I’m having my own tense moments, waiting for someone to drop the bomb. I turn my body toward Grayson, resting my head on his chest. His body provides a protective barrier.
“We’re heading home,” Rock says when there’s a lull in activity around us. “You all right, Gray?”
Grayson’s mouth twitches in annoyance. But he nods. “I’m fine.”
Rock doesn’t seem bothered by the clipped answer.
Hope reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Good to see you again, Serena.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
Grayson watches them leave before turning my way. “Will you come upstairs with me?”
My stomach flutters. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a guy. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this tonight but I can’t seem to form the word no. And it’s not out of fear. It’s desire holding my tongue hostage.
Grayson asked, and he’s waiting for an answer before making a move.
I drop my gaze to where his strong hand is clamped around my thigh. Boldly claiming. I can’t stop imagining what it would feel like without my jeans in the way. Or the squeeze of his hands at my hips.
Leaning closer, I press my lips against his jaw. Stubble both tickles and scratches my skin. I kiss my way to his ear and whisper, “Yes, take me upstairs.”
My gaze darts everywhere as I follow him to the staircase. Is anyone watching us? Will one of his brothers stop and tell him who I am?
Grinder pauses on the first landing. My eyes land on a photo of two young bikers with big smiles standing next to two Harleys.
“Is this you?” I ask.
He stares at the picture. “Yeah.” His hand sweeps in front of him, gesturing toward the other photos along the wall. “Time moved on for everyone but me.”
There’s no bitterness in his tone. Only regret. Longing.
“You’ll make up for it.” What a dumb thing to say. You can’t recapture lost time. There’s no rewinding the clock to make different choices. All we can do is learn from our mistakes.
“I’m going to try.” He shifts his gaze from the photos to me and back again. “But some things can’t be fixed. No matter how much you might want to.”
It’s as if he read my mind. “That’s a hard lesson to learn.”
He squeezes my hand and continues up the stairs.
I stare at familiar pictures along the wall as we ascend. Family. That’s what drew me to the club in the first place. Family by choice. Even club girls are treated like family of a sort. More so at the upstate clubhouse. I’m happy this is the charter where Grinder seems to be affiliated.
We reach the top floor. The hallway might as well be haunted with all the unease it stirs in my belly. The urge to flee wars with my desire to be with Grayson. He turns right and keeps walking.
Since he was just released from prison, I expect him to be staying in one of the guest rooms near the staircase. But he continues past all of them. Many of the rooms are occupied anyway. I have no interest in peeking but the sounds can’t be ignored as easily. Grayson doesn’t slow or peer into any of the rooms either.
We reach the end of the hallway where the officers of the club reside. Well, used to. They’ve all moved out. I refuse to turn my head to the left where Murphy’s room used to be.
Thankfully, Grayson stops at the last room on the right. What was once Wrath’s room, I think. I’m not sure what Grayson’s role in the club was before he was sent to prison, but obviously everyone has a lot of respect for him.
Inside, my anxiety shoots off the charts again. I’m not ready for this.
Grayson distances himself from me. He hangs my coat on a hook on the back of the door, flicks switches on several lamps, and slips off his cut, draping it over a chair. But he won’t meet my eyes.
He seems as conflicted as I feel. That should reassure me. Instead, doubt creeps in. Downstairs, he seemed attracted to me. Did I do something wrong? Ask too many questions? Say something stupid?
Old Serena rises from the dead. The easygoing, do-anything-to-please, flirty girl. She’s on autopilot. In a few steps, I cross the room and lean into him, resting my hands at his waist. The top of my head barely reaches his chin. Reaching up on my toes, I attempt to kiss him but only brush against the hard line of his bristly chin.
Nothing.
I know what’ll capture his interest. The same thing that revs every man’s engine. My hands slide to his belt buckle.
His body tightens. He clamps his hands over mine. “Don’t,” he warns.
I draw back. Heat blasts over my cheeks.
Calm down. Deep breath. Lots of guys—and pretty much every biker I’ve ever known—prefer to be in charge. Don’t be so forward. Let him lead.