Page 101 of Ridin’ Dirty

Fuck, but he was hot.

Two words, and I was putty in his hands.

“My car’s here,” I managed to communicate.

“Leave it. We’ll get it tomorrow.”

This man spoke my language.

Forget putty—I was going to be a puddle if he kept at it.

I agreed with a nod, which was about all I could manage without embarrassing myself, but it was enough.

Pistol let go of my neck, draped his arm across my shoulders, and without so much as a word or a wave goodbye, we were gone.

It was Friday night, and the beginning of a long holiday weekend, which was all the reason any of them needed to cut loose. With the Stallions on alert, protecting their streets around the clock, the clubhouse had been relatively chill. Now, the music was loud, the booze was flowing, and the tension was broken. It was the reprieve they all needed.

Pistol, who was in no mood to lose himself to liquor, sat at a poker table with a couple of his brothers—beer in hand, dog at his feet, and his mind adrift.

Here, amongst the Stallions, was exactly where he wanted to be. The room was buzzing with activity. The poker table was full—the bar, too—ol’ ladies, hang-arounds, and club sheep the eye candy decorating the place.

The only thing missing was Lyla.

Lifting his beer to his lips, Pistol pulled a sip from the bottle, letting the thought settle.

Before he went to prison, the idea of claiming himself a permanent woman rarely crossed his mind. He entertained a few monogamous relationships over the years, but nothing he could imagine hanging onto forever. It wasn’t that he craved variety so much as he disliked the idea of being tied down. Any woman he could stand long enough to call his own had always flipped the script on him after a while. She’d claim to want the same things he did, then somewhere along the way, it wasn’t enough.

Ink. Rings. Kids. It was always the same—more was what they wanted. But he couldn’t be tamed or tricked into becoming someone he wasn’t.

With Lyla, it was different.

It wasn’t the right time.

It wasn’t the perfect circumstances.

It wasn’t love at first sight or some fairytale bullshit.

They were a contingency plan.

They were a knee jerk reaction.

They were a consequence of an ideal plan gone wrong.

And yet—it was a Friday night, he was exactly where he wanted to be, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

How she looked first thing in the morning, with her bedhead and skimpy pajamas, proving a woman could be adorable and sexy as hell at the same time.

How primed she always was after riding at his back; be it an hour or fifteen minutes, it was all the foreplay she needed.

And the way she screamed for him…

She was as wild as she was beautiful.

A dangerous combination.

But it wasn’t merely her body that had his thoughts in a vice grip.

He liked the way she fought with him.