Page 7 of Heart of Stone (Stoneheart MC #1)

What the hell was I thinking coming over here? And with Adam? I’m definitely not about to win any guardian of the year awards.

The deep rumble of Hawk’s voice slides over my skin, low and commanding. Before I can protest, heat radiates against my back, his big, tall body closing in behind me, crowding my space.

I twist, heart thudding, but he’s already moving, those rough, capable hands brushing the bare skin of my arms as he carefully slips Adam from my hold. His touch sends a ripple of awareness cascading through me, tingles racing down my spine, leaving goosebumps trailing in their wake.

“No, that’s okay. I can?—”

“I got him.” His voice brooks no argument, but it’s not harsh—just steady and sure.

Hawk shifts Adam with practiced ease, cradling him close against his chest, the baby’s fussing quieting almost instantly. Adam blinks up at the biker, his tiny hands curling against Hawk’s leather cut.

“Hey,” Hawk murmurs, the softness in his voice a contradiction to the hard edges he’s shown me up until this point. “You gonna be good for your aunt, or we gonna have problems?”

The sight is enough to make my breath catch—the lethal biker holding my nephew like he’s done it a thousand times before, the sheer size of him making Adam look impossibly small. And then Adam flashes a gummy smile, cooing up at Hawk as if the man just hung the moon.

My ovaries practically detonate.

Uh-oh.

Desperate for a distraction from the sudden warmth pooling low in my belly, I focus on the bottle, pouring the warmed milk with more care than necessary.

“How did you know I’m their aunt?” My voice comes out shakier than I’d like, but I don’t dare meet his gaze, not when I can still feel the ghost of his touch lingering on my skin.

“Duck.”

I nod, shaking the bottle to disperse the milk, then test it against my skin.

“Okay, we’re good.” I hold out my arms for Adam. “Thanks for the use of your microwave. We’ll just be going?—”

Hawk plucks the bottle from my hand, offering it to Adam with an ease that surprises me. Adam takes it, greedily pulling at the nipple.

“Boy’s got an appetite,” Hawk says with a chuckle.

He may be a bit of a jerk, but the sight of this big, bad, scary biker feeding my baby nephew does strange and wonderful things to my libido.

I am not attracted to Hawk. I am not attracted to Hawk. I am not attracted to Hawk.

“I’ll take him now,” I say, reaching for Adam.

Hawk shifts Adam to his shoulder, patting his back with surprising gentleness for such large hands. “I got him.”

I open my mouth to argue, but honestly? Having someone else handle Adam for five minutes is too tempting to pass up.

Adam sucks down the milk like a champion, letting Hawk burp him with only the tiniest protest.

The traitor.

Hawk jerks his head toward the door. “Let’s get him home.”

“Bye, babe!” Ginger calls over her man’s shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger!”

I wave weakly, determined to never set foot in this place again.

The party has gotten rowdier in the short time we’ve been inside. More bikes line the street, their chrome glinting under the streetlights. Music still thumps, but the dancing has shifted from foreplay into all-out sex.

I hurry to keep up with Hawk’s longer stride as we cross the street. Adam begins to make sleepy snuffle sounds, one tiny fist curling into the leather of Hawk’s vest.

“Key?” Hawk asks when we reach Amanda’s door.

I fish it from my pocket, very aware of his large presence behind me as I unlock the door. The house is dark and quiet—at least the twins are still sleeping.

“His room?” Hawk’s voice is pitched low in the darkness.

“This way.” I lead him down the hall, using my phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path.

Hawk lays him down with the same careful movements he’s shown earlier, his hands gentle as he settles Adam onto the mattress.

Something in my chest squeezes as I watch this big, dangerous man be so tender with my baby nephew.

“Thanks,” I whisper. “For everything. The microwave, bringing him home…”

Hawk straightens, turning to face me. The shadows sharpen the cut of his jaw. The dim glow of my phone screen flickers between us, painting him in half-light, half-shadow, making it impossible to read his expression. But the heat rolling off him? That’s unmistakable.

He takes a step closer.

Then another.

I retreat instinctively, my back pressing into the hard edge of the dresser, pulse skittering faster. His presence is overwhelming—too much, too close—but I can’t seem to stop him. Can’t make myself want to.

His hands rise, bracketing me on either side, palms flat against the wood. The scent of leather and motor oil surrounds me, and for a breathless second, all I can do is stare up at him, chest tight with something wild and unfamiliar.

“What are you doing?” I manage to ask. The words barely escape before he moves again—one hand sliding from the dresser to tangle in my ponytail.

“Warning you,” he growls, then his mouth crashes down on mine.

His kiss is hard, demanding, stealing my breath and my sanity in equal measure.

One of his hands holds me in place by my ponytail while the other trails up, fingertips grazing my throat.

Not squeezing, just... holding. A show of strength.

Control. His thumb presses lightly, tilting my head back, forcing me to open to him in this dark, intense, desperate kiss.

His tongue sweeps in, tasting, taking—possessing. His hand tightens just enough in my hair, holding me where he wants me as his grip at my throat reminds me exactly who’s in control. He tastes of whiskey and something darker, more dangerous.

I should push him away. I have three kids sleeping under this roof. I have responsibilities, plans, a life I’ve carefully built that’s already begun to disintegrate. My life is complicated enough without entanglements with dangerous men.

But oh, does it feel fucking good to be touched. Tasted. To be kissed with such reckless intensity.

My hands fist in his shirt, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away. His body presses into mine, all hard muscle and blazing heat. One of his hands slides from my hip to tangle in my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss.

When his tongue sweeps into my mouth, electricity shoots through me, igniting every nerve ending. A whimper escapes before I can stop it.

God, how long has it been since I’ve been kissed like this? Have I ever been kissed like this? Like I’m being devoured, claimed, marked?

His other hand grips my hip, fingers digging in just shy of painful as he grinds against me. The dresser digs into my lower back, but I barely notice, too lost in the way he seems to be trying to crawl inside me through this kiss.

The rational part of my brain screams that this is a terrible idea. He’s obviously involved in something illegal. I have the kids to think about. I can’t afford indulgences.

But my body has other ideas, arching into his touch as heat pools low in my belly. Three days of stress, fear, and uncertainty melt away under the onslaught of sensation. For just a moment, I let myself get lost in it—in him.

He pulls back just enough to speak against my lips, his breath ragged. “If you don’t want this, stay away from me. Because next time?” His teeth graze my bottom lip, sending shivers down my spine. “I won’t stop.”

And then he’s gone. The loss of his heat feels like a physical shock. I grip the dresser to stay upright, my legs shaky and weak. My lips tingle where he kissed me, my body humming with unfulfilled need.

How am I supposed to stay away when every cell in my body is screaming for more?

“Well, fuck,” I whisper into the darkness.

Things have just gotten that much more complicated.