Outside the Lines (Sons of Templar MC 2.5)

He turned after he had yanked on some faded jeans. Commando.

I licked my lips.

He stepped forward, grabbing my hips tightly. “You can’t do that shit, Mace,” he murmured.

I looked up at him. “What shit?”

“Kind of shit that makes me want to throw you back on that bed and bury myself in your pussy,” he replied in a gravelly voice.

I swallowed. I so wanted him to do that. I struggled to remember why he couldn’t.

“You got deadlines, remember?” he reminded me. “Now, I don’t give a fuck about deadlines…” he continued, pulling my body flush to his, “…but you seemed mighty concerned about them before.”

“Yes,” I said shakily. “They’re important.” I was talking to myself more than him.

“Get dressed then,” he ordered softly, turning back around.

“You don’t need to get dressed,” I pointed out, moving to locate my clothes. “I’m quite capable of driving myself.”

Someone had dropped off his bike earlier today, I wasn’t sure who, since Hansen had met them outside and I’d stayed in bed under his orders. Not that I could have moved at that moment, my body had been turned to jelly after too many orgasms.

“Don’t want you driving babe, not after last night. Reaction times are delayed after any blow to the head,” he told my back. “I’m drivin’ you.”

He was the medic, I guessed. “How will you get home?” I argued, yanking my cami over my head.

“Not planning on going home,” he told me, slipping on his boots.

“You’re not?” I repeated.

He shook his head. “Haven’t got my fill of you yet, baby, not for today at least. So I’ll drink some beers, watch the game, you do what you need to do. After that, I’ll fuck you, then we’ll go to sleep,” he told me.

I stared at him, hoping he couldn’t see my belly doing backflips. “Okay,” I finally choked out. “Sounds like a plan.”

“You’re fucking shitting me?” Arianne screamed into the phone.

I held it out from my ear a second. “I’m as serious as chlamydia,” I whispered, once the ringing in my ears had subsided.

“Holy fuck,” she muttered, quieter this time, which was good news for my ear drums.

“I know,” I agreed.

“Like, holy fuck,” she repeated.

“I know,” I agreed again.

I was in my living room the next morning, still in Hansen’s shirt, he was in the shower. I had taken this moment to call my best friend and give her the lowdown of the past twenty-four hours. She obviously knew how I felt about Hansen. About how I had pined for him, while trying not to picture him when the men from the club had me in their bed.

“Geez, who knew, all you needed was a good whack on the head to stir some masculine sense of protection in that pretty head of his and bam! He’s yours,” she said in amazement.

“Or I’m his,” I said, chewing it over in my mind.

“Is there a difference?” she asked in confusion.

“Oh yes,” I told her firmly. “There’s a difference.

Arianne was only a visitor in the club world, coming and going as she saw fit. Granted, I was no expert, but I’d spent a lot of time there over the past two years. I saw old ladies come and go. Not frequently, ‘go’, but a few. A few who didn’t understand the life completely didn’t understand that in front of the club, they were meant to seem submissive to their men. They were property. In a lot of MCs, I knew this was a bad thing. But with the Sons, it wasn’t. It just meant that you needed to re-evaluate how you defined a relationship. And wear the pants behind closed doors.

“Who gives a shit amount semantics babe, just ride the wave. Be happy. You deserve it…” she paused. “Much as I withhold judgment over the life you’ve lived the past year, hell I’ve partaken, not to mention my line of work. But, that label, that life of being passed around that wasn’t you, babe. You suit the life, don’t get me wrong, but not that part of it,” she said quietly.

I wasn’t offended, but I was surprised. Arianne never pulled punches, and never shied away from telling the truth, whether it was ugly or not. The fact she thought that for two years and didn’t say anything, troubled me. Also, the fact that everyone seemed to think I didn’t belong in a life I had felt the most like myself in troubled me slightly.

I didn’t get the chance to question her on it, on the account of a hot biker that sucked up all the oxygen in my small, but kick-ass living room.

“Gotta go,” I said to the phone.

“Hot biker in front of you?” Arianne guessed.

“Yep,” I replied, watching him as he stalked toward me.

“Please tell me he’s naked,” she said. “And if so, find a way to send me a picture.

“Goodbye Arianne,” I said as Hansen stopped in front of me.

I hung up and looked up at him. “Arianne says hi.”

He grinned and hooked his hands under my arms to lift me up. I automatically wrapped my legs around his waist. I loved that he manhandled me like I weighed nothing. I may have been petite, with small hips and a small ass, but I weighed something. Especially with the boobs God had graced me with.

“You look hot as shit in my tee, still shakin’ off sleep, in your fuckin’ ridiculous living room,” he murmured against my mouth.

“My living room is not ridiculous,” I argued. “It’s awesome.”

Hansen raised a brow, apparently not worried about having this conversation while I was wrapped around his waist. Not that I was complaining.

He looked at my green velvet couch, which had been a great score from a second-hand shop. It had bright pink printed cushions stacked on it, plus a fluffy pink afghan. I had also found a matching armchair, which was beside it. My coffee table was wooden and had a vase of flowers sitting in the middle. I didn’t think he was talking about my awesome decorating skills on a budget. I think he may have been referring to my various Lord Of the Rings paraphernalia which included figurines scattered around my television, a jewelry stand which had the ‘one ring’ hanging from a chain, and a framed and signed picture of Viggo Mortensen, AKA Aragon on the wall. Not to mention my extended DVD set sitting in its rightful place, lording its brilliance over my other, lesser movies.