You know the one. That angry red light on your dashboard that always appears at the absolute worst times. The one that reminds you that your piece of crap car burns oil like an old drunk sucks cheap booze.

Sighing, I pulled over to the side of the dusty highway. I threw the car in park, and shut off the engine with an angry turn of the key. For probably the millionth time, I wished I had enough money to afford more of a vehicle than this unreliable beater. But then, for the millionth time, I reminded myself that I was lucky to even have wheels that worked, even if sporadically. Opening the door, I flipped on the hazard lights, even though the likelihood of anyone passing me in this isolated patch of desert was pretty damn slim. I popped the hood and the trunk and hoisted myself out of the car.

After lifting and securing the hood, I peered inside and grabbed hold of the dipstick to check the oil level, even though I already knew what I would see. Sure enough: dry as a bone, with only the tip slightly wet with the dark substance. I swore softly. Usually I didn’t let it get that low. I guessed that the long distance drive in this heat had upped my already gluttonous girl’s thirst for the stuff. Luckily, always I carried a case of 10w30 in my trunk for just such an occasion.

I was rummaging around in the back, looking for a quart I hadn’t used yet, when my ear caught the low rumble of an engine approaching from a distance. From the sound of it, it was a late model Harley. Even though it had been a while since I’d been around Hogs much, the low lub-dub heartbeat sound was unmistakable. I stood up and looked behind me, watching as the bike approached, then slowed and stopped just behind my car. Mild irritation laced with a small spike of fear coursed through my veins. I was suddenly very aware that I was a woman alone in the middle of nowhere. I had pepper spray in my purse, but that wasn’t going to help me now unless I dove inside and locked the door.

A large, dark figure in a leather vest and reflective aviator sunglasses cut the bike’s engine and stood. He flung a leg over the back, shrugged off the vest and placed it on the seat. He strode toward me on long legs that seemed to eat up the distance between us.

“Need help?” He asked the question in a deep, rumbling baritone, his voice the echo of his bike.

It was a little like standing next to a mountain, being this close to him. As I gazed up at him from my 5’4” height, I mused dazedly that he must be almost a foot taller than me. Broad, muscled shoulders rippled under a black T-shirt that stretched taut over his frame. Tattoos swirled up and down his arms, pulsing as his muscles shifted. Worn jeans hung low on his narrow hips, and though they were not tight, I could still detect a very healthy and... ahem,
robust
... package concealed there.

I blushed as I realized that he had just probably noticed me staring at his crotch. Forcing my gaze back up, I looked him square in the sunglasses and tried to focus. “No thanks,” I said brusquely. “I can handle it. Just a quart low.”

He raised one dark brow behind the shades. “Next town isn’t for at least twenty miles,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting in a slight smirk. “You need a lift to a gas station?” he asked, nodding back at the bike.

In spite of myself, I laughed. “Ha, no, this happens all the time.” I reached into the trunk and pulled out a quart. “See? Always prepared.”

The smirk widened a bit. “Very industrious of you.” The mountain took off his sunglasses and hooked them into his shirt. A pair of ice-blue eyes seemed to bore into mine. “You want me to fill her up for you? Wouldn’t want you to get yourself all dirty, now.” Lazily, his eyes traced a path down over my body, slowly running over my curves. He drew out the word “dirty” until it felt pregnant with a meaning I could hardly mistake. The heat of his gaze was so scorching I was almost afraid it would burn my skin. Indignation mixed crazily with a wave of sexual heat inside me that left my core throbbing and me struggling for words.

I cleared my throat and willed myself not to stammer. “I’m perfectly capable of putting a quart of oil in my own car,” I retorted hotly.

“I’m sure you are,” he murmured, moving so close that I could practically feel the energy crackling from his skin. He smelled like warm leather, and in spite of myself I breathed in the scent and half-closed my eyes. “But why don’t you humor me and let me do it?”

He took the container from my hand with surprising gentleness, then moved away from me and toward the front of the car as I watched him in a daze. Dumbly, I stood there for a moment, unable to move. Then, frowning in frustration, I gave my head a slight shake to clear it and followed him. I watched as he unscrewed the cap and poured the quart in. I was still irritated that he was treating me like a helpless girl, but that irritation was reduced some by the fact that he was not looking at me and I could steal glances at his rippling, tattooed biceps and his – oh, my – tight, gorgeous ass.
Holy toledo.

