Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC 2)

I didn’t protest throughout this because I was still processing the fact it actually happened; plus I was secretly glad I had an excuse to escape the clutches and wheatgrass laden breath of whatshisname. I wasn’t going to tell Brock that, though.

“What the fuck was that?” I snarled, leaning across the table.

Brock took a pull of his beer, leaning back against the booth, his huge knife safely stowed back in his belt. He shrugged. “Seems your choice of company scare easily.”

“Does you waving that big knife around compensate for other areas you’re lacking in size?” I asked him spitefully, surprised I wasn’t breathing fire.

Brock’s face turned abruptly serious and sexy. “You’ll be learning I’m more than well-endowed in that area, Sparky.”

I toyed with the olives in my martini. “Why? You in any porn I watch? Because the only place I’ll be seeing any more of you is a TV screen,” I informed him, ignoring the wetness pooling between my legs at his statement.

Brock eyed me for a second. “You want it. I know you do. I know by the way you’re biting you lip, by the way you’re flushing delightfully red. And I know your panties are dripping right now,” he murmured softly, his gravelly voice full of sex.

“Are you seriously saying that to me after you waltz in here and scare away my dates for the night?” I shot back, my voice breathy.

Brock gave me a look. “Babe, I did you a favor. Those guys were pussies who scampered off the moment it looked like their suits would get crinkled. They were nowhere near good enough for you. You want a man who would fight tooth and fuckin’ nail at just the prospect of getting into those panties of yours. One who would tear any motherfucker down who got in the way of the chance of tasting your cunt when you come.”

I swallowed.

Ignore the way his words make you squirm in your seat, Amy.

“What gives you the right to think you can decide who is worthy enough to get in my pants?” I sneered, superbly impressed I hadn’t launched myself across the table at him.

Brock leaned forward, his eyes turning dark and serious. “Because I fully intend on getting into your panties. I would be more than willing to tear down a thousand of those suit-wearing pansies, because sweetheart, if your pussy tastes as good as I think it does, its fuckin’ worth it,” he murmured.

Okay, so I didn’t know what I’d done to make this guy think I had a golden vagina, but the promise of sex in his tone made me reluctant to correct him. I only hoped my lady parts didn’t get performance anxiety. That was if I did actually decide to go home with him.

“You really think talking to me like that and acting like a possessive ape is going to get me to go home with you?” It totally would.

Brock’s eyes twinkled for a second then darkened. “I think we both know it’s a matter of time before I get that sweet ass in my bed. I just don’t wanna wait. I wanna get you on the back of my bike and fuck you till you don’t remember your own name,” he declared hoarsely.

I tried to think of a witty response or even to find some willpower to get up and walk away from the infuriating sex god, but neither happened. I worried about my ability to strut off effectively due to the potency of the cocktails I had consumed. Those very same cocktails caused me to get up. Screw it.

“Okay then, let’s go,” I said to him as he got up too, anticipating an escape attempt.

His eyebrows rose at my statement, as if he expected some kind of catch.

“Your place or mine?” I continued impatiently. Now that I had committed myself to the idea of sleeping with Brock I was tingling with sexual anticipation.

His gaze turned hooded. “Mine’s closer.”

“Right,” I said, losing my breath at the carnal look he was devouring me with. I pointed at him. “Let’s get one thing straight. I am not ‘yours’. I do not belong to anyone. This isn’t the prelude to some intense biker relationship you all seem to be so fond of. It’s just sex,” I declared.

Brock stepped forward into my space and it felt like the air crackled. “Works for me. As long as I get inside you in the next thirty minutes.”

We stared at each other for a couple of moments. His hand rested lightly on my upper back and he guided me out. My only focus was on the hand that was currently setting my body on fire as he directed me toward the exit. I did notice Laura Maye’s knowing grin and not so subtle thumbs up. I grinned stupidly back at her.

The brisk breeze of the night caused me to sober up slightly, but it didn’t affect what Brock’s sex hormones were doing to me.

“Fuck it, I can’t wait—especially when you’re wearing a dress like that,” he mumbled.

His hands tightened at my waist and he yanked my body flush against him. I let out a little sound of surprise before he covered my mouth with his. His kiss was brutal, unrelenting and a hundred and twelve on the hotness scale. His hands moved down to cup my ass and I ground into him, quite prepared to have sex on the street the way things were going.

My plans for indecent exposure were foiled when he released me.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

In the streetlights his eyes glowed and a fierce look crossed his face. “We need to get you on the back of my bike.” He grabbed my hand, pulling me towards his Harley. Of course I had known a biker would be driving a motorcycle but I hadn’t factored that into tonight’s transportation.

Brock handed me a helmet. I glanced down at it, not taking it. “I can’t get on that,” I declared.

Brock’s eyes narrowed in disapproval. “The little princess too good to ride on the back of my bike?” His voice was low.