Page 15 of Zeppelin (Satan’s Angels MC #9)

I flick my phone light back on and cross the cellar. I stand right in front of him, trying to get in his space just enough that he focuses on me and not on freaking out.

His hair glints blue black in the light. His eyes flash as they roam the cellar one more time before finally fixing on my face. It doesn’t slow his breathing. If anything, it picks up, sawing in and out.

I don’t allow myself time to overthink and process it to death before I act.

I take Zeppelin’s hand in mine. I unfurl his fist, tracing my fingertips gently over the hard callouses and worn creases of his palm.

It’s not hard to imagine these strong hands working day in and day out to take things apart, solve problems, and put them back together again.

I’ve seen the antique Triumph that Dravin and the rest of the club restored for Dominic. It’s a work of art, so it’s rarely ridden. It’s the kind of thing that belongs in a museum.

I don’t doubt that Zeppelin was right there, probably in all his glory as he helped bring that turn of the century bike back to life.

“I’m sure it will just blow over. Tornadoes are so rare here.

” I like the savagery of storms, but only if they don’t cross that line into damaging and dangerous.

Rain is one thing. Thunder and lightning an awesome display of sound and fury in their own right, but hail and strong winds can damage crops and buildings beyond repair.

I check my app one handed, but the warning is still there. I scroll to the bottom and I can see from the radar that the angry red center of the storm is pretty much coming right for us. We’re going to be down here for a little bit yet.

The thunder keeps rolling on above us, as does the steady drumming of the rain.

I don’t hear any hail pinging off the roof.

The farmyard is a bit overgrown right now, and it’s surrounded by trees, but none of them are close enough to break and fall on the house.

If it was hailing out there, I’d hear it.

Zeppelin swallows an obvious lump down. “Sure. Probably.”

He doesn’t believe that. It’s the wrong thing to say. He’s breathing all over the place again. I search for something to say, something to ask to distract him, but all I can do is grip his hand. He stares down at the dirt floor like he’s ice and my touch does nothing to thaw him.

I swing to the side to set my phone down on the wooden shelving with the light playing over the small space.

It sends shadows after shadows, creating an intimate feeling.

I like the earthy smell down here. The sound of the rain is relaxing for me.

I can understand how it might not be this way for everyone.

It’s not this way for Zeppelin.

He’s not doing well.

I take his phone from him, switch off the light, and slide it into his pocket. Mine is more than enough and we should conserve battery life, just in case we end up needing it.

I wrap my other hand around his, twisting our fingers together. He glances down, blinking at them like he’s not certain what’s happening.

I don’t know what’s happening either. We’re so close. So, so close. It’s a different kind of tension for me. A hot electricity sucking up the oxygen in here. There’s solid earth beneath my feet, but it doesn’t feel as though there’s anything grounding me.

“You have good hands.” Maybe if I say something, it will remind me where I am and who I am, who we both are, but my voice is breathless and thin.

“They’re just regular hands.”

“That’s not true. They’re strong. They’re capable of performing magic.”

He snorts, but at least it’s something. “I’m afraid not.”

“To me, mechanics are magic. You take something that’s not working and at the end of it all, it runs again. That’s pretty special.”

“It’s more like science, math, and follow tried and true directives.”

“So is magic, I guess. They have to work hard to make it seem like one thing, when it’s really another. It’s not so magical if you know how it works, but if you don’t, it’s quite fascinating.”

I stroke the callouses on the palms of his hands, then unfurl his fingers and trickle mine like a gentle rain down the length of them.

I turn them over, examining the scars on his knuckles, the dirt wedged under the nails, the grease stained into just about every crease. They’re rough, working man’s hands.

The thought of them on my body, rough or gentle, hurried or slow, starts a fire low in my belly all over again. The burn spreads until my panties are wet and clinging to my body.

Impulsively, I grasp one palm and raise it, bending forward to kiss his palm.

He hisses, trying to curl his fingers around it, but I hold it open.

I know I couldn’t if he didn’t really want me to.

He’s so big, so much stronger than me, that he could do anything he wanted.

I get another glorious full body shiver when I imagine him manhandling me.

I kiss his wrist and trail all the way up to his forearm.