All too quickly, he finished the job and screwed the cap back on the now empty container. “All set,” he said, straightening and closing the hood. He walked to the back of my car and tossed the empty container in the trunk. “You should really get that looked at,” he continued, fixing me with a stern gaze. “Shouldn’t be guzzling oil like that.”

I snorted and leaned against the side of the car.
Duh
. “Yeah, well, ‘getting that looked at’ costs money, which I don’t have. Besides, that’s what the case of oil is for,” I said, nodding at the trunk.

He slammed the trunk lid shut and came closer until we were face to face -- well, face to
chest
. He was standing only inches away from me now.
Jeez, this guy has a real problem with personal space
, I thought dizzily. His brow furrowed. “I’m serious. It’s not safe to have to stop in the middle of nowhere like this.”

In spite of myself, my irritation flashed again. “Yeah, not safe from arrogant jerks who think that a woman can’t top off her own oil,” I retorted.

“Oh, I’m completely aware you can top off your own oil,” he murmured, taking a step toward me. “But with a hot little body like this, any man within visual range would stop to help you out, whether you needed it or not. And some of ‘em might not be as gentlemanly as me.”

Knowing he was right just pissed me off even more. “Gentlemanly?” I scoffed, knowing I was tempting fate. “Really, Mister ‘Doesn’t-know-how-to-take-no-for-an-answer’?”

“Yeah?” he replied, his voice growing husky. “You know, I might add, you’re not acting very ladylike. I haven’t heard a ‘thank you’ for my kindness yet.” He cocked his head, the corners of his mouth lifting in a slightly mocking smile that drenched my panties in a heartbeat.

Any smart response I could have thought of died away as his eyes locked on mine.
Holy sweet Jesus
. Something flashed between us, some sort of current of electricity that I knew he could feel, too, because I saw it on his face. His eyes grew dark as he slowly lowered his face to mine. A small sound emerged from my throat, almost a whimper, as his powerful arm slowly wrapped itself around my waist, drawing me to him. My body seemed to burst into flames as his lips came crushing down on mine.

It was like drinking fire as his tongue found mine. The flames consumed me instantly; I wanted more, I wanted everything, right now. I heard myself moan loudly as he pressed me against the car and I felt the hard, steel length of him against my most sensitive parts. I moved against him, the delicious pressure almost more than I could bear. My breathing was already coming in ragged gasps. I wanted him. I wanted...

I
needed
.

I felt a hand come up and fist in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my neck. His burning hot mouth singed a trail down my skin as his other hand found my breast. As he continued to press his hard need against me, the hand on my breast began to tease my nipple, and I stifled a cry. I was going to come like this if he didn’t stop. But I was past the point of caring. This stranger, who not ten minutes ago had pulled up behind me on a deserted road, seemed to know everything about my body, things I hadn’t even known myself. I strained toward him, clutching at his shoulders and moaning as he pulled me dizzily toward an earth-shattering orgasm.

And then he stopped.

Bewildered, I opened my eyes to see him standing in front of me. He had stepped back a foot or so, and was no longer touching me at all. He slipped his folded sunglasses from the collar of his T-shirt and slipped them on, covering his eyes. “You’re welcome,” he smirked.

In a heartbeat, I went from desire to shame, and then to outrage. As I stared at him, dumbfounded, I could see my reflection in his glasses. His stupid, fucking glasses. “How fucking
dare
you?” I gritted, my eyes filled with rage.

His eyebrows lowered into a slight frown. “What? Seemed to me that you didn’t mind it while it was happening,” he said mildly. “In fact, seemed to me that you enjoyed it just as much as I did.”

He turned away toward his bike, but not before I noticed that he was still just as hard as he had been when he was pressed up against me. He grabbed his leather cut and slung one leg over the bike, sitting down on it as he slipped on the vest. “Get it looked at. The next guy to come along might not be so nice.” He lifted his chin to indicate the road ahead. Next town up is Cheyenne. There’s a mechanic shop up there. Cooper’s. They’ll sort you out.”

And with that, my unwanted knight in black leather started his bike. It was only then that I noticed his leather cut had patches on it. On the front, there was one that said “Vice-president”. And as he drove away, I saw the club colors on the back.

Throttle MC.

Oh, shit.

Chapter Two

BOOK: Throttle MC: A Stepbrother Romance

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