Page 102 of Ridin’ Dirty

Pretty little thing like her, with those blue eyes and pouty lips, could manipulate a man with a smile and a wink. But Lyla wasn’t like that.

She was feisty and bold.

She spoke her mind and called him on his shit.

Better yet, she knew when to back down and was mature enough to admit when she was wrong.

She was well on her way to making his house a home. And while his savings had taken a hit in order to make it a possibility, and the liberties she took with his money had pissed him off, he found he appreciated her tastes and respected her why.

She wasn’t aiming to change or tame him—she just gave a fuck.

When she was angry and armed with his credit card, she hadn’t gone on a shopping spree for designer bags and expensive clothing. He was learning she wasn’t materialistic or shallow. After living under the same roof going on three weeks, he was all but certain his wife wasn’t a gold digger so much as she was a woman who appreciated the comforts of home as much as she craved the freedom of the road and the company of family forged by blood and ink.

In short, she seemed too fucking good to be true.

And yet, she was his.

She was even learning German words.

The thought brought a smile to his face, and he was quick to bring his beer to his lips, intent on hiding his amusement.

He liked her.

No longer could he hide his desire behind the guise of curiosity. He wanted her around. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because when given the choice between shooting the shit with his brothers or shooting the shit with his brothers with his woman perched on his thigh, he didn’t even need to think twice about it.

His angel smelled like the sweetest berries plucked in the height of summer.

He didn’t hate her possessive attitude, either. It wasn’t calculated or contrived.

He was still wrapping his head around it, but the ring on her finger meant something to his bride. Enough that she’d threaten any woman who dared make a move on him just as easily as she’d throw herself between him and a threat.

He didn’t plan for her, but he was beginning to believe Lyla was more than an impulsive consequence.

Fate. Karma. Destiny.

He wasn’t sure how much he believed in any of that stuff, but it was either that or his mother intervening on his behalf from the afterlife.

If there was such a place, he wouldn’t put it past her.

“I’m out,” said Smokey, recapturing Pistol’s attention as he stood from his seat. “Anyone else need somethin’ while I’m up?” He waved a finger, pointing at the bottle in Pistol’s hand as well as the one in Nomad’s.

As he lifted his drink to his lips, Nomad replied, “It’ll be gone when you get back.”

“Heard,” replied Smokey. He then raised an eyebrow at Pistol who shook him off with a slight twist of his neck. It was all the answer he needed before he was headed for the bar.

Pistol watched him go, which was how he caught sight of Cherry as she began to saunter her way toward the table. He didn’t claim to know the woman well, but he didn’t have to be clairvoyant to surmise she was coming to the table out of sheer boredom.

“Who’s winnin’?” she asked upon her approach.

“You see me sittin’ here,” teased Nomad with a lazy smile. “Do you even have to ask?”

She laughed, the sound low and throaty, as she came to a stop behind Pistol’s chair. She then brazenly slid her hands over his shoulders and down the front of his kutte. “Sounds like maybe someone needs a little lady luck.”

“Can’t imagine why you think that’s you,” Pistol replied with a shrug.

Cherry was not deterred. Rather than take a hint, she leaned in closer, bringing her lips to his ear as she spoke. “What can I say? I’m feelin’ lucky, and I’m more than happy to share.”

Her breath against his skin and her sultry tone was getting her nowhere. As she continued to drape herself over him, feeling her way down his chest and toward his belt, Pistol frowned in irritation, catching hold of one of her wrists.