Tiny scars dot his skin and there’s a larger one by his elbow.

“Welding burns,” he explains.

“You should be wearing protective gear.”

He doesn’t scoff at that. He stays perfectly still, almost as if he’s afraid to move. The only sound in here is the sawing of his breaths, which have barely calmed. They’ve changed, though. Changed in tempo and intensity. They’re deeper.

When I look up, still holding his hand, I have to grasp his wrist to keep from swaying at the intensity on his face. It’s more than shadows. The dark need in his eyes is painted there clearly. His lips are pulled back in a scowl and he’s frowning, his brow creased deep in concentration.

The need in me that I’ve been suppressing because it’s wrong, wrong, wrong , rattles through my bones, shaking me like the wind has picked up outside and it’s rattling the very foundation of this house.

He’s fighting what he feels, or he’s confused and repulsed, or it’s everything.

We shouldn’t do this, but do I want to keep fighting so hard not to feel anything?

Should I keep those rigid set of rules in place?

I’ve never had trouble getting out of my head.

I’ve never had to justify doing something like this.

I either wanted to, or I didn’t. It was either right, or it wasn’t. It either worked or it didn’t.

Wanting this man can’t be an arrangement.

It would be unlike anything I’ve ever had or done before.

I wouldn’t be able to just hold parts of myself back. I couldn’t parcel myself up and brick off certain aspects of my life, my body, my brain, my emotions, and my heart.

How do I know that?

How do I fucking know that?

I have every reason not to, and this is just one more, but I drive up onto my toes, grasp his broad shoulders, and kiss what I can reach. He doesn’t tilt his face, so that’s his chin. That’s as far as I get. But his neck is there. His throat. His pulse point. His earlobe.

My mouth waters at the uncharacteristic thought of biting him. That’s not really my kink. I don’t get a chance to even kiss or taste him anywhere. His chin tips forward. His hand tracks up my shoulder and tilts my face up and then his mouth slants over mine.

I whimper immediately, needing to be closer, that first taste sealing a fate I don’t even fully understand, but I know I want to sink into it.

I want to devour and be devoured. I want to own and be owned.

I have this absurd thought about giving this man something I’ve never given anyone before, an intimate peek into the parts of myself I keep just for me, but then his tongue slips into my mouth, finding mine and stroking it in a sensual rhythm that chases away any possible room for thought at all.

His hand cups my chin and then curls around my jaw, travelling through the strands of my hair until it brackets the back of my neck.

I fall into him, driving him back until I’m the one pinning him to the wall.

The soft curves of my body jut up against the hard parts of his.

He’s sweated through his t-shirt. He’s damp, but he’s also a furnace.

He’s rock hard against my palms, against my breasts and peaked nipples, and between my legs.

I roll my hips into his groin. A shockwave of pleasure trickles from my mouth right down to my toes curled hard in my flip-flops.

There’s something wrong with me that the feel of his sweat soaked t-shirt and the smell of male and cloves and spearmint makes me wild.

People talk about how men have that more primitive sense, but I was built with it too.

I like it hard, hot, messy, sweaty, and carnal .

I stroke one hand down his hard, boxed abs, then trail it to his back, mapping the sinewy muscles outlined through his damp shirt.

He might as well be naked. The thin cotton does nothing but keep his skin from pressing against mine.

It doesn’t hide a single detail of his body.

He’s all raw power beneath my hands, in the way he kisses me hungrily, in the throbbing of his erection right through his jeans, pressing against my belly.

My belly. Where I’m carrying his brother’s child.

Fuck.

I rear back so hard that I nearly bite him in the process. He tilts his face at the last second, saving himself a bloody lip.

“Sorry,” I pant, my hand hovering near my mouth anxiously. I bury the other in the folds of my dress. “Sorry.”

He knows I don’t mean about the near miss.

It’s the near miss that we didn’t avoid that counts.

My hands are still burning from the warmth and sheer power of his sculpted body, my mouth and lips tingling from his kiss, my stomach flipping all over the place from the way his jeans failed to prevent the definition of his cock from pulsing against me, and how badly I want to shed our clothes and feel him doing that as he fills me.