Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(28)

“Can I ask you something, babe?” he asked softly, his arms still tight around me. I was running my hands across his chest, tracing the line where he had a magnificent tattoo of an old clock morphing into a skull. It was intricate and amazing, along with most of his other tattoos.

“Mhmmm,” I muttered distractedly.

“Who’s Otto and what the f*ck is Rocket Power?” he asked.

I paused and rested my head in my hand to meet his eyes.

“You’re kidding me. You don’t know what Rocket Power is?” I asked, baffled.

Brock grinned and shook his head, seeming more relaxed than I’d ever seen him.

“That’s right, you’re an old man. Color TV probably wasn’t around when you were a kid,” I teased.

Brock continued to grin and shook his head at me.

“It’s just some stupid cartoon show I watched when I was a kid, a freaking awesome one at that. Otto was some surfer dude who was arrogant and thought he was in charge of everyone.” I smirked “Sound familiar?”

Brock shook his head. “Only you could pull off referencing a f*cking cartoon show in the middle of an argument.” His tone was light.

I giggled slightly, turning my gaze back down to his chest. “It seemed appropriate.”

He stroked my back. “You don’t seem to me like you would have been the type of kid to sit around watching TV shows about surfing, babe. More like taking horseback lessons and walking around with a book on your head,” he continued.

I snorted. “Yeah, trust me—it wasn’t for lack of my parents trying, but I excelled at disappointing them,” I informed him, not looking up.

We were silent for a bit. I was glad he didn’t probe about my parents. I hated talking about them. Hated thinking about them. Plus, I didn’t want to sob on his tattooed chest while I told him how my mother would lock me in my room for days after I embarrassed her at some function or another. Hence my familiarity with a plethora of television shows. Once I grew old enough though she couldn’t pull that shit with me and settled for indifference and the occasional scathing insult.

Brock ran his hand along my shoulder. “Want to put some clothes on, baby, and go and grab some grub? Maybe ride up the coast somewhere?” he asked softly, breaking the silence.

I stiffened and stopped my perusal of his colorful tattoos. “Actually I should really go,” I declared, getting up. I was thankful his arms hadn’t stopped me. He sat up in bed while I scoured the room for my clothes.

“Are you f*cking kidding me?” he shot softly with a hint of menace. The playful tone was long gone.

“No, I’m not kidding. I’ve got things to do,” I replied, clasping my top on.

I couldn’t find my panties so I slipped my shorts on commando. I didn’t miss Brock’s pointed gaze at this.

“I don’t think we should do things like that,” I continued, not making eye contact as I scoured the room for my purse.

Brock stood, pulling his own jeans on commando. My mouth watered slightly at the sight of him wearing jeans and no shirt. “Like what?” Brock asked briskly, interrupting my gaze by pulling on a shirt.

“Like going out for Sunday breakfast together, going for romantic rides along the coast,” I said flatly. “This,” I gestured between us, “is just sex. Nothing more. We shouldn’t confuse it.” The memories of my less than stellar childhood were the perfect reminder of why I should get the f*ck out of here now before I became vulnerable.

Brock’s gaze turned thunderous. “So you don’t want your precious reputation to be tarnished by being seen in public with a biker?” he clipped.

I furrowed my brows. “No, it’s not like that,” I tried to argue. I might want to distance myself from him emotionally but I didn’t want him to think so little of me. I didn’t want him to believe I thought so little of him.

“Shut it. I know what it’s like. You think you’re better than everyone here. You come waltzing into my town with your fancy shit, your long legs, your big tits and smart mouth and drag me around by my dick. I can’t get you off my mind. All I think about is how I’ll pull that red hair while I’m taking you from behind and how I’ll f*ck that smart mouth. We f*ck like rabbits for two f*ckin’ days and you’re suddenly Queen Bitch again?” He shook his head. “Fuck that. Your *’s good, but not good enough for you to get away with acting like an entitled bitch.”

My temper ignited. I stepped forward. “That is not even remotely what this is about. I couldn’t give a flying f*ck that you’re a biker. I don’t think I’m better than anyone!” My voice rose to a screech at the end.

“You’re not—the way you’re acting right now you’re no better than the club whores,” he shot cruelly. He pulled his boots on. “I’m assuming you wouldn’t want to be seen in the daylight on the back of my bike?”

I couldn’t care less. In fact, I would love to roar around the freakin’ state pressed up against him and have the event televised. “I’d rather get my hair cut with a butter knife,” I shot back icily.

“Suit your f*ckin’ self,” he muttered. He walked out the door, slamming it as he left. I flinched as it rattled the hinges. I stood there, one shoe in my hand, not moving until I heard his bike roar off.