Marked as His (2 page)

Before she could blink, the body turned and the man pushed open the door. She gaped at the black T-shirt molded to a chest only a man who worked hard could earn. His biceps and forearms were roped with muscle—and covered in tattoos.

“Santana?” His deep voice made her jerk her gaze up to his face.

Hell, she wished she hadn’t. His eyes were deep brown and heavy eyebrows were drawn downward, giving him a dangerous air.

She stepped back.

“Santana Powers?” His gaze didn’t stray from hers—a first around here.

She inched away until she came up against the metal side of her desk. Then she reached around and gripped the drawer pull. She didn’t like the way this man was looking at her—like she was a big lollipop and he was hungry little boy. Except he hadn’t looked away from her face.

Odd.

“I’m Santana. Can I help you?” Dammit, her voice didn’t even sound normal. She tore her gaze from his and looked at his wide, sculpted chest again.

The Hell’s Sons patch blackened his good looks.

Setting a hand on her hip, she gave him a long perusal. It took about five minutes. There was a lot of him.

“My father sent you, didn’t he?” she asked at last.

Amusement toyed with the corner of his hard lips. He looked as if he were planning to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her out against her will. She wouldn’t put it past a Hell’s Son.

He gave a slow nod. “Your father would like you to come back to the club with me and talk to him.”

Her mind racing, she sank to her desk chair. So Tommy had once again gone above the law. Adhere to the restraining order by not contacting her in any way, even through a third party? Nope. He’d sent one of his minions. Damn the man to hell. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? Fifteen years of no contact, and now he was elbowing his way into her life?

She wasn’t a ten-year-old girl sobbing every night because she missed her daddy’s cuddles. She didn’t need a Hell’s Son father and sure as fuck wasn’t going with a biker to the club.

No, she wouldn’t go to the club with him. But she prided herself on being resourceful.

Easing open the drawer, she started to reach inside. The man closed the gap between door and desk in one giant step. He braced a hand on her desktop and leaned over her. “Why don’t you get your purse and come with me?”

Did he think she was intimidated by him? “O-okay. That sounds fine.”

Her mind worked over her options.

Call the cops and have him removed.

Yell for the welders in the shop and they could bodily remove him.

Deal with him herself.

She drew a deep breath and instantly regretted it. Her head flooded with leather and man with an underlying hint of auto grease she associated with hot, rough men. Those types were her guilty pleasures, but she’d never hook up with one long term. She scoffed off her obsession as a daddy issue.

Giving the biker her brightest smile, she retrieved her purse from under her desk and slung it over her shoulder. Then she pushed a few buttons on the phone.

He tracked her every movement.

She stood and at last he gave her that once-over she’d been waiting for. As his dark gaze ticked from her hair, over her face and throat to her breasts, waist, and hips, awareness settled in her.

“You don’t look a thing like Tommy.” His voice was low enough to match his giant proportions.

“Thank Christ for that.” She breezed by him and into the shop. Several guys looked up and she gave them a wave. “I’ll just be out for a few. I set the answering machine to take any calls.”

They didn’t give a rat’s ass about the answering machine. They came to work from seven to four and took home a paycheck. Their interest in the shop stopped there.

Outside
,
the sun was already too hot. Perspiration broke out on Santana’s forehead, but it might be a result of feeling the Hell’s Son’s gaze on her.

“My bike’s there.” He reached past her and pointed. She had a feeling he was walking so slowly to look at her ass.

“I see that.” She stopped walking and faced him. Again, wishing she hadn’t. The man was solid steel with the face of a god. She was a tall and curvaceous woman and he still made her feel small and feminine. A strange heat wove through her lower belly. “Before I get on a bike with you, can I have your name?”

“Depends. Are you going to run it through the system to see if I’m wanted for any crimes?”

“Maybe.”

That amusement finally tipped his mouth up all the way. Her throat grew as dry as the desert.

“It’s Paxton.” They’d reached his bike and he threw a leg over, hands curling around the grips. She hesitated for a beat.

I’m in control. I’ve got this.

“Get on,” he ordered.

The last time she’d ridden a motorcycle, she’d been ten and clinging to her father’s waist. She could almost smell the leather of his cut and feel the breeze in her hair. She’d felt so free with him, so…

She needed to stop this garbage in his tracks, and she was smart enough to end her father’s attempts to wreck her life once and for all.

Shaking herself, she threw a leg over the beast.

A man of Paxton’s size needed a big bike. The seat seemed too large for her legs—she had to spread wide to accommodate it. He threw a look over his shoulder. “Do you want my helmet?”

“No, it will crush my hair.”

“Yeah, you want to look nice for your dad.”

“That’s right. Actually, I’m a little uncomfortable wearing this into the club. Do you mind swinging by my place so I can change?” She prayed he didn’t see through her flimsy reason for going home.

“Sure, love. What’s your coordinates?”

“111 Sierra.”

“Got it.” He fired up the Harley and they rolled out. She tightened her arm to keep her purse from sliding while gripping the seat with all the strength in her thighs. No way was she going to hold onto this man.

Anger pounded in her temples. How dare her father think he could barge back into her life? And sending someone to collect her made her feel more like a possession than a daughter.

