Page 45 of My Ex-Military Biker

"Yeah."

"Thought you wanted me to keep still while the bandage sets."

"Changed my mind."

"You do that a lot now."

"I do. Problem?"

"No."

He stands. The movement brings him close enough that I have to tilt my head back.

"You sure?" he asks.

I reach for his belt. "Stop asking me that."

His uninjured hand fists in my hair. "Good answer."

We don't make it to the bedroom. Don't make it past the counter.

His hands are rough. His mouth is rougher. The bandaged hand grips my hip hard enough I'll have marks tomorrow and I don't care. Want them. Want the evidence.

Three years and he still doesn't do gentle. I still don't want him to.

Later, in bed, his bandaged hand is on my stomach. His other hand traces the curve of my hip.

"You didn't finish wrapping it," I say.

"We'll deal with it tomorrow."

"It's going to hurt."

"Worth it."

I trace the scar on his ribs. The knife wound from the first day. Silvered now, barely visible, but I know exactly where it is.

"Ray okay?" I ask.

"Called him after church. He's fine. Didn't even know Sully said it."

"You going to tell him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because Ray doesn't need to know Sully's an asshole and I don't need Ray thinking I can't handle my own shit."

Fair.

"Perry asked about you today," he says.

"What'd he say?"

"Asked if you're still doing his books."

Perry's hand healed enough to work but not enough for fine detail. He does simple mechanical work now. I handle his taxes and quarterly filings because the club keeps its legitimate business legitimate.