Heart Ties (Club Ties Book 2) (21 page)

His soul.

He grunted at the impact of that look. Every muscle screamed for him to get up and wrap his arms around her, to get her alone in a guest room.

“You give her a helmet yet?” Waite’s question broke into his thoughts.

He wet his lips, dying for a drink. “No.” It was one thing to share mind-blowing sex, but quite another to get attached.

“Don’t wait on that too long, bro. Someone’s going to snatch her up.”

Drake had no doubt. She was gorgeous, tattooed, and came from a good family, even if that family was an enemy. And those wide eyes invited men to come and protect her.

Shit. Drake had fallen victim too.

“Turner, get your guitar out. We need some music,” someone called.

A young kid with long arms and legs and shaggy dark hair got off a barstool and disappeared down the hallway. When he came out, he cradled an acoustic guitar.

Delta drifted toward him, pushing through the knot of ladies surrounding her.

“Are you seeing this?” Waite asked, swigging beer and staring too hard at Drake.

He sat a little straighter. “Yeah.”

Delta said something to Turner, and his mouth fell open. With a look of adoration, he placed the guitar in her outstretched arms. She cradled it like a baby, head bowed, hair falling in a silken sheet so Drake couldn’t see her face.

Fucking Turner could, though. The kid was lit up like a Fourth of July firework. Drake clenched his jaw and ignored Waite’s chuckle.

As Delta took the barstool, the MC fell silent. Drake’s heart hammered.

Who was this woman? Not his timid Delta who cringed when someone made a sharp movement. Not the girl who had unfolded from her knees the night of the kidnapping.

The first strum captivated. The first note of her voice enraptured.

Small hairs along Drake’s arms stood up as her throaty voice projected through the space, gaining in strength and mystery the longer she sang. A folk song twisted into something brand new. Drake’s throat closed off with pride and something else.

Terror of the moment he’d have to let her go.

Delta’s voice rose and fell, giving him—and everyone it seemed—a strange new hope. In a few minutes she’d made a rough world vanish. No Russians, gambling, illegal drugs, or corrupt presidents.

As the final note died, Waite whispered, “Jesus.”

The room erupted into applause. Delta dipped her head. Drake’s heart lurched, and he half-rose out of his chair, ready to go to her.

Then she started to sing again. Something faster, her voice weaving with expert strumming. That asshole Turner moved a chair close enough that he could reach out and touch her. If he did, he wouldn’t have any goddamn teeth left in his pretty-boy head.

Waite scooted his chair closer to Drake’s. “This girl. She the one you took from the Raiders?”

Annoyed by the interruption, he said, “Yeah.”

“Someone’s looking for her.”

Drake’s spine steeled and he snapped his attention to his brother. “Who?” His voice was too rough, too loud.

Waite’s heavy brows drew downward. “Guy named Houlihan.”

“How do you know this?” His heart was off-beat, pounding with fury. Who the fuck was Houlihan? Any man looking for her had a claim on her.

Drake would fucking gut him.

Waite went on. “I looked into some things before you came. Knowing you’d need all the intel you could get.”

“Appreciate it. Who is this guy?”

“Dunno. Raider scum.”

“Houlihan his last name?”

“Yeah. First name’s John. He’s done time for breaking and entering and has a restraining order.”

Drake didn’t remove his gaze from the stunning woman who wrung too damn much emotion from him. “From who?”

“Ex-wife. Apparently he liked to use his fists.”

“Yeah, and he wears goddamn knuckle rings.” Rage hit full force. He reached for Waite’s beer. As soon as his fingers closed around the bottle, Waite’s iron fingers locked over his.

Their gazes met.

“If you’re sober, man, don’t do it.”

Breathing hard, almost able to taste the alcohol as if sucking it into his pores through the glass, he nodded. Delta’s raspy tones burrowed deep into his psyche, and he was able to release the bottle.

He sat back. “She has a scar. Here.” He ran his finger over his temple.

Waite shook his head. “No good, man.”

“You have a tattoo artist in house?”

“Yep.” He twitched his head toward Turner.

Drake’s eyes bulged. “The kid?”

“Yeah, the smitten puppy.” Waite’s words reminded him of Copilot and how the dog must be lost without Delta at the club.

“Tell him to get his needles. I’ll get Delta as soon as she’s finished.”

•●•

The minute she stopped singing, the quiver was back inside. She jerked her head up, searching for Drake.

His muscular legs came into view, and the scents of leather and man washed over her. Taking the guitar from her, he said, “C’mon, Princess.”

She got off the stool to loud applause and a few hoots to keep singing. She smiled and waved in thanks, but Drake turned her away, and two men followed.

She shouldn’t have sung. It put her right back into her old life—part of her was looking for Houlihan in the crowd.

Drake took her into the kitchen and sat her in a wooden chair. When he crouched before her, something warm and tender bloomed in her chest. His nearness consumed her as he cradled her face in his hands. “You sing like a fucking angel.”

A sob rushed up, barely swallowed. “Thank you.”

He brushed a thumb over her temple. Once, twice. His eyes burned. “This scar. Did someone do this to you?”

Shock raked her out flat. She fingered the place around his thumb, her memory sharp. Tequila, a murder to celebrate. Girl had gotten off her knees and regretted it instantly.

Tears jumped into her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. “Yes,” she whispered.

Drake glanced up at the young guy who had handed her his guitar. “You can ink it, right?”

