How About No (Bear Bottom Guardians MC 3)

I had absolutely zero control when it came to the man.

All he had to do was get near me, and I turned into this passionately obsessed woman that lived and breathed Wade Johnson.

“Dear sweet baby Jesus,” I breathed when he finally pulled back. “This is the worst idea ever.”

He didn’t answer me.

Instead, he pulled me to him once again, and I decided that maybe I was tired of fighting everything.

I was tired of fighting me. I was tired of fighting us. I was just plain tired.

I needed Wade, and I needed him now.

Everything else? The marriage. The way I’d felt betrayed. The promises I’d made to myself.

That was all background music.

Being in Wade’s arms was where I had always wanted to be.

I moaned and leaned forward into the kiss, my uninjured hand clenching his hair while my injured one went to cup his neck.

His pulse was beating a fast, hard thump-thump against my palm, and I pulled back so that he could see me.

“This really shouldn’t happen here,” I admitted.

He snorted and reached for my shirt.

We both knew it was going to happen exactly where we were.

I just hoped his parents didn’t come home while we were doing it.

“Since when have we ever done it anywhere appropriate?” he inquired.

That was true.

Our first time we’d done it on the front seat of his truck in the middle of town. Our second time we’d at least parked his bike in a secluded spot in my apartment complex’s parking lot before we’d gotten busy.

The third had been on a park bench and our fourth had been in a swing much like the one we were on—only in his backyard.

Hell, we hadn’t even made it to the privacy of his bedroom until well after our four-month mark.

When we saw each other—which was rare since he was always busy with work, and I was busy with school and work—we barely had enough time to wait until we were somewhere where we wouldn’t be seen.

And it looked like time and distance didn’t change how we went about doing certain things—like sex.

We were all about spontaneity.

“Arms up,” he whispered against my lips.

I pulled back and allowed him to pull them up, shivering when his eyes found my breasts.

“You’re wearing my bra,” he growled.

I was.

I liked wearing what he considered ‘his bra.’

It was a black lace see-through number that he’d bought me to wear on our honeymoon.

But it never stayed on long when he was around and knew I was wearing it.

Honestly, today was literally the longest I’d ever worn it when he was in the vicinity.

If it wasn’t so freakin’ sad, it actually would’ve been kind of funny.

“God, you destroy me,” he murmured, pulling his arm from around me and trailing his finger down the curve of my left breast.

I swallowed hard and squirmed, causing him to growl.

“And those godforsaken shorts,” he hissed. “Where the fuck did you find those at?”

I smiled. “Sam’s. They’re considered ‘CrossFit’ shorts. But I thought they were cute, so I bought them. This is my first time wearing them.”

He growled low in his throat. “So, you decided to wear them when you knew that I wouldn’t be able to touch you.”

I tilted my head slightly. “As you can see, you’re touching me right now.”

In fact, one of his hands was cupping my breast, while the other was spanning the curve of my ass. The hand on my ass had fingers that were getting perilously close to other more intimate parts of my anatomy with each passing second.

“Touching you,” he agreed. “I guess I should show you what ‘touching’ really is.”

Then he reached around me even farther and grabbed the inside hem of my shorts and yanked them over, exposing my inner flesh.

I gasped when I felt the cool air where I really shouldn’t feel cool air while still mostly wearing shorts and said, “God.”

He leaned forward and sucked the cord of my neck while his talented fingers dragged slowly through my folds.

My very wet, embarrassingly slick folds.

“All for me,” he declared.

I shifted again, dragging my clit over the rough crotch of his jeans, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that I’d just likely stained his pants with my juices.

Neither one of us gave a shit.

For me, it was because feeling that denim against my sensitive nerve endings shot a jolt of pleasure through me, and for him, the pressure of that movement just made him want more.

How did I know he wanted more?

Because he pulled the shorts and panties down my legs, putting me right back where I was, then dropped both of his hands to my hips and ground himself up, pressing us tightly together so that this time when he repeated what I’d just done, even more sensation poured through us.

I bent my head down and buried it in his neck, my teeth latching on to the muscle right at the base of his neck.