“Fuck.”

  Gunz

  With you. I would…

  Jesus Christ. Kit’s words turn over in my skull. Look at her. All that barefaced openness. All that goddamn sexiness. I can still taste her arousal on my tongue as if I made her come with my mouth and not a little leg help. This has been an insane fucking day. Watching her watch me. All those gaspy breaths and smiles. Those marks around her neck. A necklace of my doing. Deep purple. Gorgeous. Mine.

  All fucking mine.

  Depravity scratches the surface, testing my will, seeing if I’ll cave. I won’t. Not now. Not with her.

  Again, I watch her as she watches me, hoping I’ll give her something. But I have nothing of real value to give. My mother saw to that. Not once in my life have I laid on a couch with a woman, watching movies, that I paid little attention to because she’s here... with me of all fuckin’ people. Wanting to be here ’cause I’m here. How’s that for a mindfuck?

  She didn’t push to touch my cock.

  They all push.

  They all want and need. They beg. They submit.

  But not her.

  Not this one.

  She’s content to look up at me with these big, expressive, honey-colored eyes and ask me to let her in. To share. How in the hell am I supposed to do that?

  My brother told me long ago this would happen. It’d be unexpected and knock me flat on my ass. He said a woman would come along and want inside. To get to know the real me. Care about the real me. Not the outside strength. Not the façade. The gritty, ugly, broken bits. I laughed at him. Obnoxious laughter. Said he was a fucking fool because we weren’t born to fall in love. We weren’t worthy. Hell, I’m still not worthy.

  This is new.

  Still just as terrifying.

  But fuck it all to fuckin’ hell if I don’t wanna give her something. Just a taste of real. A taste of me.

  “Why do you think my name is Gunz?” I ask, more as a test to myself than her, to see how far I’m able to go. To see how much she can handle.

  An adorable wrinkle forms between her brows as she looks deep in thought. I caress the side of her face, waiting for a reply, my stomach tight.

  This is it.

  Time to rip the bandage off. A lifelong bandage that only Bonez and I know the damage beneath. The scars. The hallow wreckage.

  He’s gonna laugh later, in that cocky, dickhead brother way, when I tell him his punk-ass was right. Fuckin’ bastard.

  “Honestly, I don’t know…” Kit shrugs a single shoulder up to her ear, suspends it there as she ponders the question, confusion etched in her features, then drops it when she’s formed an answer. “Because of guns?”

  Nope. That’s what they all assume.

  “You want another guess?”

  “Not really.” She nibbles that sexy bottom lip a beat. “If you’re not comfortable sharing, Erik, I’m not gonna pressure you for more. I just figured we’re here, we have nothin’ else to do today, and we barely know each other.”

  Damn. She used my name. It sounds perfect comin’ from her, light and sweet. Erik. I couldn’t tell the last time anyone called me that out loud.

  “You want the good, the bad—” I begin.

  “And the ugly,” she finishes.

  Alright.

  “Let me ask you this. What does a gun and bone have in common?”

  A solid minute passes of lip-chewing contemplation before she replies, “I… hmmm… I don’t know.”

  “They’re both words that can be used for dick.”

  Head rearing back in surprise, Kit’s eyes widen. “Wait. What?”

  “Everyone assumes Bonez is named after bein’ a chiropractor. Ya know, crackin’ bones? He even tells people that’s how he got his name, which is a load of horseshit. People assume my name has somethin’ to do with guns and they leave it at that. Case closed.”

  “Ooo-kay? So now you’re telling me you’re named after a penis? Like Big Dick is?”

  “Big isn’t named after a dick, love.” Snickering, I nudge Kit’s beanie up with my thumb, so it stops tryin’ to hide her eyebrows. They’re expressive. I need to see ‘em. “His name is Richard. He’s huge. It fits.” I boop her on the nose, enamored with her cuteness and the way she’s looking at me like I’ve lost all my gaskets. To be fair, everyone assumes the same with Big. That his name’s a play on the fact he either has a big member or is the world’s biggest asshole. The former might be true. The latter, not so much, unless you get on his bad side, which usually ends in a trip to the shed. Rightfully so. Still, he isn’t named after a dick.

