Page 15 of Heart of Stone (Stoneheart MC #1)

ANDI

M otor oil is a bitch to get out from under your fingernails.

I scrub harder at the black crescents in Duck's tiny bathroom sink, wondering why I’m even bothering. It’s not like Hawk hasn’t seen me covered in grease earlier today. True, I’d become even more caked while wrestling with the Vincent's timing, but what’s a little more filth between friends?

With a huff, I toss the scrubber into the sink and look up at my reflection in the mirror.

The woman staring back looks tired but strong—I’m broad shoulders and work-hardened muscles wrapped in abundant curves that never quite fit society's ideal.

My dark auburn hair is pulled back in its usual messy ponytail, wisps escaping to frame a face that's more striking than pretty.

Years of working on engines have left their mark in the tiny scars on my hands and the chipped nails.

I'm not small or delicate or any of the things men usually want. I learned early on that I'd never be anyone's idea of dainty. But my body is strong. Capable.

I love being me. I love my body, my life, my strength.

Even if sometimes, late at night, I wonder if anyone will ever see past the grease to the woman underneath.

God, why does this feel different? It’s just a ride. Not like a... date. Right?

My phone buzzes on the sink edge. Ginger.

"You better be getting pretty," she sings when I answer.

“You know.”

“I do,” she laughs. “Now answer the question.”

"I'm washing motor oil off my hands," I say, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder. "How are the kids?"

"Perfect angels. Steel’s already promised three tea parties, and Tank’s been recruited as the dragon they need to slay."

A muffled protest in the background sounds suspiciously like a roar.

"Are you sure you don’t mind?—"

"Stop. The kids are fine. Tank is a big softie. He loves kids. Ours are all grown now, which makes me sad. They’re smelly teens with their own lives, and I never got girls, only three boys who just want to make out with girls and guys and play ball.

Ugh. Now, tell me you’re not wearing those coveralls to this date. "

"It’s not a date."

“Babe. You’re on the back of his bike. That’s biker for date. ”

I glance at the bag I’ve stashed under the sink. “I had a change of clothes in my locker.”

"Describe.”

I sigh. “Jeans, a fluffy pink sweater, and a leather jacket.”

“I mean… did you happen to grab makeup?”

“I have lip gloss.”

"I'm hanging up now and coming right over."

“Ginger!”

Her laugh echoes through the phone. "Look, the guy is lost for you. Go have fun."

I mutter something under my breath.

"What was that, sugar?"

“I said I don’t do fun.”

“Hmm. When's the last time you did something just for you?"

I can’t remember.

"It's just a ride," I say, turning back to the mirror. "You’re turning it into something bigger than it is. He probably wants to talk about the house rules or something."

"Sure. Because bikers always take women on their bikes to 'talk' about rules. Unless we’re talking bedroom rules, in which case?—"

“Ginger!”

The rumble of a motorcycle pulling into the lot has my stomach doing flips.

"Well," Ginger practically purrs, "sounds like your chariot awaits."

I shake my head. "Good night, Ginger. Don’t wait up."

She cackles as I hit end.

I toss the phone onto my bag and stare at my reflection. The woman looking back seems foreign—hair loose instead of tied back, a touch of mascara, lips glossed pink.

What the hell am I doing?

I change into the clothes, grab my bag, and head out, forcing myself not to overthink this.

Fat chance.

The sun is just starting to set, painting the garage lot in shades of gold and amber.

Hawk sits astride his bike, one boot planted on the ground. He’s changed too—dark jeans, white T-shirt under his cut, his hair still damp like he’s showered after whatever mysterious biker business he’s been handling all day.

He looks dangerous. Devastating.

And he’s watching me like I’m something he wants to devour.

"You clean up nice, little lamb," he says, his voice a low rumble that does things to my insides.

"You expected me to show up in coveralls?"

His eyes track down my body, lingering on the places where my jeans hug close. "Wouldn't have complained."

Heat blooms in my chest. "Right."

"But this..." He reaches out, catching a loose strand of my hair between his fingers. "This is something else."

"Good something?" The words slip out before I can stop them.

His eyes darken. "Very good." He holds out his spare helmet. "Ready?"

No. Not even close.

"Yeah," I say, taking the helmet. "I'm ready."

I hesitate with the helmet in my hands. "You going to tell me where we're going?"

"Get on and find out." His slow grin has my pulse jumping. "Trust me."

"About that..." I shift my weight, fighting the urge to run back inside. "Look, if this is about the house situation?—"

"It's not."

"Then what is it about?"

