War of Hearts (Storm MC Reloaded 2)

His features settle into the bossy expression of his I’ve never forgotten. “I’m not leaving here without you. Go sort your shit.”

It slams into me that while the years sit between us, unknown, it feels like no time has passed. And that scares me because he’s too familiar. Too intimate. Too much of what I’ve never stopped wanting.

“You’re really gonna boss me around, aren’t you?”

His lips twitch ever so slightly. “Really.” He gives me that word again, and I don’t miss the reference to earlier, which means I’m reminded of how it felt to have his eyes on me.

God, it’s settled.

You’re officially on my shitlist.

“Jesus,” I mutter as I walk away. Letting him in was definitely the worst decision of my day.

I dry my dress and put it on. I then fix my make-up and hair quickly because I don’t want to keep Fury waiting. I should, though, because this was his idea, not mine.

When I finally join them in the living room again with “I’m ready,” Fury’s appreciation of my appearance stirs butterflies in my tummy again. I shouldn’t have bothered with the make-up and hair.

He switches the television off, ignoring Noah’s protests. “We’re gonna drop Zara off at work and then I’m gonna take you to see Jane,” he says.

The mention of Jane delights Noah, who smiles so big it makes my heart happy. “Jane!”

Fury returns his son’s smile. “Yes, Jane.” He then grabs his toolbox and pulls his keys out. Motioning for Noah to come, he says, “Let’s go, little man.”

The way the words “little man” fall from his lips hits me in the feels. Is there anything sexier than a good dad? I think not.

Five minutes later, we’re all settled in Fury’s ute. Fury’s busy replying to a text he just received. Noah’s talking to himself in the back. I’m trying desperately not to commit any of this to memory. It feels too good being with him and Noah. I do not need to replay any of this morning later on.

“Okay, where to?” Fury says, placing his phone in the centre console.

I give him directions and he starts the car.

“Holly told me you work in marketing,” he says as we get stuck in morning traffic. “You love it?”

I nod. “Yeah. I worked for this company in Melbourne and jumped at the chance to move to their Sydney office when it came up. They’re good to work for and are teaching me a lot.”

Don’t look at his arms.

Don’t do it.

Jesus, you did it.

Fuck.

You are going down, sister.

I can’t not look at his arms. Or his legs for that matter. God is a fickle god. She forsakes me often, but she blessed Fury with far too many good features when he was born. One of his arms rests casually against the window ledge, extending to the steering wheel. His other arm rests on the centre console with his hand on his thigh. He didn’t put his jacket back on, and the sleeves of his blue T-shirt barely cover anything, leaving me with a whole lot of muscle and ink to stare at.

I’m also drawn to his beard. His face was clean-shaven four years ago, and if my preference were to be asked, it would be a big yes for the beard.

Fury is the epitome of masculinity. It undeniably blazes from him. And I’m helpless but to appreciate it.

He turns silent while he navigates the traffic. When we come to a standstill, he hits me with a question that I know isn’t small talk. “Are you seeing anyone at the moment?”

The butterflies that still reside in my tummy flutter uncontrollably as I meet his gaze. And boy is he gazing at me. “Umm, no, but—”

“You either are or you aren’t, princess.” His voice is all gravel as he continues to look at me with intense scrutiny.

I smooth my dress, trying like hell to calm my wild attraction to him. “I’m not.”