Jack (The Kings of Mayhem MC Tennessee 1)

I act without thinking and shove him against the wall, pinning him there by the front of his cut. “How about I put you through this fucking wall if you keep shit-talking about Bronte that way!”

Shooter is as cool as a cucumber. He doesn’t flinch. Just looks at me with those hooded, apathetic eyes.

Because I have just proved his point.

Fuck.

I let him go. “She’s just a fucking kid.”

His eyebrows lift. “Last I looked, twenty-five is an adult.”

“She’s Cooper’s best friend.”

“So?”

“So, she’s off-limits.”

“If you say so.”

I glare at him. “That’s what I’m fucking saying, asshole.”

“Seems to me I’m not the one who needs convincing.” He points a finger into my chest. “I think you’re trying to convince yourself, and you’re fucking losing. Do yourself a favor and fucking forget it.”

I turn away and light a cigarette, taking a deep drag. “It’s not a problem,” I say over my shoulder. But even as I walk away and slam the door behind me, I know I’m lying.

My attraction to Bronte isn’t just a big deal.

It’s a big fucking problem.

Agitated, I make my way down the corridor toward the bar when I notice Riley making out with Gabe. They’re kissing up against the door to his bedroom and then disappear inside. When I walk past, she winks at me before closing the door behind her.

I shake my head, and my mood begins to lift.

By morning, Gabe will be head over heels in love. He has a habit of attracting psychos, so it’s good to see his luck has changed.

In the bar the party is winding down. Caligula is dancing with Sebastian to Heart’s “Barracuda” both of them wasted and dancing out of time to the music while Dakota Joe, Banks, and Merrick watch on and throw pretzels at them.

It’s after one o’clock in the morning, and I’m spent. Days of fighting my attraction to Bronte have me feeling every single one of my forty years tonight.

I look around for her but can’t find her. She’s not in the bar nor outside.

“You know where Bronte is?” I ask Dakota Joe.

He shakes his head and throws another pretzel at Caligula.

I look at Banks and Merrick, but they both shrug.

My stomach tightens.

I find Wyatt and Ghoul talking shit at one of the tables, but neither of them has seen Bronte either. Neither have Venom and Ares who are shooting a game of pool with a couple of club girls.

I check with Faith, but she’s busy with a bottle of Jack Daniels and debating with Paw about something she probably doesn’t even care about, just so she can argue, but neither has seen her.

Feeling wound up, I leave the party behind me to check for her in my bedroom and breathe a sigh of relief when I find her curled up on my bed.

She’s out of it.

Stone cold out.

Face-planted into the pillow.

I relax and let out a deep exhale, feeling the anxiety drain away.

Feeling shattered from the push and pull of the last few days, I take off my cut and T-shirt, then slide onto the bed beside her, and fall into a deep, exhausted sleep.

JACK

My head feels like it’s been through a blender.

Keeping my eyes closed, I try to swallow back the disgusting taste in my mouth, but my throat is as dry as sandpaper and the movement sends another shard of splintering agony into my brain.

But there is something else.

There’s warmth wrapped around me, a softness draped across my body, a heaviness in the bed beside me.

And a fucking hard-on in my jeans.

What the fuck?

How the hell am I sporting a major erection when my brain feels like it’s splitting in two?

I open one eye and immediately understand the reason for my predicament. Bronte is curled up next to me on the bed. Her arm is draped over my naked torso, and her legs entwined with mine.

Thank God, I’m still wearing my jeans.

I cast my fractured mind back to last night’s party.

To going to bed.

To sleeping next to Bronte’s warm body all night, and it does nothing to soften what’s going on in my jeans.

I should move.

Sneak out of the bed.

Find coffee.

But a part of me wants to stay, just for another minute, to enjoy the comfort of having her warm little body pressed against me a little longer.

I hear her breathing, the soft puffs of air falling from her plush lips. My eyes trail over the long lashes fanned against her cheeks and the relaxed curve of her dark brows, and an ache of pure longing spreads through my chest.

Willing myself to leave the bed, I close my eyes, but then her fingers start to move against my skin, and her hand slips down my chest and comes to rest on my belly just above the fine trail of hair disappearing beneath my jeans. The delicate little sweeps of her fingertips make my skin burn and my body shiver with lust. I keep my eyes closed. Remain still. If I don’t move, I’ll be fine. She’ll slip back into her dreams, and her hand will become heavy and still as she falls deeper into sleep.