Wretched Love

Kate

I hadno idea what I was thinking as I stepped into the room at the end of the long hall that led off the main living room. This clubhouse was much larger than it appeared at first and had somewhat of a dorm room setup. Each of the doors off the hall looked to be rooms for the various members of the club.

This room smelled pleasantly of a spicy aftershave. The same smell of the man behind me.

There was a large bed, made—which was interesting. I’d expected it to be messy, chaotic.

The covers were dark gray, pillows propped up neatly. I frowned at the two hooks on either side of the bed, wondering what they could be for.

But I didn’t have long to wonder since my awareness was on the fact the door had closed and it was just the two of us. Alone.

The purpose of my presence here became stark.

I’d come into this room to have sex with this man. This muscled, indescribably handsome, impossibly sexy man. One who was a member of an outlaw motorcycle club.

Who lived a life I couldn’t even conceive of. And who, by the looks of the party, was used to young, sexy, slim women.

“I’m thirty-six,” I blurted as he closed the door. My eyes homed in on the patch on his back—a skeleton riding a motorcycle with flames behind him—before he turned to face me.

“I know I’m probably not supposed to say such things,” I continued before he could answer. “But I feel the need to make it clear since the women in there…” I pointed in the direction of the party where the low thump of music could still be heard, “are decidedly younger than me.” I swallowed. “Despite my age, I have an inkling that they are decidedly more experienced in all of this,” I waved my hand at his body, “than I am.” I took a rapid breath, Swiss watching me with an amused glint to his eye, his large arms crossed over his impressive chest. “A long time ago, I had a husband,” I said, even though it was a lie. It felt like the truth. It felt like it had been years since I was married to Preston.

I bit my lip, deciding not to explain that he was technically still my husband and that I ran away from him rather than left him.

“He is the only man I’ve ever been with… consensually,” I babbled.

Swiss’s eyes flared at this, no longer warm, sexy, amused. No, they burned with fire and brimstone.

Because I’d just casually mentioned that I had only had sex with one man consensually. Therefore insinuating that I had other, nonconsensual experiences. I was admitting this to a stranger. A sexy stranger. One I did want to have sex with. And these were not the kind of things you said to a man you wanted to have a one-night stand with.

I probably sounded certifiable. But I had committed to this, so I pressed on.

“I’m guessing that the women you’re used to have been with more than one man,” I continued. I wrung my hands. “Not to judge them or their lifestyle,” I said quickly, eager to get away from any kind of conversation about nonconsensual experiences. “I’m… jealous of it. Up until recently, I had been with one man for eighteen years,” I admitted, my face getting hot at the thought of Preston.

I quickly pushed him away. He didn’t belong in this moment. This moment was mine.

“And I’ve had a child,” I added.

Swiss’s eyebrow raised slightly, and my breath lodged in my throat at the thought I’d well and truly scared him away.

“You would’ve found that out when you saw me naked,” I told him, embarrassment washing over me. “But I feel it’s my duty to tell you. So you know what you’re getting into. So you can change your mind, go and find a woman without stretchmarks and a c-section scar and a heck of a lot more experience than eighteen years of the missionary position.”

I’d just said all of that.

Talked about my stretchmarks and my c-section scar in front of the hottest man I’d seen in my life.

“In fact, hearing it all out loud makes me certain you’ll want anyone else but me,” I said quietly. “So I’m just going to…” I trailed off, intending to skirt around him, slink down the hallway, and quietly escape the biker compound.

A hand caught my upper arm. Firm but not painful.

The grip didn’t trigger me like I thought it might. Didn’t bring forth memories of trauma.

No, it excited me. Mostly because it was coupled with a gaze that set my limbs on fire.

“One thing I’m certain of, baby,” he murmured, yanking my body to press against his. “Is that you’re exactly the one I want.”

Holy. Fuck.

I wasn’t one to cuss, mainly because Preston abhorred women who cussed, but if there ever was a moment for a four-letter word, this was it.