  “His real name is Richard,” Kit reiterates in disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  Unable to control herself, Kit breaks into laughter, full-on grab-her-belly amusement, which ignites the same response in me. The couch quakes as we lose it together. She snorts like a pig. I bark a deep, gruff laugh, trying to catch my breath. This woman sure is somethin’.

  Grabbin’ hold of her so she doesn’t fall off the couch amid her delight, Kit basks in the moment, and I soak up every nuance of her childlike fun. The reddened cheeks. Her stomach trembles against mine as my dick takes notice. It all fits into the perfect package that is Kit. My stunning woman.

  Tears cling to Kit’s eyelashes when she calms long enough to speak. “His name is Richard... Oh my.” She covers her mouth with her hand. “Please don’t tell him or Bink I laughed about this… But that’s a horrible name for him. No wonder they call him Big…” She pauses a beat to gulp air. “Okay… Okay… Sorry… Go on… Explain why you and Bonez have penis names.”

  I lean in and peck her nose.

  Caught off guard, a shy blush saturates her cheeks.

  Here goes nothin’.

  You’re not gonna be prepared for this either. Brace yourself.

  Knowin’ damn well this will ruin the mood, I clear my throat in preparation. “It started when I was a pre-teen, and throughout my teen years. My mother sold me and my brother to the neighborhood sick fucks.”

  Soaking up the information, Kit’s face pales, and her mouth hangs ajar, but I don’t back down. She asked. We’ve already opened this can of disgusting worms. I’m gonna let this truth see the light of day once and only once. Then I’m takin’ it to the grave. ’Cause I’m not talkin’ about it again.

  I keep on. “Bonez got sold to both men and women, but they always used me for the ladies. When they were requesting us, they’d leave voicemails or notes in the mailbox, requesting the names my mother gave to us.”

  “Bonez and Gunz,” she guesses.

  Bingo.

  “Yeah. She would tell me the ladies needed my gun or my brother’s bone. It started as gun and bone. They’d say what they needed. She’d put it on the family calendar in the kitchen—times, locations, who was requested.”

  “Your mother sold you.”

  “Yes.”

  “For sex.”

  “Yes.”

  Magnificent round eyes delve into mine. “Holy fuck.”

  “Do you want me to go on?” I check.

  Kit bobs her head in rapt fascination. “If you are willing to. Absolutely. I’m so sorry this happened to you.” Her fingertips draw random shapes across my abs.

  “It’s in the past, love.” To convey this doesn’t haunt me as you’d expect, I drop a quick peck to her beanie-covered forehead, wishing I could take her hat off to rub and kiss her bald scalp. There’s no need to hide it.

  Appreciating her outrage, I drop a second kiss there before I continue. Leaving little to the imagination, I fill in what I think she can stomach. How Bonez hated it at first, then became addicted. How I loved it. The power. The pleasure. How I hated my mother for being an awful cunt who never really loved us, but never hated her for selling me for sex. I learned so much from those experiences. Sure, it warped my perception of sex and women. It made me want to consume more. To fuck more. To chase that addictive high. The worship. The praise. It was nothing more than pleasure in its purest form. No connection. No consequences. It was and has always been freedom.

  “I… I have nothing to say,” Kit sputters when I’ve divulged the bulk of it.

  Needing to touch her, I caress Kit’s cheekbone with the pad of my thumb. “You don’t have to, love. You asked for real. I gave ya somethin’ I’ve never given to anybody else, just like watching movies on the couch with you, or reading books in bed, or sharin’ my home.”

  Looking at me like I’m some hero, she utters, “You’re amazing.”

  I shake my head repeatedly to cut that shit right the hell off. “I’m not, love. I’m really not.”

  “But you are.” Kit reaches up to touch me, slow enough I could stop her if I wanted. I don’t. On my shoulder, she rests two fingers at first to test the waters, then her full palm comes to rest. Sparks ignite beneath her warmth, an electrical charge to the system, standing the hairs on the back of my neck on end. I shiver down to my toes. My abs flex as I gasp softly at how this woman affects me. Even my cock tingles. Balls ache. Oblivious to her voodoo, she keeps talking as if my heart isn’t pounding its way outta my chest. “You can’t see it. But I can… So… Okay… Um… If she, ya know, used those as references for her… I can’t even say the words. How did gun and bone turn into your names with the z?”

