BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (6 page)

"Hey, save some of that for me!" Keating calls from across the table. "And by the way, it's your move, boss."

"What are you getting from him?" I ask in a low voice as Flint moves to position himself by the cue ball. "What is this about? And why does he keep calling you 'boss'?"

"It's no 'Captain Carter'," he allows as he leans his long body over the table. Yet again, he has failed to answer my question. Just when I feel like I am starting to finally get closer to the real Flint, he throws another wall up and pulls back from me.

I study the man as he lines up his shot. My gaze trails down from his T-shirt to the straight edge of his bare, extended arm. I would expect tattoos, I think, but there is nothing save tanned skin roped with veins. I know for a fact he doesn't wear ink on his chest. Still, I can't help but wonder about the rest of his body.

Flint thrusts forward suddenly, fast as lightning, and sends the cue ball shooting across the table to pocket his first solid. I watch, fascinated despite myself. These are two extremely skilled men. Despite my words, I never had a doubt that Flint could win this game if he wanted to. While Keating is a decent man in looks and manner, there is just something superior about Flint Carter; it's an undefinable quality that I can't quite put my finger on.

Is it his money? I wonder. I am used to dealing with men of wealth and means in my old life, but none of them carried themselves with the same bearing as Flint, who, for all intents and purposes, has been disinherited by his own company. I suspect that he still might be a billionaire, but it seems somehow less important to him now than it must have been when he was first coming into his wealth.

Maybe, at the end of the day, and despite his efforts to appear otherwise, he is just a good man—intelligent and charismatic and unafraid to take action, even when life's odds are stacked against him. And I know he's good, because he gave me a chance, didn't he? A chance to escape, to be free, without ever asking anything of me in return.

It's Keating's turn. The number of pool balls still on the table is diminishing significantly. I watch as Keating chains and pockets three more. He is playing well…maybe a little too well. My eyes dart to Flint once more to glean something from his expression, but he is withholding. There is nothing I can do but watch and hope…but hope for what? For every one of my secret positive opinions of him, I feel as if I have three negative impressions. I'm so twisted and tangled up in my feelings for this man that I can barely see straight, much less follow the game. I'm sure the alcohol coursing through my veins isn't helping matters.

Keating is nearly there. He has two balls left to go, and one of them is the eight. He misses his next shot, and I hold my breath as Flint resumes his turn.

It's a good thing I am already holding my breath, otherwise it would have been stolen from me with the next sequence of events. Flint angles his body and fires away, repositioning himself from one side of the table to the next before the balls have even settled. One by one, they hurtle into the darkness of the table's pockets.

I'm so confused, still dwelling on what it is I think I want, that by the time the game is over and Flint has won, I feel as if I have missed out on most of it. My head is spinning with how dizzyingly fast he has managed to throttle Keating.

Keating retires his pool cue and raises his beer in salute to Flint's skills. I can't help but think he looks disappointed, especially when our eyes meet and he nods in assent of his loss. He's a hard man to read, but I have a feeling he wanted that kiss.

"All right, boss. You won fair and square. Give me a minute. Actually, you can do me one better than that—you can give me a pen and a cocktail napkin."

"Wait here," Flint commands me. I'm horrified to find that all of my witty comebacks have dried up; all I can do is nod. He hands me his pool cue, staring deep into my eyes, and I have to suppress a shudder at the unvoiced promise they convey. Then he moves off around the table with Keating to accept his prize.

I start to come back to myself, slowly, as I watch the two men bend their heads and converse once more. What the heck is going on between them? My first thought was that Flint had come to Omaha for personal, potentially even vengeful reasons, but he seems to be on good terms with Keating—even if their amity chilled somewhat when they were playing for my "affections.”

Flint accepts the message written on the napkin, studies it, and then pockets it. He returns to grab his jacket, and puts out his arm to herd me toward the door. After getting what he wanted, I'm not sure he's even said a proper goodbye to Keating.

