Still Standing (Wild West MC 1)

In other words, my guess, an outfit that would make any father’s head explode, even a badass biker’s.

I guessed correctly.

On sight of her, Buck’s body got tight, and I stepped away from him in case his head was about to explode.

Tatiana ignored it and threw him a challenging look, which, personally, I didn’t think was wise.

I was pretty certain he wasn’t going to let her go out looking like that, but to my shock, he did.

Although he did this at the same time warning Gear to, “Keep an eye on your fuckin’ sister.”

Perhaps that was the answer to one of my questions about this family.

Buck also showed no hesitation dropping the F-bomb around his kids, even doing it while speaking to them.

I didn’t ask why he allowed his sixteen-year-old daughter to walk out of the house looking one step up from streetwalker because it was none of my business.

However, I suspected he did this because he didn’t want to get into it with her in front of me. That would not make him or me popular, and he liked being the former and he wanted the latter.

After the kids were gone, we didn’t debrief about the night.

We did what we always did: camped out in front of the TV, my cheek to Buck’s thigh, his feet on the coffee table, his fingers in my hair and a beer in his other hand.

I was not wrong. After days of being careful with myself, a day of activity tuckered me out. I was asleep within an hour.

Now I was awake, and apparently it was bedtime.

Surprisingly, Buck didn’t shift out from under me in order to lift me up and carry me to bed.

Instead, he pulled me into his lap.

Automatically, still half in a doze, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders in preparation for him carrying me to the bedroom.

He didn’t do this either.

He touched his mouth to mine.

My eyes opened as his lips slid down my cheek to my jaw to my neck. Through this, his hands worked their way under my blouse so they were skin against skin.

Oh my.

“Buck?” I called.

“I’ll go gentle, baby,” he whispered in my ear. I got what he was saying instantly, and a shiver slid through me. His hands on me, his lips at my ear, all thoughts of Nails or, say, anything, nowhere near my head. “You seem good, but I hurt you, you let me know and we’ll get creative.”

Creative.

Oh.

My.

“Buck—” I breathed.

It was already starting, and it revved up when his hands moved over my ribcage and I felt one thumb slide along the underside of my breast.

That breast swelled, and to keep it company, the other one did too.

“Buck,” I repeated on a breath.

His head came up, his mouth taking mine in a full-on, tongues-tangled kiss.

Wow.

I moved my arms from his shoulders so I could get my hands to his skin. When I pulled his T-shirt free of his jeans and slid my fingers over the sleek, hard muscle, I liked it so much I moaned into his mouth.

Buck liked that so much, he shifted so his back was to the seat of the couch, I was on top, and his fingers plunged into my hair, cupping my scalp, tilting my head and holding me to him so his mouth could plunder mine.

I let him plunder. He could plunder all night. I loved the way Buck plundered and I showed him this by pressing into him.

His other hand moved between us, undoing my jeans then sliding around and down, his fingers clenching my behind.

I pushed my hips into his.

“Fuck, baby, missed this ass,” Buck growled against my lips, his fingers digging in, and I agreed, partially.

I missed his hand on my ass.

I cupped his bearded jaw and slid my lips through his thick whiskers down the other side, to his neck and onward, to the collar of his tee. I ran my tongue along the edge of the material.

He tasted good everywhere.

He flexed his fingers into my flesh again then I felt his body go still under mine.

My head came up and I looked down at him.

His head was turned, and his brows were drawn.

I turned to see what he was looking at, just caught the lights on the drive, and then I was moving. Before I knew it, I was on my feet and Buck was doing up my jeans.

“Fuck, they’re early,” he muttered.

“What? Who?” I asked, confused and trying to adjust from making out with Buck on his couch with his hand in my jeans to standing beside it with his hands doing up my zipper.

“Tatie and Gear,” he answered, and I looked from his hands to his face as he finished with the button and his fingers moved to curve around my hips and pull me to him. “Their curfew is one. It’s barely eleven. They’re early.”