  Focus, Gunz.

  Expelling a leaden breath, I will my heart to calm before I speak.

  “My father, who was also a Sacred Sinner at the time, came home after some long drunken gambling binge, demandin’ money from my mom. She always took the calendar down when she expected him home. Ya know, to save face. We lived in your standard single-story suburbia, where all the houses looked the same. My mom might have been a former club whore, but she had a reputation to uphold. Everything was always perfect, including the illusion that her husband and kids were the same. When he found the calendar, he saw the names, and demanded to know what it was all about. Me and Bonez listened from our bedroom that night. Dad came in after, said he knew what she’d done, made no apologies, congratulated us on our sexual aptitude, and bestowed us with our road names right then and there.”

  “Gunz and Bonez,” she verbalizes for me.

  “Yeah. They stuck. My brother hated his for a while. I used mine to my advantage and became a Sacred Sinner early on. The less I gave a shit about bangin’ club whores in front of brothers, the more they respected me. The more successful and helpful I became to the club, the more they wanted me here. It didn’t take long to rise up the ranks and get my father kicked out.”

  For Kit’s sake, I omit the gory details. She doesn’t need to know my father visited the shed. That Big stood and watched me strip him of his patch with my knife before I lit his cut on fire, then beat him to death with nothing more than my fists. He deserved it. As children, anytime the bastard came ‘round, he was always fuckin’ my mom in front of us. We tried to hide, but he made us watch. The older he got, the less it appealed to him, the less he came around. I vowed, even before I had hair on my nutsac, I was gonna be the one to end his life, someway, somehow. And I did… in my early twenties. My third official kill. It took hours and I was sore days after. Was it worth it? Hell yeah.

  Busy digesting my past in her own way, a companionable silence falls upon us. Because I’m a slut for my woman’s touch, I snuggle her up in my arms. Her head rests against my chest, listening to my heartbeat thrum as I press my lips to the top of her head. Eyes closing of their own volition, I revel in the moment, in her soft warmth, in the weight off my shoulders.

  Fuckin’ Bonez.

  Always gotta be right.

  Contentment settles in my gut. Happiness blooms in my chest.

  When Kit speaks, her lips graze my pec with every word. “I’m proud of you.”

  She’s proud of me.

  I want to ask why. Tell her I don’t deserve it. Yet, I somehow understand. So, I don’t act like a fuckin’ tool and undermine her conviction. I take it into me. Soak it in like a sponge. Her pride. Her affection…

  and I…

  Almost cry.

  Because… fuck.

  Nobody’s ever said that to me before.

  Not like that.

  Not…

  Fuck.

  I love this woman.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  KIT

  Dressed in a clean pair of my own clothes Gunz found in the garage—purple leggings and an obnoxious Grateful Dead t-shirt—I rub my distended, full belly in circles as we sit around the kitchen table. Not just the two of us, Adam, too. Like a bunch of hens, they can’t stop clucking—trading one story for the next. It’s as if I’m invisible. Well, that’s not entirely true. My foot happens to be resting in Gunz’s lap. He also happens to be massaging it as he carries on with our boy. The hot biker squeezes my big toe whenever Adam discloses something he likes, communicating without words how much he’s enjoying our uninterrupted family time. It’s too damn sweet. I can’t stop smiling.

  Leaning over his plate, elbows on the table, Adam shovels a second piece of cheesecake into his mouth. I had a slice earlier. It was perfection—rich and gut-busting. Where Adam fits an extra slice, I do not know. In his hollow leg? Sheesh.

  When Gunz said the Sacred Sisters would drop food by tonight, he underplayed it to the nth degree. The number of groceries I helped him put away was insane. The bags filled the entire kitchen floor. Literally. Not plastic bags, either. Larger mesh totes with sturdy handles. After we finished, the man did something no man has ever done for me before and made me shower while he cooked. In those bags was an ungodly amount of women’s stuff—From razors to lotion to expensive shampoo from a salon. So, I did as the man of the house instructed and spent an obscene amount of time practicing self-care as he fried me pickles.

