BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (8 page)

ANA

I wonder if I should feel afraid of Flint Carter.

              We stand slightly apart in the elevator of the Ritz-Carlton as it ascends floors. He stares straight ahead, and he doesn't speak to me. I know he is aware of my presence. I wonder what he is thinking.

              In my hands, I clutch the suitcase that he took from the man's house. My duffle bag is slung over my shoulder. Flint has brought nothing with him, save for the gun, which I suspect he stowed in the waistband of his jeans. Again, I wonder if I should feel afraid of him.

              But I know that I do not.

              What could have possibly come over me? Was it the alcohol? As much as I continue to want to blame the drinks I had tonight, there is no possible way I can still be intoxicated now. When I followed Flint into the house, I went like a sleepwalker: calm, almost dream-like. When I found him standing in the room with his gun raised, it was almost as if someone else were speaking through me. Never in my life have I known the exact right words to say in any given situation, but somehow they had found me, in that moment anyway. I don't know if I can claim to have saved a man's life. At the end of the day, all I know is that I saved Flint Carter from making a potentially huge mistake.

              The elevator doors open and disgorge us out onto the top story. I follow Flint to our room, saying nothing. Even if I'm not afraid of him, I feel afraid to speak. I'm afraid of what our next conversation has in store for me.

              But I can't put it off any longer. He swipes our card, and the door opens beneath the aggressive wrench of his hand on a princely room that looks as if it should belong in a far-off palace, and not in some hotel in Omaha. I set my face so my astonished expression won't show. I follow him into the room.

              I turn away from him only momentarily to set the suitcase and my duffle bag down on the couch. The span of the sofa is longer than our entire bedroom back at the motel. The effect of all this lavishness is new to me, and I won't deny that it's slightly dizzying. I had yet to experience Flint's true wealth firsthand, but now I see the sort of life that must have been stolen out from beneath him. Thinking about the potential of his past, once and forever destroyed by the man whose life I just helped to save, finally spurs me to turn and face him.

              "Flint." I can't think of anything else to say but his name. There is so much longing in that one word that if this were any other situation, I would feel embarrassed.

              He refuses to turn and look at me. He is gazing out the large window inset into the wall. Beyond him, the city winks and glitters. A yellow moon rises far above the scene and hangs in the night sky, the sort of silent spectator that would let a murder unfold on a quiet street without interfering. I take a small step toward him.

              "Flint, I'm sorry." My voice falters, but I push on. "But I meant everything I said back there. And I wouldn't have interfered if I didn't think…if I didn't
know
it was the right thing to do. And I don't mean the right thing for him. That man—whoever he is—he doesn't mean anything to me. Not like you've come to mean to me."

              I pause. I'm not sure I should have said that. Flint remains remote.

              "I don't know how long you've been planning this. I don't know how many people you…plan to visit to see your mission through. But Flint, you're
better
than this. There's a way to see justice done that won't destroy lives in the same way yours was destroyed. You don't have to change yourself into the weapon. You don't have to wield one, either. You don't have to hurt yourself this way, Flint."

              Another step carries me closer. I can't tell if he's watching the approach of my reflection in the window; his eyes are completely lost in the shadow cast by his deeply furrowed brow. Another step. He doesn't drag his eyes away from the window.

              I encircle my arms around him from behind and hold him close. I press my breasts into the familiar alcove of his back, and push my cheek up against the skull patch that dominates his back. Flint wears death as much as he carries it with him. How am I supposed to reach a man who has known nothing else for the past three years? Three years is a long time. I should know better than anyone.

              He stands as rigid as a statue in my arms…but it's all right. I didn't even expect him to let me get this far. I breathe out in a deep, long exhale. My movements are slow as I reach around to his front. I don't want to startle him, or convey that there is anything mysterious about my intensions now. I find the sharp outline of the gun holstered beneath his shirt, and I allow my fingers to slip beneath the cotton fabric. Slowly, I begin to push his shirt up.

              He is still wearing his leather jacket, but if he allows me, I can remove that as well. He turns slowly in my arms as I carry his clothes up and over his head. He goes almost limp, but not completely boneless; it's strangely like tending to a child who is too exhausted to protest or do anything more for himself. The leather jacket drops to the floor, and the T-shirt follows.

              He stands bare-chested in front of me once more. His dark hair, rumpled by my ministrations, hangs loosely in his eyes. He watches me dully as I run my hands down the smooth swell of his chest, tracing every contour of muscle on my way down. My hands alight on the gun, and I extract it slowly from his pants. I place it on the desk beside the window.

              "Ana." My name, uttered in the darkness, startles me completely. I turn back to him, and Flint draws me into his arms.

              I wasn't expecting this. I was hoping for compliance, maybe even for the opportunity to soothe his temper, but I wasn't expecting to be held in return. It's almost more than I could have ever hoped for. Tears spring into my eyes unbidden. I'm thankful for the privacy of the darkness and the strength of Flint's shoulder as I lay my head against it.

              "It's okay. I'm sorry. It's okay."

              I continue to repeat calming, nonsense words, as I feel his arms constrict around me. My back arches in response, and my chest presses against his. He practically lifts me off the floor in his need for contact. I let him.

              "Ana," he breathes again. "I don't know what I'm doing." He buries his lips in my neck, and I shudder. "I thought everything was so clear. I knew what I wanted to do. More than anything, I thought I knew. I was going to kill him, and there was never going to be anyone to stop me."

              "I know." I say the words, even though I did not know. I place a gentle hand on his head, even though my heart is racing. "I'm the one that stopped you, Flint. I'm sorry. I'm the reason you feel this way."

