War of Hearts (Storm MC Reloaded 2)

Jesus, what the hell am I doing?

I pull up outside Zara’s house ten minutes later and steel myself for the onslaught of curves and temptation coming my way before making the short walk to her front door.

When she opens the door barefoot, wearing the tightest black jeans known to man and a flimsy, see-through white tee that dips in a V at the front, I wish to fuck I’d never answered her text. The V draws my eyes to her tits and they stay there for long enough that when I drag them back up to her face, she’s watching me with the same kind of heat blazing through my body.

Christ, I’m not even inside her damn house yet and I’m already imagining my hands on her.

“You cut your hair,” I say, entering when she steps back to let me in.

She closes the door. “Yeah. I wanted a change.”

Her hair now sits just above her shoulders and hangs in sexy waves. It’s on the tip of my tongue to suggest she shave her head the next time she wants a change, but I suspect even a bald Zara would turn me on. I’m fucking screwed.

I head for her lounge room and am almost there when she grabs my shirt and slows me. “Thanks for coming. I’m sorry I interrupted your night.” Her eyes hold hesitation, like she’s not quite sure what to expect from me.

“You didn’t interrupt anything. I’m keyed up tonight, anyway, so I won’t sleep for hours.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You’ve been out doing club stuff? Did you get any dinner?”

“I had something earlier.”

“What?”

I’ve no idea why we’re discussing what I’ve eaten, but I answer her. “I picked up a kebab.”

Taking hold of my arm, she leads me into the kitchen. Nodding at a stool, she says, “I’ll make you something better than a kebab.”

“I don’t need you to—”

She gives me a bossy look. “Sit. We’re not arguing over this; it’s happening.”

The fact I sit confuses the fuck out of me. But I do, and I glue my eyes to her while she rifles through the fridge.

Glancing at me, she asks, “Is there anything you don’t like?”

“No.”

“Allergic to anything?”

“No.”

“So basically, you’ll eat anything I cook?”

“Yeah.”

She smiles big. “Well that makes shit easier.”

She then goes back to rummaging through the fridge, eventually locating ingredients to cook me a meal.

“Right,” she says, loading the counter with a bunch of vegetables. “I hope you’re ready for one of my specialties.”

I eye the ingredients. “What is it?”

She reaches for a chopping board and knife. “You’ll have to wait and see.” As she cuts a red capsicum into strips, she says, “Do you cook much?”

“No, not unless you call throwing frozen shit in the oven and heating it, cooking.”

“But you can cook?”