Into the Storm (Signal Bend #3)(43)

Breaking the kiss abruptly, he murmured, “Shannon. God.”

The sound of her name from his lips, in that deep, quiet voice. Every time he said her name, she felt it like a touch—to her heart, her belly, her clit. She whimpered and grabbed his beard, turning him back to her mouth. With a grunt, he obliged, kissing her roughly, his thick fingers digging deep into her ass.

God, he felt so good. He made her feel so good. This rough edge that was new—new to her entirely, not just to her experience with Show—made her feel…beautiful. So desirable that he was wild with it. This strong, quiet, controlled man, on the verge of losing control. For her.

He’d laid a lot on her when they were at his house. She’d known the basics of what had happened, but nothing like the horrific details he’d shared with her tonight. He’d thought it would scare her, and it had.

Not for the reasons he thought, maybe. Not because it made her feel less safe with him. But because it meant that this tiny little town was as vulnerable to the evil in the world as anywhere else. They were so isolated here, even with a steady influx of daily visitors and overnight guests, that it was easy to forget how screwed up the rest of the world was. Shannon had felt more at ease in her months in Signal Bend than she could remember ever feeling.

She hadn’t really thought about the MC being dangerous, and she still didn’t. They might actually be offended by that; maybe it would ding their image, but it was true. Yes, she knew the story of the shootout, the whole world probably knew the story of the shootout, but she’d known these guys for almost six months, and they were rough and rowdy, but not, in her estimation, dangerous. Unless somebody deserved it. They were good guys, for the most part. One of them, Vic, made her a little uncomfortable, with a tendency to grin creepily and devour her with his eyes, but as far as Shannon had seen, the others were…

well, gentlemen—in the old-fashioned way, where they called women doll and sweetness, things like that, but pulled out chairs and opened doors. They were rough around the edges, but she felt, if anything, safer when they were around. Even that night at Badger’s party, they’d just flirted with her, despite Show’s conviction that she was courting trouble.

She hadn’t really thought about the fact that they were outlaws. In Signal Bend, they kept order. They took care. People came to them with problems, and they fixed them. They were the town heroes. It wasn’t Show’s fault, what had happened to his family. But that he took the blame on like he did—it touched Shannon more than she could express. He said he was weak, because he hadn’t fought his wife, but she saw strength in his forbearance. A man as strong as he was, who by his own admission lived on the brink of violence so much—Holly was lucky he was who he was. That he hadn’t fought her. That he’d tried to make her happy, at his own expense.

In Shannon’s eyes, he was a hero.

His hands were under her sweater, pushing it up, and she raised her arms to help him. He ripped it over her head and tossed it away, then grabbed her by the waist and lifted her straight off her feet, carrying her like that to the bed. He laid her down, following directly to lie on top of her, his mass pressing her down at every point into the mattress. He was all over her, his mouth and beard rough against her neck, her shoulder, his coarse hands rasping against her belly and pulling at her bra. He got it undone on his own and ripped it from her shoulders. It was expensive, and even in this heady moment of ravishing, she wanted not to ruin it, so she arched up and helped him pull it away. That, too, he tossed aside.

She was topless, and he was still fully clothed, but she loved— loved—the feeling of his flannel shirt and denim jeans on her skin. Something about that was unbearably sexy, and she moaned and arched closer, her hands tangling in his hair.

He still had his beanie on. She laughed and pulled the damp knit wool off his head and tossed it away.

In a viscerally animalistic gesture, he shook his head hard, and his hair flew and then settled wildly around his face. Jesus God, he was sexy.

He kissed her, again grinding his mouth down on hers until her lips felt deliciously bruised and sensitive. This was not the tortured, conflicted man who’d taken her to his room in the clubhouse. She tried to match his intensity, but he was so much bigger, dominating her so much, that she couldn’t keep up.

Instead, she gave herself over. She raised her arms over her head and grabbed the spindles on her brass headboard, arching up against his body.

When she did, he stopped with a grunt and raised up on his hands, staring down at her. His eyes were hot and wild. She smiled up at him and arched her back again. He grunted—he seemed to have lost the power of speech—and pushed down, lying on her again, taking her breasts in his hands and sucking a nipple hard and deep into his mouth. She felt it in every nerve in her body.

“Oh, God! Show, oh, God!”

Her breasts were big, but they were very sensitive. Most guys seemed intimidated by their size, or something, and tended to fluff them like pillows, maybe lick her nipples if she was really lucky. Few, though, would give one a good suck. Show was sucking as if he thought he could draw sustenance from her. And then he closed his teeth around her nipple and sucked again. She cried out and brought her hands down to clutch his head tight to her. Oh, she wanted more of that.

He stopped and looked up at her, breathing audibly. Coming up on his knees, he took her hands from his head and put them back on the headboard, wrapping her hands around the spindles again and holding here there, his huge, hot hands encircling hers. He gave her a meaningful look. He said nothing, but she understood. He wanted her to leave her hands where they were. He wanted her passive and exposed.