Ride Steady (Chaos, #3)(57)
During dinner, conversation hadn’t been free-flowing, mostly because Travis curtailed it, as was his wont. But things had been pretty easy.
Until Joker had invited himself to camp out in front of the television and then did just that.
I’d gotten Travis down and joined Joker.
Now I didn’t know what to do.
Men could be friends with women, this was true (though I had no men friends, still, it was true, I’d seen it on TV).
But could bikers be friends with women? Were they the kind of guys who hung out for dinner and TV just because?
It was my understanding, though it hadn’t been confirmed, that Joker lived at the Compound. And he didn’t have a TV in his room. There was one behind the bar in the common area, but not in his room.
Maybe he just wanted a comfy space to lounge. A change of scenery.
Or maybe he liked me.
But lounging, he was doing. Feet up. Boots still on. Ankles crossed. Heels resting on my coffee table. He was slouched down, not far from me, arms out and resting on the back of the couch. His hand was so close to my shoulder, it felt like it was hovering there, aimed to strike.
This meant I was so wound up, so unsure, so nervous, I didn’t even know what we were watching.
Actually, to all that, I was also trying to control my mouth from opening and asking what was happening at the same time control my body from hurling itself in his arms.
In other words, I was a wreck.
What I should do was ask.
I liked him.
He was (maybe) giving indications he liked me.
I should know. I should be a big girl and put it out there. Just grab the remote, hit mute, turn to him and say the words, “Joker, what’s happening here?”
Easy.
So why couldn’t I do it?
I swallowed.
Then I bit my lip.
After that, I took a deep breath.
It stuck in my throat when Joker’s hand, poised to strike, struck.
It did this by capturing a lock of my hair then twirling it around his finger.
I forced myself to breathe and do it steadily so he wouldn’t hear me hyperventilating.
Okay, that felt nice.
Okay, did male friends of females twirl hair around their fingers?
No.
They couldn’t.
Could they?
Afraid to move so I didn’t lose his fingers playing with my hair, I slid my eyes to the side. I couldn’t see him fully but I could see he had his attention on the TV.
Okay, now, what did that mean?
I had to know. I couldn’t sit there a moment longer and not know.
“Joker?” I called and immediately cleared my throat because it came out croaky.
“Yeah, baby?” he asked distractedly.
But I froze.
Okay, male friends did not call females baby. Not the warm, intimate, albeit distracted, way he just said it.
I felt a tug on my hair and that tug, no matter how light, shot straight over my scalp, sizzled down my neck, and exploded at the heart of me.
“Carrie?”
Slowly, I turned my head and saw him looking at me.
He looked relaxed. He looked comfortable. He looked at home.
He looked amazing.
“What you need, Butterfly?” he muttered.
I knew what I needed.
I didn’t tell him.
Not verbally.
I dropped my feet, twisted, planted a hand in the couch and launched myself into his arms.
Those arms closed around me, and right before my mouth would hit his, fear saturated me when he seemed to be coming up out of the couch like he intended to push me away.
But he wasn’t.
He was coming toward me so he could skate his arm down my back, over my bottom, to hook around the backs of my knees. He curled his other arm around my back as he dragged me across his lap then dropped to his side, taking me to my back in the couch.
And it was his mouth that hit mine.
The second I had it, I wasted no time. I opened my lips in invitation and drove my fingers in his hair.
It was thick, springy, thrilling.
His tongue swept into my mouth.
I had it back.
Thank God, I had him back.
I held his head to me as I pressed up and he kept kissing me.
He shifted so my thighs were no longer draped over his lap, stretching out beside me and also on me.
And he kept kissing me.
I rolled into him, pressing my body the length of his, keeping a hand firm in his hair so he wouldn’t leave me as I trailed the other hand down his back.
And he kept kissing me.
He yanked my shirt from my jeans and dove right in, his rough calluses grating up my skin, causing shivers to erupt along their path, a path that took him up my side.
I pressed closer.
Joker kept kissing me.
Then up my ribs.
I held tighter.
Joker kept kissing me.
To under my breast.
I went still.
Joker swept his thumb along skin, the very tip a whisper against the curve of the underside of my breast.
I whimpered.
A cell phone rang.
Joker broke the kiss but didn’t pull away.
He shoved his face in my neck.
I didn’t even try to hold back my whispered plea.
“No, no, no.”
“Shit, shit, f*ck,” he growled.
“Joker?” I called tremulously.