Page 24 of Zeppelin (Satan’s Angels MC #9)

Ginny

M y mom used to be a lawyer. She’s seen and heard pretty much everything. She once sat me down and told me that she was going to give me the same talk that she’d given Bronte when she was my age.

Basically, it was a crash course on sex coming from a safe source. I’d already figured out the basics from books and online, but just because you can look something up, doesn’t mean you really get it.

Mom told me that I should never let my hormones dictate the terms. I had to use common sense and be safe, above all.

She acknowledged that not all sex has to be had in a relationship, not all relationships end in marriage, and not all marriages end happily.

That doesn’t make it wrong or bad. What makes it bad is getting hurt or hurting someone else.

That is never okay. She never wanted me to be in a position where that was a possibility.

When I was eighteen, there was a guy who was tolerable enough. It sounds so bad, but I was tired of being a virgin. I wanted to know what it was like .

First times aren’t all that fun, but it wasn’t like that for me. I enjoyed it. I wanted it. We didn’t really date so much as we hooked up and hung out. We went the friends with benefits route.

I didn’t go wild when I got to college, but there were a few more friends with benefits situations. I don’t know why I never wanted a relationship. I guess, with taking all those classes, I was just too busy.

I moved back to the farm after, and even though I did want to maybe be with someone someday, have a family and kids, it seemed like a very distant someday.

So, once again, I chose someone who was a safe partner.

I knew that Jack could be a bit of a dickhead, but he’d never hurt me.

The sex was good for both of us. That’s what I needed and wanted.

I’ve never felt that I needed a man to be me.

I’m fine being by myself. I know that a lot of people struggle with that, but I’ve never been one of them.

People probably think I’m weird or they assume there’s something broken about me, but I don’t think there is.

I just wasn’t ready for anything serious or permanent.

That was supposed to include now. I’m perfectly fine being a single mother.

I have the help and support of my family.

So what the fuck am I doing driving to Hart with a packed duffel bag that has a change of clothes, my makeup bag, and my razor ?

Zeppelin may have texted me this morning.

He might have extended the invitation. It’s a Wednesday night, so he promised there’d be minimal debauchery at the club.

If I wanted a light introduction to most of the men who I’ve already met through my sister and things like Ellie’s birthday party, which was definitely a club affair, then tonight would be a great night.

He made sure to stress that it wouldn’t be smoky or rowdy.

The party atmosphere is saved for the weekends.

Bring yourself, an overnight bag, and your razor. I promise you there will indeed be plenty of debauching, but only the private, fun kind that me and you would know about.

I’m doing exactly what my mom told me not to do.

I’m letting my hormones make this a thing.

Instead of telling Zep where to go when he made that comment about a razor, the whole it’s my body and I’ll have hair on my pussy if I want to have hair on my pussy thing—because what the heck else would I need a razor for—I waited a few hours and texted that I’d message him when I was leaving so he’d know when to expect me.

In my defense, I had no idea how crazy pregnancy would be.

In the gap between college and Jack, there wasn’t anyone but me.

I have a few toys. I’m used to getting myself off.

I like it, but even in the past, it wasn’t enough.

I missed the intimacy. And yes, I cared about that too.

I chose people I liked and respected, knowing that they were safe people to go to, and so what if it was a situationship?

It still meant something to me. I didn’t immediately just jump into bed.

We didn’t only use each other for sex. When I was in an arrangement with that person, I was exclusive with them. So yes, there was plenty of intimacy.

I’ve come to the conclusion that as an apology for the wretched morning sickness that has me pretty much living in the outhouse in the mornings, by afternoon, my body starts trying to revive me and make me feel alive .

The result might also kill me. When I say hormones, I mean more like HORMONES in screaming capitals.

This week, I gave myself an orgasm at least three times a day and it wasn’t even close to being enough.

All I can think about now that I’m getting close to Hart is what Zeppelin is going to do to me tonight. If he’s bossy about it, I want it. If he wants to try and dictate the terms, I’ll let him. Even if it’s weird and kinky, I’m in.

