I didn’t question this.
First, because he looked good in them.
Second, because I got to take them off.
I watched as he turned his head to glance at the picture frames while he walked to the bed.
But he didn’t come to the side.
He went to the foot.
And then, stunned immobile, I watched as his big body teetered and then he fell to the bed.
After he bounced (and I did as well), this ended with his muscles and back tats on display, his head in my lap and he added winding his arms around my hips.
He had his bristly cheek to my inner thigh, he didn’t make a move to take anything further, and it came to me that I had a different West Hardy on my hands.
No.
That wasn’t right.
For the first time, I had all of West Hardy on my hands.
Really all of him.
And having it all, I immediately learned there was more to like.
Because he now felt free to be like this with me.
Having a good night.
Getting great news.
And giving me a biker cuddle.
By the way, it was the best…cuddle…ever.
I slid my fingers in his dark hair, seeing occasional threads of silver catch the light, watching the thick strands embrace my fingers, feeling the smooth silkiness, and again marveling at the perfection.
He didn’t purr at my touch.
But he rubbed his beard against my thigh.
And that was better.
“Tell me,” I urged quietly.
“Tell you what?” he asked my thigh.
“About it.”
He tipped his head well back to catch my eyes but didn’t lose hold on my hips.
My God.
God.
This was my man.
And I had all of him.
“About what?” he asked.
“Your mom. Your dad. Your sisters and brother. How you fell in love with Kristy.”
A teasing light hit his eyes. “All that right now?”
I wasn’t teasing.
“Yes.”
He studied me a moment before, regrettably, he took his arms from around me and did a one-armed plank.
Not regrettably, he wrapped the fingers of his free hand around my ankle and tugged.
I bit back a cry as I slid down the bed, having no choice but to fall to my back, head hitting the pillows. He pushed up a bit.
And then he settled his weight on me.
I liked him with his head in my lap.
But this was nice too.
Very nice.
“Dad’s name is Locke. We named Gear after him,” he told me.
Instantly, I felt a wash of relief.
Of gratitude.
Contentment.
Happiness.
Just knowing his father’s name.
Just knowing the name of the man I’d seen in those pictures time and time again.
Just knowing more about my man.
“Another reason we call my boy Gear. To avoid confusion,” Buck went on.
“Right,” I whispered.
“Mom was called Lenora. Sisters, Sheila and Megan. My brother was called Bruce ’cause Dad’s a big Bruce Lee fan.”
I nodded, my head moving against the pillows.
“And you’re West because…?” I prompted.
“We live in the Wild West, darlin’.”
I smiled up at him.
“And how did Buck come about?” I asked.
His expression grew cautious.
Uh-oh.
“You can tell me,” I said softly.
“Right, so I lost my virginity at age fifteen and I got caught doin’ it.”
My mouth dropped open.
“From then on, I was Buck.”
I started to laugh.
He smiled down at me.
“And why am I Toots?” I pressed on.
“Baby, you are a Toots. From the tips of those spiked heels you wore to the Dive the first time I saw you, to your round ass in that tight skirt, nice tits, prim and proper blouse, big eyes, lotsa hair. You’re Toots top to toe.”
I liked that.
And to share that with him, I slid a hand up his back.
I then got us back to business.
“So, let’s start with your sisters,” I suggested.
Buck nodded.
“Sheila is sweet and quiet. Like Lorie and Pinky. Just a good woman through and through. Her man’s called Dog. He’s solid. Decent. Good guy. Loves my sister a lot.”
“I’m glad.”
“They been together for a while, through a lot of tough times. Stayed solid. Those times were about his Club. They were also them tryin’ for a kid. Both wanted one real bad. It just didn’t happen.”
“Oh no,” I whispered.
He nodded, his nod communicating the gloom in my words.
“They decided against adoption ’cause they thought there were too many kids who needed love who were already around, and those weren’t the babies. So they became foster parents.”
I stilled under him.
“Yeah,” he said. “First kid they got, though, it was love all around. They adopted. So they did it again. And again.”
I closed my eyes, pieces falling into place, all that made West Hardy.
“Great kids, great family. They still foster. They’re happy,” he said quietly.
I opened my eyes.
“That’s good.”
He stared down at me, his face gentle.
Then he said, “Meg, Meg was like Mom.”
Oh boy.
This was the rough stuff.
“Yes?” I asked softly.
“Yeah. Dad was funny and open and had a booming voice and an even bigger laugh. Mom was edgy. Opinionated. Tough. But she did a lot of mom things, like she taught me how to cook.”