Ama shrugged. “You shouldn’t have gone on the run, should ya? Ya snooze ya lose.”
“What cookies?” I queried, because Ama could burn water when it came to the oven.
“The ones my momma makes,” she answered. “The day you came back from the run, she made some with me.”
I snorted. “You mean, the packet shit?” My chest puffed up. “I make the best cookies.”
“Fuck me, it’s a regular British Bake Off in here,” Keys grumbled. “I don’t care who makes what, but where’s the fucking goods?”
“Needs to prove.”
He shook his head. “It’s messed up that you get a kick out of baking,” he grumbled.
“Why? When we get to reap the benefits?” Ama replied, peering over her shoulder with a frown.
“Because dude’s a Rebel.”
“So, what? Needs to be killing shit and blowing up crap all the time? Dude, even John McClane needed a break.”
I grinned. “Love that Die Hard is one of your favorite movies.”
Keys grunted. “No taste, that’s what.” He clapped his hands. “Get moving. I want some treats.”
Ama gave me a final squeeze then headed to the fridge. As she moved in that direction, she shoved Keys out the way, and a little tussle ensued—just like it would have if she hadn’t claimed us. I grinned at the sight, relieved to see that, to be honest. It was natural and playful and how we usually were together. I didn’t want that to change, and it seemed like it hadn’t. Except this time, they were both half naked, and when she did shove him, he jangled.
Staring at him with rounded eyes, she blurted out, “Where the hell did you shove the keys? You’re naked save for your boxers.”
I rolled my eyes when he grabbed his junk. “I’ll only reveal my secrets under strip search conditions.”
A startled laugh escaped her, and she tilted her head to the side, cocked her hip like she was a pro, and told him, “Honey, you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
And fuck if she wasn’t wrong.
❖
Keys
Five days later
When I woke up, I saw her. She was the first thing in my line of sight, and I had to admit, it was worth anything to get this uninhibited view first thing.
She literally was a sight for sore—in this case—tired eyes.
With her blonde hair spread all over the pillow, her eyes closed, and her long lashes fluttering faintly and covering the shadows rimming them, it was like watching an angel sleep.
I didn’t want to wake her. Couldn’t. She needed the rest. Before I’d moved out of her parents’ home and into the clubhouse when I was seventeen, I’d heard her nightmares. Every fucking night.
I hadn’t forgotten, but I just…
I sighed.
I’d forgotten.
Out of sight, out of mind.
But now that I was here, back with her and sharing a bed, I heard them every night and it killed me. Knowing she had demons in her sleep I couldn’t vanquish? It slaughtered me.
Releasing a deep breath, I refrained, barely, from reaching over and cupping her chin. She needed the Z’s, and I did get a kick out of watching her rest because these moments were unique to us. Thanks to the time I’d lived with her and her family, I’d seen her at every point of the day, even early in the morning, but I’d never seen these moments.
She was innocence and sex combined—that mix should have been impossible, but here she was. Walking proof of it.
I didn’t have to lift my head to know we were alone. For the past week or so, ever since we’d started sleeping over at Ink’s home, I always woke up with her last, and I enjoyed these silent moments. Especially enjoyed the way she was curled into me when I woke up.
Sure, not even the AC could stop our skin from sticking together in the muggy heat, but I even appreciated that. I loved the closeness, loved the intimacy, and I didn’t give a fuck if that made me sound like a pussy. I knew some of the brothers would really get a kick out of making me suffer for some of my thoughts, but that was because they weren’t lucky enough to have a woman like Ama to wake up to.
“You’re thinking.”
Her sleep-slurred words had my lips twitching because it was something Saint, Ama, and me tended to accuse each other of a lot. With contentment in my veins, I reached over and ran my hands through the tips of her hair that lay between our heads on the bright blue pillows. In contrast, her hair looked even more like spun gold.
“I have a brain. It’s what brains do.”
“Not at this time of the morning,” she grumbled. “It’s way too early for thinking.”
That had me smiling for real, and I leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead, loving her scent, loving her warmth against me as she tilted her head and smooshed her face into my chest.
By comparison to Saint and Ink, I felt kind of small. We were the same height, roughly all over six feet, but I had a smaller build. I pumped weights but I figured it was due to my age more than anything else. They looked like real men, and I felt like a fucking kid, but when she moved slightly, her lips trailing down over my clavicle and heading toward the split skin on my chest where my pecs were finally beginning to bulk up, I didn’t feel like a kid.
I just felt like hers.
I sighed when her mouth traced over my nipples, and I reached over to run my hand through her hair again. “You sure you’re ready?”
“Stopped being sore yesterday,” she mumbled. “Stupid vagina. What else takes so long to heal from being poked and prodded?”
Snorting out a laugh, I replied, “Definitely stupid, but it belongs to you, so I guess I can’t be too mad at it.”
Her eyes sparkled when she tilted her head back and laughed with me. That diamond-bright glitter stunned me even as it reeled me in, and when the laughter stuttered in both our chests, I cleared my throat and, in a husky voice, inquired, “You sure you want this?”
Her eyelashes fluttered, and her smile? Fuck, I knew without words she did, because that smile was every woman’s weapon against a man. It was sleepy and sexy and loaded with secrets. It told a man she wanted him anyway she could have him. It was knowing and cunning and reeled a guy in faster than the speed of light.
I had to taste that smile. Just had to. No alternative, no options. I dipped my head and pressed my mouth to hers, before I traced my tongue around the curve of her lips. The divot of her Cupid’s bow required multiple investigations, until she was giggling a little.
“That tickles,” she whispered, her eyes darkening.
I just hummed and, nipping at her bottom lip, tasted her for real. I didn’t let her escape, didn’t let her pull back. I just cupped the base of her skull and tasted her, made her know what it felt like to be kissed by me.
From what she’d said, I knew the crush she’d had on Ink all this time hadn’t been singular. She’d had one on Saint and me too. But crushes and attraction weren’t the same thing, and I had to admit, with those two around—two bikers who had half the sweetbutts’ tongues wagging—I did feel a little insecure. Not with the clubwhores. Hell, they fucked even the ugly motherfuckers, but with Ama? She was different.
She mattered.