"No." The hard conviction in his voice startles me. With each outtake, I feel the hot gust of his breath on my neck. It shouldn't feel as good as it does, knowing the fractured emotional state he must be in. "No. You saved me from destroying myself. Nothing makes sense right now, but... I know that much. You saved me, Ana."

What can I say to him? I want to deny his claim. It seems ludicrous that someone as insignificant as me could have such an effect on a man who had devoted his rebirth to revenge. If this is what his happiness and self-worth hinged on, should he really be thanking me for stopping him? Hell, even I had wanted to make that sniveling Richards suffer, after seeing what his past actions had reduced Flint to.

"Let me hold you," Flint whispers.

The request also startles me. We are so close, I would qualify having his arms wrapped around me as "holding" already, and I'm uncertain what he could have in mind. Whatever it is, I know I want it more than anything. I want this changeable, enigmatic, beautiful man to escape the torture burdening him and find solace in me. Maybe, just maybe...for one night...I can be enough.

His lips gust their way up my neck, hovering just beneath my ear. I let my eyes drift closed, losing myself in the hypnotic, soothing feeling of his breath. I turn my head in toward him and part my lips in complete readiness.

Flint's mouth drags itself away from its exploration of my skin to collide with mine. Our lips move in tandem, exploratory though they are already familiar. I lose myself in the slick, gliding sensation. The kiss is effortless, as if we have already practiced dozens of times before, and not as if he had won our first in a bet. I give him freely now what he voicelessly, insistently requests: complete and enthusiastic submission. I want to be kissed, and kissed with passion and force—exactly the way I know Flint can.

But that doesn't mean some of the old combativeness doesn't still remain between us. When he thrusts his tongue between my teeth, I parry and battle it back. Can he slip past my defenses like he did the last time, or can I deny him what he is trying to take now that I know he is coming? I can't help the fire my wicked side ignites in me.

Flint gives a commanding growl of frustration and forces his palm against my jawline to hold it still. His long, strong fingers fan along my cheek, shifting threads of my dark red hair back. He thrusts his tongue between my lips again, and I can't help but moan at the hot, thick sensation of having it sweep inside of me. I twine my own tongue with his, sucking and enjoying the sweet pressure of his forcefulness. It is no longer a romantic kiss, but an invasion, as he fights for mastery of my mouth and mutes any protest.

Once he has satisfied himself that my lips belong to him, he drags his hand away from my face in a downward exploration of my curves. I feel the hot press of his hand along my rib cage, playing across each individual bone as if he is stroking an instrument. His thumb brushes the side of my breast, and I shudder in response. I want him to take it fully in his hand, to cup and massage and tease, to feel the tautness of my aroused nipple for himself and play with me until I am on the brink of begging for more; but if he reads what I desire most in my response, he teases me instead by ignoring what I want. The hand glides away from the round mound of flesh far too soon, leaving far too little contact in its wake. I whimper into his mouth. I feel the loss so acutely that had he not been kissing me, I would have been left bereft and breathless with wanting.

The hand dips and slides along the curve of my waist, pressing hard and memorizing the all-too female statement my figure makes. When his hands move around my backside to grip my ass, I gasp aloud. Even through the restrictive material of my jeans, I can feel him. His hands grasp and his fingers dig; I can sense how he wants to part me open, and it sends an electric thrill racing down my spine. Instead, I allow the force of his grip to pull me closer, until the front of my body is molded completely against his.

The hand withdraws from my ass, and I again feel its loss. Every new sensation he forces on me, he seems too ready to take away again. I want to pull back from his kiss, to pout or glare at the injustice of it, when I realize why he needed his hand free. Flint grips my shirt and wrenches it up over my head, though any progress is lost on that front when he refuses to disengage from our kiss. I pull back only far enough to peck and press our mouths fervently, relinquishing the depth of the kiss we shared. He waits for an opening, then yanks the fabric up over my head and unhooks it from beneath my arm in one easy maneuver. He dispenses with it carelessly, and I'm not sure where it lands—because I, too, could care less.

I stand before him clad in jeans and a bra. The fine blond hairs on my arms and on the back of my neck stand up from the sudden cold, but I know it's only a matter of seconds before Flint resumes helping me heat things up. Where once my brassiere afforded my weighty breasts some much-needed support, it now feels like an irritating barrier between me and full-blown contact with Flint's skin. The flesh that pulls taught over his expansive chest muscles is as tanned as the rest of him. He must ride shirtless, I think, when the sun is out from behind the clouds and blazing as hot as he is. Had he stopped this practice as soon as I got onboard?

              I push my breasts against him in needy demonstration, deepening my cleavage and relishing the friction. I feel him walk his fingers up the long, concave line of my back and settle them on the clasp of my bra. A quick pinch and release, and it falls away, as easily as if it had been picked by a master locksmith. I shrug out of it and let it drop off my shoulders, exposing my breasts fully for the first time.

              They are round and proud and milky-white in the spill of silver moonlight through the window. I draw back to let him get a first glimpse of me laid bare, and feel his hands come up to grab my ribcage again and hold me still. Even though I've helped us come to this, I still blush. I can feel his eyes levelled upon me almost more acutely than I can feel the hands physically touching me. I can feel my rose-tipped nipples hardening before his appreciative eyes—a combination of arousal and cold.

              "Take me to bed," I whisper. After hearing my own request, I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. I'm suddenly uncertain of how far he wants to take this. Now that I've stepped away, does he see our situation more clearly? Would it be within the realm of possibility that he would reject me now? I remember all too well the war he fought with himself back at the bar. While I had been confused with his hot-and-cold behavior at the time, it's clear to me now that he had been torn between leaving me and keeping me with him.