Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(30)

“Fuck,” I muttered. I tried to quickly scramble up from my seat so I could run away. I didn’t know where to, Serbia possibly, but it seemed a lot harder than it had been two seconds ago. I somehow got my foot tangled in the feet of the chair and stumbled. I was about to eat shit on the concrete when a strong arm caught me.

“Easy, Sparky,” Brock said, pulling me upright.

I yanked my arm away from his touch, refusing to believe it turned me on. I had only had sex with the man this morning. My body should be sick of him by now.

Brock took in my bikini with a scowl. “It’s nine o’clock at f*ckin’ night. Want to put some f*ckin’ clothes on?” he growled.

I raised my eyebrow and cocked my hip. The pissed off woman stance didn’t work as well after countless cocktails and I wobbled slightly. “This is my freaking house. And it is my freaking party. There is no way in hell you can come in uninvited and have comments on my attire no matter how sexy your man bun is.”

Shit. I hadn’t meant to say that last bit. The * had the audacity to smirk.

I snatched the bottles out of his hand. “These are mine. You can go now,” I declared, turning my back on him and storming into the house. Thanks to tequila I wasn’t articulate enough to have a verbal sparring match with him so I deduced escape was my only option.

I got into the kitchen and started slamming bottles down, my blurry eyes looking for the right ones to go in the blender. At this point I didn’t care; I poured various liquids in, thinking of names for my concoction.

“Amy Juice.” I tried it out loud. No, that wasn’t right. “Abramtini!” I declared, feeling like a genius.

Hands at my hips interrupted my train of thought. I jumped as they whirled me around, bringing me face to face with Brock’s hungry gaze. His mouth was on mine before I knew what was happening.

“Fuck, it should be illegal for you to wear that little red bikini,” he growled, his hand palming my breast roughly.

“I’m still mad at you,” I panted in between kisses.

“So am I,” he said, pushing me towards the bathroom. “Doesn’t mean I can’t f*ck you though,” he declared.





“I think sex is the best cure for a hangover,” I announced after Brock had returned to the room after getting rid of the condom.

He joined me in bed and pulled me to him. “Babe. Sex with you could cure f*ckin’ cancer.”

I laughed. “Oh yes, scientists should study my magical vagina,” I joked.

We were silent for a while and I didn’t like how comfortable and right it felt lying in bed with Brock, cuddling and joking. “About last night—” Brock began.

“About you f*cking me in the bathroom while a party full of people made cocktails in the kitchen only a few feet away?” I finished for him, teasing.

“No. But that was f*ckin’ hot,” he said, squeezing my ass. “No, this was more about you prancing around the whole night in what was equivalent to your f*ckin’ underwear. In front of my brothers.” His voice had lost the teasing tone.

I stiffened. “I didn’t prance,” I argued. “And it’s called a bikini. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them—invented by a fellow named Louis Reard, been around for almost seventy years?” I asked sarcastically, trying to pull out of his arms.

Brock tightened his hold. “Calm down, Sparky. I’m not saying don’t wear a bikini. I’m just saying for future reference put some more clothes on once the sun goes down. I’ve never wanted to pummel my brothers before. I don’t want to have to because of the way they’re looking at my old lady.”

The pit of my stomach dropped at that statement. I didn’t entirely know what that label meant, but I knew it was one I would never wear. Like Roberto Cavalli.

“Let’s get one thing straight here. I am not going to alter my fashion habits in order to make you happy…ever. I’m happy with how I look. I’m proud of it, in fact. I don’t count calories and deprive myself of chocolate so I can don an ankle-length one piece. One thing I’m also proud of is belonging to no one.” I pulled myself out of his arms and he let me. “I’m not going to be anyone’s ‘old lady’. Frankly I’d rather shave my eyebrows than become some biker’s possession,” I spat.

Brock’s gaze turned deadly. “You did not f*ckin’ just say that,” he said quietly.

I stood from the bed, crossing my arms. “I did just say that. Just because you’re good in bed does not mean I want to jump into any kind of relationship, and it sure as shit doesn’t mean I want you to lay some kind of f*cked up claim on me!” I shouted at him.

He leapt out of bed, shoving his jeans on. “You have no idea how many bitches are f*ckin’ gagging to be my old lady—how f*ckin’ important that title is,” he yelled back at me.

“Well, go and find one of those no doubt classy ladies to bestow your oh so important title on,” I screeched, shoving my nightgown over my head.

He stepped towards me, eyes blazing. “You’re afraid,” he stated. “You’re f*ckin’ terrified cause you know what you feel with me is actually real. It means you really have to feel something, put yourself out there. You’re being a bitch so I’ll act like a jerk, and you can feel better about yourself for me getting sick of it and bouncing,” he declared.