Crash (Brazen Bulls MC #1)(24)

Sadly, she couldn’t imagine a position that wouldn’t put too much stress on her leg. She only had a couple more days before she had to go back to work, and it had to be fully functional by then.

But sex wasn’t why she wanted him to stay. She wanted him to stay because of what she’d told him. Not because she was afraid; she’d set fear away. But because he knew this thing about her, this private, crucial thing, and if he left so soon after, she’d be alone while the story rattled around loose. Like last night, even more than last night, she didn’t want to be alone with her brain.

Jesus, the last twenty-four hours had been intense. Only one day since she’d been riding home from Houston, feeling relaxed and sated with family love.

“I’m not up to sex, no. That’s not why I want you to stay. I just…want you here.”

He sighed—a deep, long breath that filled his chest and came out from his pursed lips almost as a whistle. “You want me to stay here? The night?”

She looked in her head for a reservation about this trust she was giving a man she’d met a day earlier, but there was none. Telling him her story had been a greater act of trust than asking him to stay. “Yes. I want you to stay.”

Another long sigh. Willa sat on his lap, in his arms, and wondered what was in his head that needed so much air to be thought. Feeling more and more self-conscious, she was about ready to retract the invitation when he slid his fingers into her hair, his hand cupping the back of her head, and kissed her.

Rad kissed like a man who had done a great deal of it in his life. As gruff as he was, as rough as he looked, Willa had been surprised in each of their few kisses at the grace of his mouth, which moved expertly, not simply to cover hers and force her to take his tongue, but with a deft sense of the way her mouth and tongue moved, the way she reacted to him. He was in total control, and yet responsive. Like a dancer leading his partner.

She smiled a little at the metaphor as it appeared in her mind—Rad was probably not a dancer. But he was definitely a kisser.

His beard was much softer than she’d expected and brushed over her lips and cheeks so that she felt entirely consumed by every kiss. She moaned and hooked her arms around his neck, squirming against the erection that had grown hard and demanding under her ass.

He grunted and broke away. “I’ll stay,” he rasped against her cheek. “Gonna kill me not to f*ck you, but I’ll stay.”





CHAPTER SEVEN



Rad still didn’t know what the f*ck he was doing.

Willa sat on his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck. Her body was so firm and sleek on him. He felt her breasts pillowed against his chest, and even through his shirt and her dress, the soft pressure, and the little pebbles of her erect nipples, was going to make him crazy. When he’d lifted her to his lap, her dress had hiked up, and he could feel the heat of her on his thigh.

Holy hell, he was stirred up.

Her cheek brushed over his, like she was caressing herself with his beard. It was all he could do not to throw her back down on her sofa and drop on top of her.

But that leg—all black and blue and swollen, a bite of road rash over her thigh. Bruises on her arm, too, though not as bad. He would hurt her, and that wasn’t his style. Rough, yes. Brutal, no.

So, he’d what—agreed to spend the night with her? To do what? Cuddle? A woman he’d just met?

Funny thing, though—he asked himself those questions, sitting there with her on his lap, and he couldn’t find the reaction in him that would send him out the door. Instead, he wanted to hold her. The story she’d told him, this Jesse f*cker, had him feeling all kinds of protective and vengeful.

The way she’d said she’d been raped—just he beat me up and raped me, with no change in her tone. The whole story, until the end, when she wasn’t telling the story anymore but reacting to it, had been delivered without affect. It might have been a story about a trip to the market. Even the words he beat me up and raped me had been uttered conversationally.

That had thrown him hard—the words she’d said, and the way she’d said them. His own reaction, occurring entirely internally, had been hot, instant anger, and it made him wonder what she was holding in. Or had the passing years worn a callus over the memory?

He looked at her door and all its locks. No. No callus. Just control.

He didn’t want to leave her locked in this house alone.

He didn’t want to go.

He’d called her baby, and he hadn’t even noticed. As an endearment, it was about as basic as they came, but Rad had only ever before used it with one woman. His wife. Ex-wife.

Jesus, he was f*cked. Already, he was in deep. How the hell had that happened? Had he learned nothing from his adventures in love with Dahlia?

It didn’t matter. Willa and Dahlia were nothing alike. And he knew exactly how he’d gotten deep so fast. She needed him. She didn’t want to, but she did. Really needed him. It was like a f*cking aphrodisiac for him.

Dahlia had figured that out right quick and played him like a fiddle. Willa was different. She didn’t flutter and whimper. She fought it. She was strong, she stood straight, but she still needed. Christ, that was hot.

She leaned back and narrowed her eyes at him, in that way she had, like she was trying to read his thoughts. He thought she meant to say something, but before she could, his pager went off.