I’m not sure if it’s Violet’s or Haley’s. It fits both of them.
A small Christmas tree sits in the corner of the room. Twinkling lights flicker with every color of the rainbow. Underneath this tree is empty, so I’m guessing all the presents go to the clubhouse.
The rest of the house is filled with Christmas decorations too. Christmas trees and snowmen and Santas fill the shelves and walls. Lights are pinned around the windows, red glowing bulbs delicately pinned around the glass.
Wandering down the hall, I peek around the first doorway, seeing a small bathroom with a cream and blue color scheme. I keep walking and take a right, seeing what I’m assuming is Haley’s room. It’s dark, with a gray and navy bedspread on her tufted bed. A massive Harley poster hangs on the wall.
I head to the last door on the right, knowing immediately it’s Violet’s room. It’s so chaotic. Completely Violet. Posters and pictures and so much damn clutter I have no idea what color the walls actually are. Her tall wooden dresser is filled with Harley scarves and wrist cuffs.
She’s literally the coolest person I’ve ever met.
And I suddenly feel like the homeless kid from down the block.
Wait, I really am.
I glance down, my clothes so tattered and wrinkled, I wish for just a moment I could step into her shoes. Be taken care of by everyone around me.
I step into her room, glancing at the million pictures she has pinned to her walls. Her in between seven men, all grizzly and covered in leather. They are all so handsome, dangerous looking with an edge of mystery.
Then there’s the other set of pictures.
Her and one of the seven guys. She has dozens of them. Her hanging on him. Her looking pissed at him. Him looking pissed at her.
Who is he?
I hear the creak of the front door opening, and I quickly make my way out of her room. “Violet? I thought you’d be gone—”
Lynx.
He stands in the doorway, flakes of freshly fallen snow on his shoulders as he stares at me.
“Lynx?”
“You walked here?” His tone is angry, his eyes narrowed toward me in irritation.
My eyes widen. “Um, no, actually, someone gave me a ride.”
His lip curls back. “Who the fuck is someone?’
I shrug. “I-I don’t know.”
His face grows red in fury. “What the fuck are you thinking getting in a car with someone you don’t even know? He could’ve been a fucking serial killer or something.”
“I got on the back of your bike,” I snark, feeling extra spicy for some reason.
His eyes narrow, a small smile quirking is lips. “And that was your first mistake.”
I say nothing, and he steps off the front rug, walking over to the couch. “What’re you doing here, Iris? You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m here to see Violet.”
He glances at me over his shoulder, his strong jaw sharp enough to cut steel. He knows I’m lying. And at the end of the day, I know I’m lying, too.
I always want to see Violet, but if I were to stop lying to myself for one moment, I’d realize the real reason I came to the forest in the mountains was to see the man sitting in front of me.
“I don’t know what you want from me, Iris.”
My chest aches. No, not my chest. My heart. It hurts because I want someone that I know with absolute certainty I’m not supposed to have. But it doesn’t stop the want. It doesn’t stop the aching deep in my chest.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know? If you don’t even know what you want. What do you know, then?”
I circle around the couch, my sweatshirt suddenly stuffy even with the light flakes falling outside. I step up to the arm of the couch, his shoulder near my thighs.
I’m not the kind of person that speaks up. I don’t discuss my feelings or go out of my way to be bold. I’d rather blend into the background and pretend shit doesn’t exist. It’s easier that way.
But standing next to him, his strong, powerful form, as he demands an answer from me, I don’t think I can do anything besides speak the truth.
“I like you.”
He sighs, saying nothing.
“I like how you make me feel wanted. How you make me feel like I’m not just some poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks. How you touch me… and kiss me…”
His arm snaps out, and he wraps his fingers around my thigh, squeezing tight as he pulls. My knees give out, and I fall into his lap. I feel his hands go to my waist as he spins me around, so I’m facing him, my back bent over his thighs as he glares down at me.
My knees are covered by his large, muscular hand as it rests there, and I feel so self-conscious with my ugly sweats and hoodie. I don’t remove my eyes from his when he slides his hand up my outer thigh, my insides quivering from the absolute strength of his fingers as he trails them along my body.
“You are too innocent, too pure to even touch. Do you know what I’ve done with these hands? The pain I’ve inflicted?”
I shake my head, goosebumps breaking out all over my body as he reaches my waist. “I could paint all of California red with the amount of blood I’ve spilt.” His fingers curl beneath the fabric of my sweatshirt, brushing my skin and making me shiver. “I could fill a cemetery with the number of bodies I’ve dropped into the ground. Do you still like me?”
I should say no. I should run for my life for him admitting he’s hurt people. That he’s killed more people than he can apparently count. But it doesn’t scare me, not in the least.
It turns me on.
I squeeze my thighs together as his fingers dance along my ribs, pulling my sweatshirt up with his wrist. “Speak up, Iris. I can’t read your mind.”
“You don’t scare me,” I whisper, my breath leaving me as his fingers trail along my sports bra. I should be repulsed; I shouldn’t want his hands on me at all.
I only want him more.
His hands shove my sweatshirt to my neck, my nipples hardened against the thin fabric of my bra. He pulls my bra up, my breasts bouncing free in the cool air. “That’s where you’re wrong, Iris. Because you should absolutely be frightened of me.”
He bends over, his teeth biting down on my nipple. A zing rolls through me, my spine arching into him as a squeak breaks from between my lips, and his hands go lower, circling around my rib cage. His fingers are so long and strong that they almost fit around my entire torso. He’s a man, a fucking beast of a man that can break me with the flick of his wrist.
Maybe I am slightly frightened.
He ravages both breasts, going from one to the other until they are both swollen and so sensitive even a breath of air makes my body quake. Squeezing my ribs tight, he pulls me off of his lap and slides me to the edge of the couch, my messy hair sprawling across the Christmas pillow along the end of the cushion.
He pins me there, against the soft cushions, his hands sliding to my biceps and hovering above me, so commanding, so large and overwhelming, my breath leaves my lungs.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he growls.
“Yet here you are,” I breathe. He stares at me, his eyes so dark and enigmatic, all hesitations seep from me, and I pull myself up, pressing my lips against his. He exhales heavily, and I open my mouth, dipping my tongue between his lips, showing a lick of dominance.