Outside the Lines (Sons of Templar MC #2.5)(10)

“You don’t need to carry me bodily, I was just catching my bearings,” I protested weakly, my head throbbing.

Hansen ignored me and walked us into his house. The cool, fresh air assaulted me as soon as we walked in, it was a welcoming chill from the hot sticky climate.

I didn’t get to inspect much as Hansen quickly walked us through his open plan living room and into a hallway. I spotted a leather sofa and armchair, and a huge television, not much else. His hallway was devoid of pictures—devoid of any personality. The same could be said about his room. He walked us in, a nearly made bed displaying a gray bedspread and dark wooden headboard—it was meticulously tidy. He deposited me gently on his soft bed, his hand tenderly brushing my forehead.

“Stay there,” he commanded softly.

I couldn’t do anything but nod and he disappeared. I looked around his bedroom, other than the huge bed, there was a set of drawers, a door leading to what I guessed was a bathroom and smaller double doors of a closet. The items on his dresser were lined up tidily, and there was only a framed picture of the Sons emblem on the wall. I knew he was in the military, which was probably why this place was so gosh darned tidy, but that didn’t explain why it didn’t have anything other than the bare necessities.

He would have hated my room. I was far from tidy. My bed was more often than not unmade, my walls were covered with pictures, places I wanted to go, snaps of Arianne and me, and a couple of me and the boys from the club. It was full of knick-knacks, shit that didn’t serve a purpose but looked cute. I wanted my personality to bleed into my home, wanted it to reflect me. Hansen obviously didn’t agree with that decorating idea.

What felt like seconds later, he appeared with a little torch and one of his hands rested gentled at the side of my head.

“Gonna shine this in your eyes, babe,” he told me in a brisk tone.

I squinted slightly at the light. Then I did as he instructed, looking various ways.

He clicked it off, seeming satisfied. His eyes still held a note of concern.

“You feeling sick? Any numbness?” he asked, his voice brisk.

I shook my head, remembering Hansen’s history as a medic in the military.

“Okay, good. You tell me if you start feeling either of those things,” he said firmly.

I nodded again.

“You tired?” he asked.

I took stock of myself, then glanced at the clock beside the bed. It was just after ten. I was a night owl, so this was seriously early for me, but the knock on the head had me quite drowsy.

“Not really,” I lied, not wanting to waste my time in what I deduced was Hansen’s bed unconscious.

He gave me a look that said he didn’t believe me but didn’t say anything. He moved to grab a remote then turned on the flat screen across the room. It was big, like the one in his living room.

“Got movies and shit on here,” he told me gruffly.

Then, because it seemed like his goal of the night was to shake an already shaken brain, he lifted me and moved me slightly so he could lie on the bed and tuck me into his shoulder.

I stared at the cords of his neck in amazement.

I was snuggling… with Hansen… on his bed… watching movies! Granted I was suffering from a head injury, but that didn’t matter hugely at that moment.

“Babe…” he muttered, flicking through the channels, “…eyes required to be on the screen to pick a movie.”

I kept staring, imprinting this moment into my memory. “I think I’m happy with where my eyes are right now,” I whispered, deciding a head injury took away what little filter I had. And any sense of self-preservation.

His body tightened. His eyes didn’t move from the screen. “Macy. You’re hurt. Which means, as much as I would like to do otherwise, only thing we can do right now is watch a movie. So pick a f*ckin’ movie,” he said tightly.

His voice was harsh but the meaning behind it wasn’t. My stomach jumped and with effort, I tore my gaze away from his handsome face and proceeded to pick a movie. One that Hansen groaned and teased me about, but watched nonetheless. I wouldn’t know how much he actually watched, considering I passed out in the first fifteen minutes, despite my efforts to suck as much time out of this moment as I could.





I woke up feeling warm. Really warm. That was because I was quite literally tangled up with Hansen. I blinked a couple of times, just to make sure I wasn’t in some super realistic, superbly amazing, yet PG fantasy. Nope. This was real. I was actually half lying on his chest, my leg draped over his thighs. His corded arms were tightly coiled around my shoulder and waist. He did literally smell like a delicious mix of sexy and masculine.

My shoes and kimono had been taken off at some point during the night and I was only in my shorts and cami.

I ignored the pounding in my skull. I’d take twelve rounds with Tyson if this was what I got in return. My eyes trailed across his chest, which was bare.

I repeat—bare.

His pecs were defined like they’d been sculpted out of clay and his chest was positively the best I’d ever laid eyes on. It was also devoid of tattoos, apart from one over the top of his heart, the words ‘Semper Fidelis’ scrawled over the top of a cross and dagger. I frowned at a scar on his chest, then moved my gaze. His shoulders were naked of ink also, which I was glad of. Who needed to ink over muscled perfection?