He studies me for a long moment. "Maybe I just want to take a beautiful woman for a ride."

"Hawk—"

"And maybe," he continues, "I want to see if you taste as good as I remember."

Heat floods my cheeks. "That's... that's not fair."

"Never claimed to be fair." He pats the seat behind him. "Coming?"

I should say no. Should get in my car and drive home to the kids. Should do anything but climb onto a bike with a man who makes promises with his eyes that have my whole body humming.

Instead, I put on the helmet.

His answering grin is pure sin as I swing my leg over the bike, settling onto the seat behind him, keeping a safe, respectable distance. I know how to ride. I’m confident, capable. I’ve been on a bike plenty of times before—felt the power of the engine, the wind on my skin. But this?

Sitting behind Hawk is a whole new experience.

His presence makes the machine feel smaller, my whole world rapidly. My breathing is shallow, my pulse a frantic thrum I can’t quite steady.

And then he moves.

His big hands slide under my thighs, the rough drag of his fingers against denim making my stomach flip.

With a deliberate yank, he drags me forward, erasing the space I’d left between us.

My leather-clad chest presses flush against the cold leather of his cut, my thighs snug against him.

My nose grazes his neck, catching his scent—smoky leather, clean sweat, and something darker, him —intoxicating in the worst way.

Hawk reaches back, finds my hands, and reels me in tighter, wrapping my arms around his solid middle until there’s no space left between us. Until my body molds to his, every hard line of him pressing into every softer curve of me.

No words. No teasing.

He just holds me there. Firm. Possessive. Unrelenting.

And when he finally speaks, it’s a growl that rumbles right through my chest, setting every nerve on fire.

"Hold on tight.”

The bike roars to life between my thighs, but it’s nothing compared to the storm he’s unleashed inside me.

The late spring air whips past as we wind through town, the familiar streets looking different from the back of Hawk's bike. My thighs press against his, my chest molds to his back, and each curve in the road has me holding tighter.

We head up toward the mountain, taking the twisting road that overlooks the valley. The sun sets behind us, casting long shadows across the pavement.

I’ve ridden this road a hundred times on my own bike, but this is different. Every vibration, every lean into a turn, sends heat pooling low in my belly. And from the way Hawk’s hand occasionally squeezes my knee when we stop, he knows exactly what this ride is doing to me.

He pulls over at the overlook, killing the engine. The sudden silence feels heavy, charged.

"You can let go now," he says, amusement coloring his voice.

I realize I’m still pressed against him, my fingers curled into his shirt under his cut.

"Right." I unclench my hands, sliding off the bike on shaky legs.

The view takes my breath away—the whole town spread out below us, lights starting to twinkle on as dusk settles. Up here, everything looks peaceful, perfect.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

I turn to find Hawk watching me instead of the view, his eyes dark with intent.

"Yeah," I manage. "It is."

He moves closer, reaching up to help with my helmet. His fingers brush my neck as he unsnaps the strap, and I can’t quite suppress my shiver.

"Cold?" he asks, though his smirk says he knows better.

"No."

"Good." His hand lingers at my neck. "Hungry?" he asks, though his eyes say he isn’t talking about food.

"Shouldn’t you have asked that before bringing me up a mountain?"

His laugh is low, rich. "I know a place. Good view. Better food."

"As long as it’s not a biker bar," I say, thinking of the chaos at his house. "I’ve seen enough half-naked women for one week."

"Jealous?"

"No. I’m impressed. I could never.”

He steps closer, his fingers trailing from my neck to my collarbone. "Really? Cause I think you’d look great half-naked."

My breath catches as his thumb traces circles on my skin. "Hawk?—"

"I like how you say my name." His other hand settles on my hip. "Like you’re not sure if you’re warning me off or asking for more."

Heat blooms everywhere he touches.

"Which is it?" He dips his head, his lips brushing my ear. "Tell me what you want, little lamb."

The nickname should annoy me. Instead, it sends shivers down my spine.

"Food," I manage. "You promised food."

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his expression promising all sorts of things that have nothing to do with dinner. "Food first."

"First?"

His grin is pure sin. "Then we see if you taste as good as I remember."

I swallow hard. "That’s… that’s not playing fair."

"Never claimed to be fair." He steps back, holding out his hand. "Coming?"

This is such a bad idea. But as I put my hand in his, I can’t bring myself to care.

The restaurant sits nestled into the mountainside, windows overlooking the valley below. String lights twinkle along the rustic wooden deck, and the smell of grilled food makes my stomach growl.