Fire Inside (Chaos, #2)(62)

Now, the dirty dishes were in the sink and we were in Hop’s bed. This was because he didn’t waste time after dinner in starting the tour of his house. This included a lot more man stuff, the not-surprising knowledge that Hop wasn’t exactly tidy, and the equally not-surprising knowledge that Cody was a Hop Mini-Me (seeing as his room was filled with motorcycle and rock stuff).

The revelation was Molly’s room, which was painted a pastel yellow and decorated effusively in every shade of purple under the sun, with a liberal sprinkling of daisies in the form of daisy lamps, a daisy motif to the bedclothes, daisy prints on the walls, and a daisy nightlight.

Glancing into Molly’s room was more proof badass biker Hopper Kincaid loved his daughter. It didn’t belong in this rambling, split-level man cave.

And yet, getting to know Hop, it absolutely did.

The end of the tour was Hop’s room, and I was again surprised when confronted with a mammoth, black leather-padded waterbed. Although it looked incredibly cool, I’d slept on a waterbed twice in my life and, albeit an adventure, being tossed on the waves every time you twitched wasn’t my idea of a restful night.

I didn’t have a chance to think much on this because Hop wasted no time ending the house tour and beginning another one.

The new tour lasted two hours.

During it, it took Hop thirty whole minutes to take all my clothes off me. It took ten more for me to get all his off him.

In other words, it was about taking our time. It was about exploration, rediscovery and memorization, of touch, taste, sound, and sensation.

Two hours.

Two hours of making love.

It was phenomenal and, by the time Hopper slowly slid inside of me, his eyes holding mine, I was so primed, I came instantly. I did it hard and it lasted a long time.

And it was the best I ever had.

Every time with Hop seemed like new.

And every time with Hop was a new best.

So now I was lying on top of him, his dark sheets pulled up over my booty, his chest hair rough against my breasts, his fingers curved around the cheeks of my ass, pads digging in, and I was doing something I knew in that instant I could do for a lifetime.

Watching him laugh.

When his laughter died down to chuckling, he dipped his chin and focused on me to say, “I was never a rock star, babe.”

“You seemed pretty comfortable up there,” I noted.

“Yeah, guess it’s like ridin’ a bike,” he mumbled and I pressed closer, sliding my hands up his chest to wrap my fingers around the sides of his neck.

“Tell me,” I urged softly and he bit his lip, his strong white teeth sinking into the flesh of his full lower lip and I had to beat back a shiver, it was so sexy.

He stopped biting his lip and started, “Right.”

I tore my eyes from his mouth to look into his.

He went on, “After a fight, Dad bought a guitar. Pissed Mom off, which was his intention. She went f*ckin’ ballistic. When he came home with that guitar, it was the worst fight up until then, but she was dedicated to upping the game so it wasn’t their worst fight ever. Still, she was off on one. Dad, for once, didn’t back down and return the guitar. He was out in the garage all the time, plucking at it. The whole point was him bein’ shit at doin’ it, and since it was electric and he also got an amp, him makin’ nothin’ but noise and that noise bein’ loud sent her over the edge time and again.”

“I’m beginning to think your childhood was worse than mine,” I shared and watched Hop’s face get warm and intent.

“How long’s she been at the bottle?” he asked quietly.

“One year, she tripped and spilled a glass of red wine on my fabulous gypsy Halloween costume,” I answered instantly. “Since it wouldn’t do for me to go out in a wine-stained gypsy costume, no matter how fabulous it was, Dad had to cut holes out of a sheet from the guest bedroom so I went as a blue paisley ghost. The sheet was so huge I tripped on it and chipped my front tooth on the sidewalk outside our neighbor’s house. My tooth is capped. I was nine.”

“Babe,” he murmured, his voice low and gruff, filled with feeling.

Feeling for me.

That feeling coming from Hop felt nice, but the reason he was giving it to me didn’t, so I shrugged. “Something life has taught me over and over, it can suck.”

“That it can, lady,” he agreed.

“So anyway,” I moved to change the subject. “I take it you confiscated your dad’s guitar.”

Hop thankfully, but not surprisingly, went with me but he did it while both of his hands drifted up my back, gathered my hair away from my face and one hand held it bunched at the back of my head while the other one moved to stroke my spine.

This felt nice too.

Or, nicer.

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “Dad got sick of drivin’ Mom ‘round the bend and I was curious. Picked it up. To this day, don’t know how it happened but I just took to it. No lessons, nothing. Just started strumming and made music. Dad was f*ckin’ thrilled. Thought it was the shit. Mom was pissed. Thought it’d give me ideas of bein’ a juke box hero. I didn’t care what either of them thought. Two things took me out of the shit that was my life with them and that was bein’ at a bike shop with my dad or sittin’ in the garage, f*ckin’ around with that guitar.”