hidden behind steel, a solid safe and spare armory built for protection.
“Just in case,” Ginger says with a laugh as she shows me how to enter the panic room.
Beyond the house, the property sprawls across acres of land running the full length of the block. Trees ring the boundary, and yards of green grass, built up beds, and outbuildings dot the land.
The barracks, a converted barn, sits a short walk from the main farmhouse. It’s rougher, less refined, and is where the prospects and lower-ranking members sleep. The scent of motor oil, sweat and sawdust lingers there. Practical. Crowded. Temporary.
The chapel, a smaller outbuilding, is off to the east, the windows double glazed and tinted.
“Don’t go in there,” Ginger warns as we stroll past. “That’s for club members only.”
The day rushes by in a chaotic shamble of moving furniture, cleaning out the fridge, and entertaining tiny humans. By the time I get them fed, bathed, and into bed, I’m utterly exhausted.
Closing the door gently on the kids’ room, I tiptoe down the hall and out onto the back deck. The large yard is silent, the cool of the night having long since settled in.
The house feels different at night. Quieter, but with an undercurrent of tension that has nothing to do with the movie night happening in the garage.
I sit on the back deck, nursing a beer and listening to the baby monitor. The twins crashed hard after their exciting day of being spoiled rotten by bikers. Even Adam went down easily, probably worn out from being passed between Ginger and what feels like half the club’s female population.
“They settle okay?”
I nearly jump out of my skin. For a big man, Hawk moves like a ghost.
“Jesus.” I press a hand to my chest. “Make some noise next time.”
He drops into the chair beside me, stretching out his long legs. “In my clubhouse, remember?”
Right. His club. His rules. His… everything.
“They’re fine,” I say, answering his original question. “Though I think Steel might have permanently damaged his reputation as a badass. Last I saw, the twins were trying to convince him to wear fairy wings.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Prospects need to be broken in somehow.”
We sit in silence for a while, the night air heavy with humidity and unspoken words. A loud cheer erupts from the garage, followed by laughter.
“You can join them, you know,” I say. “You don’t need to babysit me.”
“It’s fine.” He props his booted feet up on the railing.
The night sounds swirl around us—a distant owl hooting in the trees, the rhythmic hum of cicadas, and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by a faint, warm breeze.
The air feels thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the faint tang of gasoline drifting from the garage.
Overhead, the moon hangs low, veiled by a patchwork of clouds that seem to trap the weight of the night, pressing down on us in a heavy, unyielding silence.
I pick at the label on my beer. “Look, about us staying. I appreciate the help, but?—”
“But nothing. You’re here until the power’s back.” His tone doesn’t allow for argument.
More silence. More tension. More questions I’m not sure I want answered.
“The kids like you,” I say finally, desperate to break the quiet.
“Kids are easy. They don’t want anything from you except attention.”
Unlike adults, goes unsaid.
“You have experience with kids?”
“Some.” His voice flattens, warning me off that topic.
I take the hint, returning to my beer, but I feel his eyes on me, heavy as a touch.
“Why’d you kiss me?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“Why’d you kiss me back?” he counters.
Touché.
I trace my finger through the condensation on my beer bottle. “That’s not an answer.”
“Neither is that.”
The tension crackles between us, thick as the humid air. Another burst of laughter floats out from the garage, but it feels distant, removed from the bubble we’ve found ourselves in.
“This is a bad idea,” I say finally.
“Probably.”
“I have the kids to think about.”
“I know.”
“And you’re obviously involved in something”—I wave my hand vaguely—“complicated.”
His lips twitch. “That’s one word for it.”
“So we should just…” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
“Should just what?” He turns his head to look at me, moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face. “Pretend it didn’t happen? Ignore it? Play house for three days and then what?”
“I don’t know.” The admission feels raw, honest. “I don’t know anything anymore. Three days ago, my biggest worry was whether to replace my bike’s spark plugs. Now I’ve got three kids, no power, and I’m sitting on a biker’s porch trying to figure out why I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Figure it out yet?”
I meet his gaze. “No. You?”
“Yeah.” He shifts in his chair, his knee brushing mine. The contact is subtle but searing. “I figured out I want to do it again.”
The baby monitor crackles with Adam’s restless sounds before I can respond.
“I should—” I start to rise, but Hawk’s hand comes down on my thigh, warm and unyielding.
“Give it a minute,” he murmurs, voice like gravel. “He’ll settle.”
Sure enough, Adam’s noises fade back to soft breathing.
Hawk’s hand stays where it is. Heavy. Certain. Branding me through the worn denim of my cutoffs.
“This is still a bad idea,” I whisper.
“Probably.” The corner of his mouth curves, and his gaze locks with mine. Dark. Intense. Hungry. “But that doesn’t mean we should stop.”
And then his thumb moves.
He traces a slow, torturous circle against my bare skin just above my knee. Barely there, but the heat of it sinks deep, spreading like wildfire, coiling low in my belly until I can barely think past the sensation.
“I can think of plenty of reasons we shouldn’t do this.” But my protest sounds weak even to me.
“Name one.” His voice drops lower, rougher. A challenge that seems to vibrate through my chest and dance across my skin.
“The kids.”
“Sleeping.”
“My job.”
“Duck won’t care.”
I swallow hard. “You don’t like me.”
His thumb stills. “Who said that?”
The weight of that question hangs between us, heavy as the humid air. From the garage, another round of laughter drifts out, but it feels like it’s coming from miles away.
I suck in a breath to answer—and then he leans closer.
The scent of him washes over me—whiskey, worn leather, and something distinctly him . Earthy. Masculine. It surrounds me, soothing and exhilarating at once, playing absolute havoc with my senses.
The tension in his face is carved deep—jaw tight, lips slightly parted like he’s holding back. But it’s his eyes that undo me. They burrow into mine, dark with hunger and something even deeper.
Possession.
My lips part, ready to speak— beg maybe—as his fingers dance higher, gliding along my thigh. Slow. Unrelenting. Until the calloused pad of his thumb brushes under the frayed hem of my shorts.
A breath catches in my throat, my body swaying toward him on instinct, desperate for more.
“Hawk—”
“You talk too much,” he growls, voice ragged, and then his hand shifts, fingertips trailing higher, higher—until his thumb traces the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. Just enough to make my thighs tense. Just enough to leave me trembling.
“I—”
The baby monitor erupts with Adam’s cry.
I jerk back, nearly falling out of my chair.
“Fuck,” he grunts, his hand dropping away. “The timing on this kid.”
I scramble. “I should?—”
“Yeah,” he mutters, already turning from me. “Run away, little lamb.”
I hurry inside, my heart pounding against my ribs. Behind me, I hear the scrape of his chair, then the sound of his boots on the deck boards.
By the time I get Adam settled again, Hawk is gone, the only evidence he was there is the lingering warmth on my thigh where his hand had been and two empty beer bottles on the rail.
I touch my thigh, remembering the heat of his touch, the intensity in his eyes.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolls.
A storm is coming.
In more ways than one.