Hooked (Viking Bastards MC #1)(2)

It’s not the usual line girls give me when they’re after a ride, but I’ll take it. “Cell not working?” I don’t bother to hide my mocking tone.

She presses those lush, pink lips together, and this time when her gaze clashes with mine there’s no mistaking the challenge. “I wouldn’t have left my car if my cell wasn’t dead, would I?”

I don’t know, and I don’t care. She’s here now. “There’s a phone in the back room.”

Her glance flickers to Tod. “Isn’t there one I can use out here?”

“Nah.” There isn’t one in the back room, either.

She eyes me as though I’m about to eat her. You’ve got that right. I offer her a smile that girls assure me make them come in their thongs.

The chick sways toward me, and I’m ready for her. Then she kind of freezes, and grips her umbrella like it’s an anchor. “Can I use your cell? I’ll pay for the call.”

I smirk. It’s been a long time since a girl played hard to get, and I’m kind of enjoying it. “Sure. Let’s go somewhere private. You don’t have to pay me.”

Joel gives a muffled snort of laughter. Prick’s gonna pay for that later but right now all I’m interested in is getting some *.

Your *, princess.

Her leather coat molds her body like a second skin, and her wet hair and damp face are so f*cking hot it’s hard not to just grab her and bend her over the nearest table. Except, for the first time, the thought of f*cking a girl with an audience doesn’t have the same appeal as usual.

I don’t want any of my brothers or friends seeing her naked while I screw her senseless. Her ass is mine tonight, and in the morning I won’t give a f*ck who else she wants to lay.

“I don’t need privacy to make a phone call.” She’s aiming for ice, but the way her gaze slides over my chest is anything but arctic. Then she glances at Tod. “Any chance of getting a drink around here? Or don’t you serve women?”

I grin and lift one finger. “Whiskey.” Tod’s never moved so fast in his life.

“That’s not my drink of choice.” She fingers the edge of her coat, and I catch a fleeting glimpse of cleavage. It’s like she has no idea she’s playing with fire.

“We don’t sell cocktails.”

“I wanted vodka.” She squeezes a length of her hair and rainwater drips over her shoulder. She shivers, and grips her umbrella tighter.

“Whiskey’ll warm you up.” I lean against the bar so I’m blocking her view of the rest of the room and lower my voice so there’s no chance of the jerk behind me overhearing. “You should get out of those wet clothes and dry off.”

“In the back room, right?” She doesn’t edge closer, or run her finger over my chest, but the hint of huskiness in her voice more than makes up for it.

“Just say the word.” I pick up the glasses Tod leaves on the counter and hand her one. After a second’s hesitation she takes it, and our fingers brush. Christ, who’d think that could be so f*cking hot?

“Sounds risky to me.” She takes a sip of whiskey, but doesn’t choke on it like I half expect. I toss mine back in one go, never taking my gaze from her.

“If you wanted to play it safe, you’d never have walked in here.” I don’t know what her game is. Maybe she lost a bet with her girlfriends or something. Because chicks like her don’t have cars that break down or cells that don’t work.

They just have bucket lists, and from my experience, at the top of that list is wanting to f*ck a guy from the wrong side of town.

That works for me.

…

Grace

I take another sip of whiskey. What the heck am I doing? The guy in front of me, taking up so much space it’s hard to breathe, looks like everything I’ve been warned against my whole life.

His white T-shirt stretches across his broad chest, and a sexy leather vest shows off his impressive biceps. He’s not huge like a bodybuilder, but I can hardly tear my fascinated gaze away from his muscles. Except it’s not just his muscles. It’s the tattoos.

I’ve never seen anything like them in real life. The head of a magnificent bald eagle covers one bicep. It’s a work of art, and regret stabs through me that I’ve never been brave enough to get even a tiny tattoo.

He’s leaning against the bar, and his dark, chocolate-colored eyes are stripping me bare. I clutch the glass more tightly before I drop it. But there’s no getting away from the truth. He oozes sex appeal and a bad-boy vibe that’s seriously messing with my good sense.

I should turn around and get out of here. Except there’s nowhere to go, and even if there were, I have the terrible conviction I’d stay right where I am.

It’s crazy. I’m in a bar where at least 80 percent of the patrons are not only men, but look as though they could bury me under the floorboards without breaking a sweat or having a second thought. No one knows I’m here. I should be petrified.

I rake my glance over the arrogant * in front of me. He needs a shave, and he definitely needs a hair cut, but both the stubble and the way his light chestnut hair brushes his shoulders are so damn sexy it’s making me wet just looking at him.

Everything about him shrieks danger. And I’m drinking whiskey with him. My ex would crap himself if he could see me now, and I like that image more than I should.