She tried to make sense of his words.

“Sure, bro. Is that what
she
wants?”

Drake’s gaze drilled into hers. Rich green that loomed in her very dreams. “Heart or star, Princess?”

“Star,” she said without hesitation.

The corner of Drake’s mouth twitched up. He leaned in and stamped a warm kiss between her brows before releasing her. “Star it is.”

The needles got going, and Delta sat for the miniature inking. It took less than two minutes.

Turner stood back, along with Drake’s buddy, examining her. Admiration was written on their faces.

“Give me a mirror.” Her voice was hoarse, and not from singing. She could have sung till dawn.

Turner dug in his bag and came out with a hand-held mirror. She brought it to her face and stared at the tiny black star a fingertip away from the corner of her eye. The scar was obliviated.

Her face crumpled, and Drake’s chest crowded into view. He lifted her, carrying her past the guys. She buried her face against his shoulder and gave up control. He’d known from the start what was best for her, from taking her out of the club by force to helping her close the door on one scar in her life.

Up until now she’d believed her time with the Hell’s Sons was limited. The Raiders would take her back by force. But now she’d die trying to stay out of their clutches.

Drake set her on her feet, and she looked at her surroundings. Quiet room, clean but a little shabby just like the Hell’s Sons MC she had grown to love. Drake stood before her, solid man, his black T-shirt and cut straining over chest and shoulders.

Clamping her thighs together, she stared at him.

“A guy named Houlihan did that to you, didn’t he?”

Her knees buckled. They struck the thin carpet, and she leaned forward to press her face against Drake’s titanium knee.

“Fucking hell, what’s he done to you?” Drake folded to his knees too, gathering her against his big chest. “Princess, that chapter of your life is over. This is the new book. I won’t let that fucker have you back. I will kill him myself, slit him from balls to throat for hurting you.”

“He called me Girl. I didn’t have a name, just Girl. To everyone—” She broke off, fighting tears. “He’s looking for me, isn’t he? That’s how you knew his name.”

He cradled the back of her head as his lips moved in her hair. “I’ll kill him, Princess. You’re never going back to them or to that life.”

She fingered the star on her temple. For a lifetime she’d gazed at the stars and dreamed of a new world.

This was it.

Drake had given it to her, and a small reminder lived on her temple. He didn’t even know it.

She threw herself at him, knocking him backward. He struck the floor with an
oomph
as she tore at his clothing. Leather and cotton peeled away, leaving a strong bare chest. She pressed her lips to the inked lines, greedily licking and nipping her way down to his ridged abs. His fingers in her hair spurred her on.

Passion flowed in her veins as she worked his belt free and his jeans open. The rich scents of man struck her, and she moaned.

“Fucking hell, Princess.” He didn’t even let her lips touch his swollen cock—he yanked her up his body and devoured her with a kiss. No, not just a kiss. A tongue-fucking, soul-owning kiss.

They grappled with clothes. She helped him get off his boots and he made her put hers back on.

“I want those high boots wrapped around me.”

Need swallowed her. She mounted him and with one slippery shove, speared herself on his cock. The scorching feel of him without barriers rocked her. “Should we…?”

“No,” he growled. “I haven’t have unprotected sex with anyone but my own fist.”

She didn’t say that she had once years and years ago. Lucky had found out and put an end to that by beating the Raider bloody. After that, no one touched her without Lucky’s permission.

Testing the new feel of going bareback, she shifted her hips. Once. Twice.

He jackknifed into a sitting position, the momentum carrying them so she was sprawled under him. He ground his hips, his cock brushing so deep. She cried out as juices flooded him.

“Jesus, Princess. I’ve never been buried in anyone I wanted so much.”

His words, rough and raw, knotted her insides. He locked his hands in her hair, pinning her while he thrust hard. Shoving her across the floor in small increments with every mind-blowing push.

She hooked her heels behind him, loving his growl. She set her nails in his shoulders and dug in. He reared back, pleasure etched on his rugged features. Her pussy squeezed around his length, and he responded by sliding his hands under her and lifting her completely off the floor.

The feeling of floating, of being hammered and owned, stole her mind. She clung to her lover, gripped by a warm feeling she couldn’t name.

Her head fell back as the ache in her core spread. Drake bit into her chin, and she began to pulsate. Ecstasy robbed her of breath as he drove into her, yanking her close to meet each thrust.

“Look at me.”

She couldn’t deny him.

“Your eyes… Fuck yeah, come for me, Princess.”

Her inner walls clenched and released, and she issued a wild moan.

She hadn’t stopped coming when he hauled both of them off the floor and got them on the bed. She hung off slightly, hair brushing the carpet. Drake sucked her neck and breasts, regaining his former tempo.

He lifted her leg and bit her knee, right above the fuck-me boot. Then he bit her again, harder.

She squeaked as an invisible string between his teeth and her pussy pulled tight. He pounded her as though it was their last moment together.

She prayed it wasn’t. He felt so good, so right, moving inside her.

“Take it, Princess. All. Of. Me.” He shoved hard, fast. His muscles straining.

He angled his hips and struck a trigger-button. Her pussy gripped him hard as each throb washed over her.

When his hand slipped under her head and raised it to look at him, the connection was instantaneous. He roared with release. Hot jets bathed her insides, taking her higher. His face contorted with bliss, and she memorized every crease. Each breath imprinted itself on her heart.