I glance back over my shoulder as I'm led out of the establishment. I would have liked to stay longer, I think, if only to avoid the inevitable—but it looks like we are once more exiling ourselves to the cold and unforgiving night. At least within the city limits we stand a chance of staying somewhere a little more upscale than the night previous.

That is, if Flint wants to keep traveling with me.

I realize that might have been the root cause of my fear all along: that no matter what the outcome of the pool game was, he would find a way to send me off on my own. I can handle myself—I know I can. It's just that… I had never accounted for how lonely it could get being out on the road alone, fending for myself at every turn with fast-dwindling resources. Meeting Flint changed all that. And I'm not sure I'm ready to let what we have together—whatever it is—go just yet.

"What's that on the napkin?" I ask him. He's already beside his bike once more, but I hang back uncertainly. He takes up his helmet and looks at me.

"Nothing." He's obviously lying. Something tells me that the longer I stay with him, the more likely I am to find out what this is all about…and I'm suddenly not certain I
want
to know.

"Come on." He holds the helmet out to me. "I've got one more pit stop to make this evening, and then we'll find a place to crash. How does five stars sound for tonight?"

Five stars or no stars, I almost can't believe the invitation is being extended to me once more—especially not after his claim that losing me to Keating would be ideal, or asserting that he didn't care if I wound up walking out the front door and leaving the bar alone.

After a moment's lingering hesitation, I detach from the curb and go to him. Just as I am about to reach for the helmet, he pulls it away again. I frown at what I perceive to be a juvenile ploy.

"Do you mean it? Or are you just messing with me?" I demand. And then, for good measure: "Remind me how many Shirley Temples you had again? Maybe I shouldn't be so eager to get on the back of a motorcycle with a total lush at the helm."

"One more taste won't put me over, I think." He dangles the helmet off the hook of one index finger, and crooks the other one at me. "Why don't you come over here, Ana?"

"Maybe I'll find another ride." I know what this is about, but I don't want to address it. I don't want to make it clear to him how fast my pulse races when he looks at me like that. I knew what was at stake, and I know he wants to claim his last prize now, under the cover of darkness without anyone else watching.

Yet inexplicably, I feel my body moving toward him. I try to convince myself it's not because of his solicitous gesture. As soon as I'm within reach, he carefully places the helmet aside, and turns back to me with both hands free. He angles his own body in such a way that I find myself back against the seat of the bike; my hip hits the leather upholstery. I am glad my slight weight doesn't appear to be enough to tip the motorcycle over, but now I find myself pinned between man and machine as Flint's larger body eclipses me.

The bright, industrial light from the bar sign fades as Flint Carter looms in. I gaze up into his angular face, darkened by shadows cast as much inwardly as they are outwardly. I don't feel afraid; I feel…nervous. Excited by his proximity. So much so that my body feels as if it is reacting to him on more than just a chemical level. Small thrills of electricity shoot through me as he presses himself closer. I brace myself against the seat of the bike, and his larger gloved hands come up as well. He has encased me in his arms without ever actually managing to touch me. My chances of escaping from our deal are fast dwindling. I'm not sure I even want to anymore.

"You're so hot and cold," I murmur. "I can honestly never tell what you're thinking, Flint. One moment you don't want me around, the next you're inviting me to take another ride on the back of your bike and stay in a five-star hotel with you. I can't tell if you're being serious now or…"

"You were the one who set the terms," he reminds me as he leans in. I can feel his hot breath gust across my face. It smells sweet, with the sharp tang of alcohol lingering just below the surface. I feel absolutely intoxicated by it.

"And you were the one who changed them," I point out. "Something tells me you don't play by anyone else's rules, Flint Carter."

Despite our proximity, he still manages to take me unexpectedly. The bike shifts beneath me, the leather creaks, as he swoops down and captures my lips with his. It's almost as if he's made a study of the difference in our heights in advance. He kisses me easily, effortlessly; I half expect him to pull away and leave it at that. Then I feel the bike creak once more as his hand slides up my back to cradle the back of my neck and solidify me against him. Just as I had imagined he would.

