Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC 5)

-Hemingway

“Don’t you have a home to go to?” I asked, irritated.

Hazel eyes locked onto mine. “No. I’m homeless and if you kick me out, you’re subjecting a young, vulnerable man to a night on the streets. Someone would make me their bitch. Have you seen these thighs?” He pointed to denim-encased thighs that could crack steel. I tried to ignore the vagina flutter that those thighs caused. Lucky gazed at me with doe eyes, which looked comical on his hardened, chiseled face. “How could you sleep at night if you did such a thing?”

I cocked my brow. “I’m sure I’ll find a way,” I responded sarcastically. “You’re not staying here,” I added.

My voice was firm, but every cell in my body screamed against it. When Lucky was around I had something to distract me from the hunger. From the unbearable craving to shoot up. Because when he was around I craved something different.

Him.

I still yearned for the euphoric nothingness that the needle offered, but I also craved the complex and confusing something that Lucky offered. Each was at opposite ends of the spectrum, yet I could have neither.

We were moved into Faith’s place, although I guessed it was Lily’s place now. Since her mom was gone, she’d inherited a house full of ghosts. Asher was firmly back at his place at her side and I dug that, but I was also feeling like a fucking major third wheel. She was recovering, healing from the loss of her mom, from the shit I put her through; she didn’t need my darkness hanging around, obscuring her light.

But unless I wanted to sleep on the streets, I was there, a shadow on her light for as long as it took me to save enough for my own place.

Now that I was gainfully employed by the Sons of Templar MC, or was going to be, and not shooting my paychecks into my arm, hopefully I’d be able to stand on my own two feet. And maybe even buy some kick-ass boots to stand in. And to kick ass. Because I was getting mighty sick of the bikers needing to come to the rescue. I was getting even sicker of my reaction. Of fucking wanting to be saved.

I didn’t need the man who took up most of the real estate in my brain to save me.

I needed to save me.

Hence my getting very flipping annoyed at him for hanging around like a bad smell since that night, two days ago. I was annoyed at him for making it feel good. Too fucking good.

“No, you won’t find a way,” he argued. “You’ll lie awake at night, haunted with the knowledge that I’m cold and vulnerable on the mean streets.”

I rolled my eyes and the corner of my mouth turned up. “The mean streets? Of Amber?” I clarified. “Yeah, some bored housewife might hustle you into her minivan and take advantage of you, being so vulnerable and all.”

He widened his eyes at me, the teasing glint alight. “Yes, and what a horrible thing to have on your conscience. I’m much safer here,” he decided.

No, you’re not, a voice whispered. And neither am I, not with you here.

Because I was already kicking one addiction, I couldn’t kick the other. I focused on the TV. “I have utter and complete dominion over the remote, and you do not say anything about whatever ‘game’ muscle heads are playing at this point in time,” I relented.

He grinned, sinking back into the sofa and putting his hands behind his neck. “I’ll agree to that.”

I pointed at him with the remote. “And no touching.”

He held his hands up. “Hey, I can control myself. I’m not an animal. It’s you I’m worried about. I’ve seen the way you look at this.” He gestured to his body, currently clad in a tight tee and faded jeans. I almost broke a rib swallowing my laugh when I’d read his tee: ‘Let’s fight some ballerinas.’ It was so ridiculous and so utterly him. At odds with every other aspect of his biker persona, so much so it seemed to compliment it. Made him more attractive. He’d kicked off his boots and his cut was resting on the arm of the sofa. It was weirdly erotic to see him comfortable, to see him relaxing, and watch the way his limbs moved.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re delusional.”

His smile sent flutters up my spine, chasing away the itch I was battling not to scratch, even now. “Admit it, you find me attractive.”

I met his gaze. “What makes you think I find you attractive?”

He raised his brows. “Um, because you’re not blind.”

I stared at him, and then I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing. Like proper, holding-my-side laughing. There was only the slightest edge of hysteria to it.

I finished and the way Lucky was staring at me had me shift uncomfortably. His eyes were still bright, but his gaze was deeper, more intense. “It’s okay, firefly. I find you immensely attractive too,” he murmured, his voice thick.