Hooked (Viking Bastards MC #1)(21)

“It’s not what you want to do.”

It’s not even a question. How can someone who doesn’t know me at all jump to that conclusion? And, more to the point, be right?

“Well…” It’s on the tip of my tongue to deny it, but why should I? “No, not really.”

“So why don’t you just do what you want?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Why?”

I bite my lip. He wouldn’t understand. And then I wonder…would he?

“It’s tied into my family. Suppose you’d decided against joining your motorcycle club—would that’ve been an easy decision?”

He frowns, obviously considering it. “I always wanted to join. But if I hadn’t, no one would’ve made me.”

Okay, that’s a surprise. I thought it was like a cult thing. Obviously not.

“What d’you really want to do, Grace?”

No way am I telling him that. “It doesn’t matter.” I try to sound dismissive but my face heats, damn it, which must be the reason why he forks his fingers through my hair and holds my head as though I’m about to escape. As if that would even be possible, given the way he’s pinned me to the bed.

“I’m not moving until you tell me.” He grins, obviously not caring if I never say another word, and it’s tempting to stay like this. Except my arms are starting to go numb.

“Honestly, it’s not important.” Not to anyone but me, that’s for sure.

His eyes narrow and he runs a strangely speculative glance along my naked body. “Porn star?” he suggests, and I actually gape because I don’t think he’s joking.

“Of course not.” I wriggle, but it doesn’t get me anywhere so I glare up at him. If he laughs…

“I want to open my own cupcake shop.”

The look on his face is priceless. I think he would’ve been less shocked if I had said I wanted to be a porn star.

“Cupcake?” He echoes, as though he has no idea what the word means, and I shift my gaze over his shoulder so I don’t have to see him trying not to laugh. The way my parents laughed eight years ago when I first told them what I wanted to do.

“Yes,” I say between gritted teeth. “Crazy, right?”

“Don’t know.” He pulls back, releasing my hands and head, and lightly clasps my thighs. “Can you cook?”

Is he being sarcastic? “I can bake,” I tell him. God knows I’ve taken enough courses over the last eight years, including a couple of programs under a French master patissier, squeezing them in between college and my job. “I have qualifications.” And a business degree. I just haven’t gotten around to doing anything about it.

“What’s stopping you? Girl like you wouldn’t have any trouble getting a business loan.”

I push my fists against his chest, but he’s rock solid. “Girl like me?” I repeat, irritated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, but it’s obvious he’s finding this whole exchange funny. “Come on, princess. I’m not a dumb shit. You’re from money. And money can always get more if they need it.”

I’m about to tell him it’s none of his business what I decide to do, when it hits me—he’s not telling me I’m an idiot for wanting to set up a risky business in a less than great economy. He’s just pointing out the truth.

If I set my mind to do this, I could, because my financial standing is solid.

“Huh.” I relax my fists, as that revelation seeps into every corner of my brain. Sure, I’ve always known it in the back of my mind, but with so much opposition from both my family and Russell, I’ve never really thought it through.

He sinks onto me, hard muscle and hot flesh, and my eyes close as he kisses me long and slow. I wind my arms around him, savoring every leisurely slide of his tongue inside my mouth.

I moan, shifting beneath him. He’s obviously ready, but instead of reaching for a condom he rolls off me, leaving me frowning up at him.

“No time for that.” His voice is gravelly, and he can’t drag his gaze away from my breasts. “We’ve gotta be somewhere in half hour.”





Chapter Eight


Zach


It takes Grace twenty minutes to get ready, and that’s her idea of rushing it. Not that I’m complaining. In tight jeans and a loose sweater that just skims her waist she looks f*cking edible.

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” she says as I grab her hand and pull her down the hall. “You have to tell me where we’re going.”

“No, I don’t.” I arranged this yesterday afternoon, after I fixed her car, and it’s kind of weird how much I’m looking forward to seeing her face when she discovers what we’re doing.

She gives an exaggerated sigh and wiggles her ass as she goes down the stairs in front of me. “Are we walking or taking a ride?”

“Riding.”

As we enter the workshop she gives me a smug smile. “You have to tell me where we’re going if I’m driving.”

“Who said you’re driving?” I toss her a helmet and she clutches it as though she’s never seen one before. “Shift your ass, princess, we’re late.”