Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
“I can’t.” I wave my hand toward the front of the house. “Remy’s right outside.” I let out a long sigh. “It’s nothing. I feel weird, that’s all.”
Griff doesn’t laugh or tease me. “Molly, you have nothing to feel weird about. Last night was beautiful. Awesome. Amazing.”
How does he just know what I was trying to say?
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’m sure the case of blue balls you went home with was so awesome.”
He bursts out laughing. “I can’t believe my little muffin said blue balls.” He hooks his fingers in the belt loops of my jeans and yanks me closer. Leaning over, he brushes his lips against my ear. “Being with you was worth every second of pain. Thought about your beautiful face all night.”
“You don’t think I’m gross?”
His smile fades. “Absolutely not.” He leans in again and lowers his voice. “When it’s time, and you’re ready, we’re going to do that again. And a whole lot more.”
My breath hitches. Tingles race through my veins. “What if I’m ready now?”
“You’re not.” He brushes his knuckles over my cheek, a pained expression twisting his face. “The fact that you’re feeling this way the morning after means you’re not ready. And I’m sorry. That’s on me. That’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let things get so far.”
Oh no. Oh, God. Panic thrums through my heart. That’s not how I want him to feel at all. He’ll never want to be with me if he thinks I can’t handle it.
Vigorously shaking my head, I grab his hand. “That’s not true. I’m sorry.”
“Shh. I’m not going anywhere, Molly.” His mouth quirks, and he gestures toward the front porch. “Well, I am going out there before your brother hunts me down, bags me, and nails me to the wall like a trophy.”
Finally, I’m able to laugh.
Griff
“The fuck took you so long?” Remy asks as I return to the porch.
“Muffins from Muffin.” I hand over one of the blueberry monsters and hold my cup in the air. “And coffee.”
He grunts and swipes the muffin out of my hand, biting it almost in half and chomping on it like some sort of starved gremlin.
“Eat much, savage?” I joke.
“I’m starving.” He squints at me. “What happened to your face?”
“Same face I was born with.”
“Don’t get cute.”
I touch the small cut. I’d taken off the bandage and cleaned it again this morning. “It’s nothing. Rico got a shot in last night.”
“How? You’re better than that clown every day of the week.”
“Eh.” I shrug. There’s no way I’m confessing that Molly showed up at the fight. I know damn well she didn’t tell him. “He’s improved.”
He crosses his arms and stares at me. Instead of running the tavern his grandparents left him, he should’ve been a drill sergeant. Still the same bossy bastard he was when we were kids. “I wish you hadn’t gone without me. What if someone jumped you after the fight?”
“There were people I knew all over the place.” Hopefully none of them tattle to you about me rubbin’ up on your sister.
“Don’t like you all the way over in Ironworks by yourself, though.”
“Lost Kings hold that territory now. There’s literally no other motorcycle club within a couple hundred miles. No one’s gonna risk fucking with me.”
“Why do you always have to argue?”
“Because you’re not my mom.”
He shakes his head, then flashes a dirty grin. “You hook up with Layla?”
“Fuck no.”
“Why not?”
“Remy, I love you, but it’s creeping me out that you’re so concerned about where I stick my dick.”
“Who’s concerned, asshole? I just don’t want to listen to you whine when it falls off from lack of use.”
“Creeeeeepy,” I sing in a fake, high voice. He cracks up laughing. I gesture to the pile of replacement wood for the porch railing in front of us. “Can we stop yapping and start nailing?”
“Yeah.” His mouth twitches into another wicked grin. “That’s what I was trying to talk to you about.”
The only girl I’m interested in nailing is your sister.
No, he’s definitely not prepared for that conversation. Neither am I. Not when he’s got a nail gun, framing hammer, and several other possible instruments of death within arm’s reach.
We work steadily for a few hours. When we’re finished, Remy stands back and stares at the railing with his arms crossed over his chest. “Molly said she wants to paint it.” He runs his hands through his hair. “The whole front porch looks like shit now.”
“No,” I say as patiently as possible. “It looks like you replaced a few pieces and are waiting for your painter to get to work.” I slap his shoulder. “It’ll be fine for a day or two.”
He grunts in agreement and nods to the house. “Let’s clean up.”
Molly’s in the kitchen. She must be fresh from a shower. Her long, dark hair’s almost black, curling at the ends and still dripping water. My mind immediately shoots to picturing her under the running water. Naked.