And now I know there is no chance of my escaping our deal, because it's my reward, also. Maybe I'm just drunk, but I think it must be more than that. I know alcohol has a way of amplifying fires, but the fire inside me is stoked by something else. The feeling in my stomach, the twisted, tied-up sensation I get every time Flint looks at me, does anything to me, unravels, and I experience a pleasure like nothing I've ever felt before come untethered and release inside me as the tension breaks.

This is more than a winner collecting a reward. This is Flint Carter kissing me. And I'm kissing him back.

I raise my hands off the seat to clutch the front of his shirt, fisting the material tightly in my fingers. I feel as if I need something to hold onto, and the only viable anchor is the same man who is sending me head first into the stratosphere with every movement of his lips.

I was wrong about one thing. Flint isn't only an aggressive kisser. He's certainly forceful, and I feel the full pressure of his need as his mouth moves against mine insistently, but there's more to it. He almost breaks from me first, but it's only to gasp a long, ragged breath. Then I feel the hand on the back of my neck clasp harder, and with a groan of defeat his lips crash against mine once more like a wave upon the shore. I answer him with a moan of equal desperation. I shouldn't love this as much as I do. I shouldn't need it, and feel it so acutely when it's gone from me.

Luckily for me, Flint appears nowhere near finished. His other hand comes off the bike to grip my flank, his fingers digging into taut flesh until I feel as if the barrier my jeans provide is thinner than tissue paper. It may as well not be there at all; I feel strangely, and absolutely, naked beneath him. His fingertips dig in, and I find myself enjoying the intense sensation that springs up beneath his needful grip. The sharp, almost-pain of his fingernails drives me to do exactly as he instructs, and within seconds he has guided me up into a sideways sitting position atop his bike. My legs part to accommodate him as he presses himself closer. The proximity ensures that he dominates my every sense, and I feel blind to everything except base pleasure.

Because now Flint is doing wonderful things with his mouth. He laps at me once, compelling me to open further to him; as soon as I give him an inch, he takes an opportunistic mile. He thrusts his tongue inside me and plunders my mouth, taking ownership of the tart space that has been the focal point of so many quips against him. He sweeps away any protest or remarks I might have made now, leaving me only capable of making small, keening animal sounds of approval. I can tell he likes this new, wanton side of me, because each little gasp and moan I give seems to drive his sexualized energy closer to frenzy.

I'm finding it difficult to focus, much less drag my attention away from his mouth, but the fact remains that he is doing other things as well—things like pushing his pelvis up against my own, and giving occasional slow, lazy thrusts, almost without realizing what he is doing. I feel that the bulge of his erection has returned with a vengeance, but he won't hold it against me long enough to allow me a moment's relief from my own physical craving for sustained contact. I feel myself growing wetter by the second, until even the friction of my cotton panties against the inside of my jeans gives me the familiar feeling of a lover's attention. For the sake of my own sanity, we have to continue this somewhere else, somewhere more private, where I can be allowed to show Flint Carter
exactly
what his victory has earned him.

He extracts his mouth wetly from my own and pulls away, breathing harder. His breaths come more harshly still when I let my hand glide down the front of his groin, my fingers teasing along the shiny outline of the front button of his pants.

              "The hotel," I manage to murmur. "Let's go straight there. Please, Flint."

              It's more than just arousal driving my pleading. In the aftermath of our near lovemaking against his bike, I feel hyper aware of the night around me. Where once the chill evening felt invigorating and too huge to contain, it suddenly feels as if it is weighing down oppressively around us. My awareness has transferred from the man I can't help desiring, maybe even fostering feelings for, to the scrap of napkin I know resides in his back pocket. Where will it take him tonight, when the hour has already grown so late? And where will he take me, if I let him?