Years ago
,
the Hell’s Sons had been her world. She’d played with other club kids, running amok in the yard behind the club. The feeling of family had been overwhelming. Then her father had given up her and her mother, leaving them without a support system.

One minute he’d been her special daddy. The next he’d cut all ties. She didn’t know why. And dammit, why did it still bother her? The ache she’d felt at ten had diminished a lot over the years, but setting eyes on the patch sewn to Paxton’s leather cut sent her reeling back in time.

He made a right and left, swerving hard as if trying to force her arms around him. She resisted, clenching her thighs until the inside muscles trembled. The purr of the engine against her pussy meant her panties were soaking. The hot leather didn’t help, nor the wall of muscled man before her.

“There.” She pointed out her sunny yellow condo. One of the newer buildings in the city, the rent was high but she was paid well at Flick Welding. Mostly for putting up with the men.

And well…keeping her mouth shut about numbers the owner tweaked.

Paxton roared up to the front of her condo and cut the engine. When she got off, she had to force her quaking legs to respond. Paxton sat there, dark sunglasses masking his eyes and his mouth firm.

“Are you coming inside? It might take me a few minutes.” When he didn’t budge, she poured on a little sugar. “I’ve got some sweet tea made.”

That smile teased the corner of his lips again. Damn, had he noticed her staring at his mouth?

Swinging her purse forward, she dug through it for her keys, carefully maneuvering the contents. The gun grip was up—in position. With the house keys in one hand, she rested her other just inside her purse.

The lock clicked and she opened the door into the cool house. The scents of home assuaged her, and what she needed to do had never been so apparent. She must preserve her lifestyle at any cost. Letting Tommy and the cursed Hell’s Sons back into her world wasn’t happening.

She stepped into the foyer, the heels of her high boots clicking on the tile. Paxton came inside, taking up entirely too much space, and closed the door.

With a jerk, she removed the gun and locked both hands around it. A wildness built in her chest as she took aim at the big man.

“Hands up,” she said through clenched teeth.

His features weren’t giving away anything. With his eyes still shaded by glasses, she had little idea if she’d even surprised him.

“I said hands up!”

Slowly he raised them, removing his sunglasses as he did.

He was glaring at her.

Stupid fucker isn’t going to get far with me.

“Do not try anything funny or I’ll shoot you in the balls and leave you to bleed out.”

He arched a long, dark brow but didn’t speak.

“Now walk slow and steady to that door.”

Her condo was small, her bedroom suite right off the big open space.

“Santana, if you wanted me in your bed, all you had to do was ask,” he quipped as he reached the door.

She shoved the gun into his kidney, which would drop him instantly if she pulled the trigger. “Get in there. Face down on the bed.”

His shoulders did a shivering motion, as if he were shrugging. Or was he laughing at her?

Leaping around him, she aimed the gun at the patch over his heart. “Don’t think I won’t shoot. Now. Get. Your. Ass. On. The. Bed.”

•●•

He was as hard as steel. His cock throbbed as the tall, gorgeous minx circled the bed, handcuffs in her grip and the gun in her other. She moved with a confidence that was hard to look away from. Especially when a few minutes before she’d pretended to tremble in her boots. What a sucker he was.

“Wipe that smile off your face,” she snapped. “Face down. Wrap your hand around the post.”

He had big hands and easily wrapped them around the cheap iron poles of her bed frame. If he wanted he could bring down the whole thing, but he just watched her and ached.

When she locked the cold metal around his wrist and then the post, her hip came close enough that if he lifted his head from the mattress, he could nuzzle her.

Damn, he wanted to.

As she’d taken the curves on his bike, she’d been unable to stop her body from brushing his. Each and every movement had heightened his awareness.

“You’re a beautiful woman. You don’t need to cuff me to your bed. I’ll gladly stay.”

“Shut up.” She dug the gun into his ass cheek and he fought his amusement. Laughing at her wouldn’t help his cause. In the end, he needed to get her to the club. For now, he was satisfied with playing along. She really was a hellcat. Maybe his brothers hadn’t been fucking with him when sending him on this mission.

But he guessed the gun probably wasn’t loaded.

She circled the bed, and he twisted his head to track her. Full hips, perfect for gripping. Toned thighs that could hold onto a man all night long—not those twigs some of the sweet butts called legs.

His cock jutted into the mattress and he resisted the urge to rub against it.

“I take it you don’t want to come with me to the club yet.”

“Or ever.”
Click, click.
She stood back to survey her handiwork. Satisfied, she set aside the gun. Then as if on second thought, she opened the chamber and dumped the bullets.

He felt the blood drain from his face and masked his surprise.
Blood patch is an understatement on this mission.
He’d been crazy to underestimate her.

Testing his bonds, he tugged. The bedframe jangled.

“Stop that. Lie still.”

“I wish you’d put me on my back. I want to see you better.”

When she glared, her dark eyes shot their own type of bullets. The effect on him probably wasn’t what she’d hoped for, though. He swiped his tongue over his dry lower lip.

“What about that sweet tea?”

She stood there, jaw set.

“The least you can do is get your hostage a drink. There’s such a thing as human rights.”

“You’re not human. You’re a Hell’s Son.” She raked her gaze over him. He felt everyplace her gaze touched. Finally she said,
“Fine. Don’t try anything.”