Bull (Kings of Mayhem MC 6)

She stood and picked up her purse, a nasty smirk spreading across her lips. “I’ll be back. But in the meantime, just remember this. While your panties are getting all wet for Bull, he doesn’t see you as anyone other than someone who needs fixing. He feels sorry for you, desperado.” She wiggled her fingers at me. “See you later.”

Laughing, she walked away and I felt my chest tighten with anger.

You’re his little pity project.

He feels sorry for you.

Her words lingered in me.

The strong and rational part of me told me she was wrong. That Tiffani was nothing but poison.

But the other part of me—the place where my pride and self-respect existed—burned with a sudden questioning.

Was she right?

Is that what Bull thought of me?

Did he see me as someone who needed fixing?

Was this crazy sexual attraction all in my head, and he saw me as nothing more than a pity project?

Someone to toy with?

Hot on the tail of this morning’s encounter at the gas station, the humiliation spread through me like a firestorm, and I reacted before I had the sense to stop myself.

Feeling hot with hurt pride, I stormed out of the bar and into his office.

He was sitting at his desk and he looked up when I burst in.

“I’m not some pathetic project,” I blurted out.

I was uncharacteristically worked up, and the words tumbled out of my mouth with embarrassing ease. I stormed over to his desk and thrust a pointed finger onto his desktop. “I’m not some little bird with a broken wing that needs you to fix her!”

I didn’t know why I was so worked up. This shouldn’t matter to me, because at the end of the day, we were nothing. He was just some guy who’d given me a job. And as long as I did that well, what did it matter what he thought of me?

Yet for reasons beyond my understanding, the thought of him seeing me as nothing more than a pet project was painfully humiliating.

I wasn’t a damn project.

I wasn’t broken.

He didn’t know who the fuck he was dealing with.

I watched as he slowly removed his dark glasses and rose to his feet with a dangerous calmness.

His gaze slid over me, his face chiseled and full of heat.

When he rounded his desk and came toward me, I trembled beneath his magnetic eyes. They were wild and bright, and full of warning. And suddenly, my boiling emotion left me, and I felt myself being pulled toward that mesmerizing gaze.

I backed away until I felt timber touch my back.

“Is that what you really believe?” he asked, coming closer.

I was pressed up against the door with nowhere to go, and he was coming toward me wearing an expression of danger and barely restrained need.

I wasn’t scared.

I was fucking turned on.

And it made me wild with anger.

He didn’t stop when he reached me. Instead, he leaned over me and pressed his elbows against the closed door above me, caging me in with his big arms and the hard wall of muscle that was his body.

“Is that what you think, little bird?” He growled in my ear.

His warmth, his scent, his fucking everything washed over me like warm water, softening my fight and making me want to give in to the lust pumping through my veins.

“You think I want you here because I want to fix you?” He brushed his cheek against mine, and a violent shiver rolled through me. “I don’t want to fix you, little bird. I want to fuck you.”

His words both appalled and excited me.

“And I think you want to fuck me, too,” he growled.

He was right. I wanted him to touch me. Christ, I wanted him to touch me so bad.

But my mouth said otherwise. “And like I told you, I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

I felt flushed with anger and…desire.

His body was so close, I could feel the brush of his cut against my breasts, and the sweet whisper of his breath against my cheek.

“Are you sure about that?” His voice was deep and rough.

And challenging enough that I got ready to fight back.

“This is my job,” I said thickly. “I can’t afford to throw it away by giving into my urges like some stupid schoolgirl.”

He exhaled roughly in my ear. “But giving in is so much more fun.”

“I mean it, Bull.”

“Tell me you don’t want me.” His lips were close. So close. And I could smell the rich scent of his skin, and it was driving me crazy with need. And he knew it. “Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you.” The tip of his nose brushed mine. “Tell me you don’t want me to touch you.”

I was seconds from shattering my resolve and giving in. Because he was too much to resist, and my attraction to him was too damn potent to fight anymore. It had been forever since I’d been touched, and my body ached and throbbed with need, demanding I give in to him.