But then, oh, then he did the unexpected.
He used himself as a shield to protect me from the bullets.
Sure, he was rough and rude about it, but he'd done it.
I was nobody's delicate flower. I wasn't the kind of woman most men felt the need to protect with their very lives. Hell, my own men had my back, sure, but they didn't use themselves as a shield in sticky situations, either. Because no other MC president would expect that. And I'd always made it clear I wanted to be treated just like they'd treat a man in my same position.
So I'd never known what it was like to have a strong man protect you. Which meant the flood of warmth in my chest was completely unexpected, off-putting, and yet comforting. Strangely welcome, even.
And, damn him, he smelled good up close.
I'd crossed paths with the guy dozens of times since moving into town. We'd always managed to trade nasty remarks and toss around sarcasm and thinly veiled threats. But I'd never once been close enough to know what the man smelled like.
It was a mixture of leather and some sort of woodsy soap.
Simple and masculine.
Which was what I liked.
I could never get into guys who used more personal care products than I did, or smelled like a bottle of Axe body spray like we were teenagers again.
Did I take a couple of deep breaths to take in more of that scent? I'd never admit it aloud, not even under duress, but yes, yes I did.
You know, before I remembered myself, that is.
Then I went ahead and got us the hell out of Dodge. At least temporarily.
I didn't want to admit this either, but I was glad Fallon had his men heading out to check shit out. Not because my men weren't every bit as capable, but because I imagined mine were too drunk to do a halfway capable investigation. The older generation of Fallon's club were likely all home in bed, getting some sleep, and would be sharp and keen-eyed.
Especially because we didn't know who the shooter was shooting at.
Either one of us could have been the intended target.
Or both.
You couldn't rule that out, either.
But with his men on the way, we would get some answers. And we wouldn't be sitting ducks for much longer.
The relief of that mixed with the lingering adrenaline-laced fear still coursing through my body was what had me snapping at Fallon who, objectively, hadn't actually done anything wrong.
One minute, we were yelling at each other.
The next, his hand was grabbing the back of my neck roughly enough to hurt, and his lips were crashing down on mine. Just as roughly. Bruising, really.
The shock shot through my system, making my whole body jolt at the contact. But the shock was quickly chased away with something else entirely.
The knife's edge of desire—sharp, burning, piercing through me.
His teeth nipped my lower lip hard enough to drag a gasp out of me before his tongue moved inside to claim mine.
I kissed him back.
It wasn't my proudest moment, but there was no denying it, either.
I kissed him back. Just as hard. Just as eager. Just as heated.
"That," Fallon said, pulling back, looking down at me with heavy-lidded eyes. "That is how I'm going to stop you," he told me, smirking.
It was the cockiness that managed to break through the haze of desire clouding my better judgment.
"You should—" I started, arm raising, hand cocked. What can I say? I hadn't exactly been taught healthy coping mechanisms for my anger. Who would have taught me? The bikers who were constantly going at each other? Not likely.
But I barely got my arm halfway up before Fallon was grabbing it at the wrist, yanking it high while he shoved me backward into the wall, pinning my wrist above my head against the rough wall before his lips slammed down on mine again. Harder, hungrier, rekindling that desire throughout my system.
It was an oppressive weight on my lower stomach, a clawing, undeniable need between my thighs.
A rumble moved through his chest as a moan escaped me, betrayed me.
My free hand rose.
To push him away, surely.
But my fingers curled into his shoulder instead, holding on as his teeth nipped, as his tongue teased, as his chest pressed me more tightly against the wall.
"I should do that, right?" he asked as his lips pulled from mine. "And this," he went on, his hand sliding up my side, slipping under my tee. His fingertips whispered across the skin of my stomach, making a shudder course through me before his hand finally found its target, slipping under the cup of my bra, and squeezing my bare breast.
My nipple hardened immediately against his touch, making that cocky smile of his stretch a little wider.
I stood there in horrified arousal as his fingers rolled and pinched and drove me up higher and higher.