I especially want it if it’s weird and kinky.

I’ve never felt like this. Like I’m being consumed with need. Crippled with it. I can’t think about anything else.

This shouldn’t be happening, but it is. I refuse to be ashamed of it. I know it could complicate things and I don’t want that, but I don’t think Zeppelin wants that either. We don’t want to hurt each other. I don’t want to cause him more pain and he doesn’t want to fuck with my life.

We just want each other.

We need each other.

For tonight, or a few more nights.

There’s going to be an end and when it comes, I think we can both be mature about it.

Yes, both of us. Underneath that asshole exterior, Zep is smart.

He feels things. That’s very, very real.

Underneath that prickly skin, he’s sweet, considerate, and burning with untapped potential.

He could literally be anything he wants to be and do anything he wants to do in life.

Yeah . All those thoughts just prove that my hormones are the ones calling the shots.

It might be taking the easy way out, but it’s a relief to get to the clubhouse and spot Zeppelin standing outside in the compound waiting for me.

I want him to call the shots. It’s not my norm, but fuck it.

I want to be bossed around tonight. I want his huge body up against mine, crushing me, his thick cock filling me until I can’t take anymore.

I want his mouth, his fingers, his tongue.

I want every bit of him in every part of me.

If he wants to shave me seven ways to Sunday before he does that, then he can do that too.

Ugh. This might not be wrong, but it’s bad. It’s so, so bad.

The gate rolls back, a few younger guys who probably aren’t official club members yet, keeping watch out there.

It’s a lovely evening. In Hart, even on the edge of the city where the clubhouse is, there are far fewer bugs.

I can’t imagine that doing guard duty or whatever they call it, would be very strenuous on gorgeous summer nights.

I park the truck down from the rows and rows of bikes, then reach in for my duffel. I expect Zeppelin to smile at me, to show me that same soft, sweet underbelly sensitive side that he does when he’s not here, but I should know better.

Instead of introducing me to the guys in the compound, he sweeps an arm around my shoulders and hustles me inside so fast that wolves might as well be tearing at our ankles out here. Once the large metal door bangs shut behind us, he moves fast down the narrow back hallway.

I haven’t seen this part of the clubhouse. The only parts I’ve ever seen were the lounge and the large kitchen off to the side of it, where Jack’s celebration of life was held.

“Zep…” I try to shake his arm off. He lets it fall away, but grasps my hand in his. It’s not unpleasant, but then he drags me down the hallway so fast that I can barely keep up.

I’m horny as fuck, but seriously? What on earth?

I plant my feet, which only causes the soles of my leather cowboy boots to slip along the worn hardwood floorboards. Zeppelin doesn’t stop until I yank my hand from his. I cross my arms, planting my feet in a wide stance.

“What the fuck?” I know it’s been over a week since we’ve seen each other.

I was busy with markets this weekend, and he had club stuff here.

My porch is still cut and ready to be assembled.

I’m not rushing him. There’s no timeline.

I’m perfectly fine using the back stairs.

If I’m being totally honest and blunt with myself, I can admit that this is more important than home renovations.

But still. “I thought that when you asked me here, you’d actually want to show me around and we’d hang out or something. ”

He stares at me like the ceiling just opened up and an alien leaped out and landed straight on my head.

Whatever. I might have recently become obsessed and did a marathon of all the alien movies with Gabe at the farm all this week.

This back hallway is lined with closed doors that have keypads on them.

They’re all the same and I can only assume that this is where the men’s rooms are.

Bronte told me that not all of them have houses outside of the clubhouse.

Some of them live there permanently. I know that Jack did, and Zeppelin does too.

It slowly dawns on me that this is his version of asking me over.

“Hang out? Like bake cookies here or talk about bikes and cars or something?”

If he’s going to sass me about stuff like this, assuming that I wouldn’t be interested or intelligent enough to want to learn about his life, then we’re going to have an issue, and we’re going to have it right freaking now.