  Pickles, y’all.

  Yes. You heard right.

  Fried freaking pickles.

  My favorite.

  He remembered.

  I got teary that he cared enough to request them. We hugged. I sobbed. Then that was that. Case closed. No more tears from this gal tonight.

  “Love?” Gunz pinches my big toe affectionately.

  “Yes?”

  “You good?” Arching a brow, the hot man looks at me, reading every cue my body gives off.

  “I’m great,” I reply truthfully.

  “You want some tea?” His blue orbs swap from me to the open doorway of the kitchen.

  “Maybe before bed.” After they’ve gotten their fill of father-son bonding time. Not that they can’t have more later. Any day, for that matter. But this is a first. Pivotal. To me, at least. Another sacred memory I’ll lock away to unwrap again and again as the years pass.

  Satisfied with my answer, Gunz nods once, then winks, wearing the sexiest smirk before carrying on with Adam about the club’s automotive shop he’s been working at.

  “How’s it goin’ for ya?” Gunz asks.

  Adam shrugs his indifference. “I like it fine.”

  “But it’s not your thing?” comes from his father, as a set of talented fingers knead my arch. I bite back a pleasured groan.

  “Truth. Not really.” Adam swallows an enormous bite of cheesecake and washes it down with half a glass of milk. “But I am learnin’ a lot from Tripper and Deke.” Like a Neanderthal, he swipes the remnants of liquid from his mouth with the back of his hand and discards it on the top of his jeans.

  Keeping my expression neutral and my motherly opinions to myself, I ignore Adam’s choice of napkin in favor of listening to them chat. At least he does his own laundry.

  “Did you talk to Big about doin’ somethin’ else?” Gunz asks.

  “No. This wasn’t even his idea. He didn’t want me liftin’ a finger, but I got bored sittin’ around doin’ nothin’. Bink musta saw how restless I was and talked to Deke. He was the one who offered me the job.”

  That was kind of Bink. Remind me to thank her later, along with the other sisters, for packing up my apartment, settling Janie and Dom into their new home, getting Adam this job, and supplying all our groceries. It’s the least I can do. I should make a list. There are bound to be more things they’ve done I can’t remember right now.

  “When I get back to work, you wanna work with me instead?” Gunz throws out as if it’s a normal, everyday, off-the-cuff offer.

  Pressing my lips together, to not give anything away, my insides go hay-fucking-wire.

  He just asked our son to work with him.

  Holy… crap on a cracker.

  “Seriously?” is the only word Adam forms as he looks to his father with round, expectant eyes—those of a kid. Shock and awe.

  I can’t say it doesn’t hit me right where it should, because it does. My heart thuds against my breastbone as I watch their interaction unfold.

  Not one to take credit, even when it’s due, Gunz does what he always does and remains casual, relaxed in his chair, pretending not to notice he just handed our son a wonderful gift. “I’ll run it by Prez. He’s not gonna care as long as you plan on… ya know.” Twirling a Dum Dum between his sexy, beard-encircled lips, the man side-eyes me.

  I give them nothing to work with. He can say it out loud. I’m not stupid. Adam likes it here. The only way he can stay is if he becomes one of them. Do I want my son running with an outlaw motorcycle club? No. Does any mother ever want that? No. But I trust Gunz to keep him safe, as safe as he can, given the circumstances. All I want is for my son to be happy. To feel wanted. To belong. It’s clear that means here with the Sacred Sinners.

  When I focus on Adam, he, too, is eyeing me much like his father.

  Slinking back in my chair, and crossing my arms over my chest, I sigh. “Come on, guys. Just say it.”

  “I wanna prospect for the club,” Adam admits around another mouthful of cheesecake, his strong, cut jaw contracting with every bite.

  To keep my hands busy, I fiddle with the hem of my shirt. “Then what’s stopping you?”

  “You.”

  I frown, confused. “How? You’re grown. You make your own choices.”