He growled. Damn, this woman was everything a man like him could ever dream of and one he never believed for a minute he’d find. Now how to keep her would prove to be the real challenge in life.
Taking the chance that she might knee him in the balls, he slipped a hand down to her ass and kneaded the firm curve. “Come home with me,” he grated out, searching the deep pools of her eyes.
She tipped her head down, hair tumbling over her features to conceal her expression from him. The honeyed locks gleamed white-blue in the dim lights of the parking lot.
He nudged her chin up with his knuckles. “You know I’m more than some asshole who likes to use his fists to gain the upper hand. You see me more than you’ll admit to yourself, Fiona.”
A shiver passed through her. He clamped a hand on her hip and dragged her body into his again. The sweet brush of her curves on his harder body gripped him in an iron fist of want.
She shook her head. “I can’t, Dixon. I’ve gotta go home. You should too.”
He held her another minute, penetrating her with his stare, wondering how to unlock her passions to him, when she held them so tightly in check. The torment in her eyes told him as much.
But he couldn’t force his desires on her. She’d come to him of her own free will—or not at all.
He released her.
For a moment, he saw the lights in her eyes glimmer out, and then she stepped away from him. “Goodnight, Dixon.”
“Night, Fiona.” He watched her turn and walk across the lot to her car. He didn’t move until she had it started and reversed out. Only then did he swing his leg over his bike and head off toward home.
His guts burned with need. A single taste of Fiona wouldn’t be enough—not ever. Damn if he knew how to sway her into believing he wouldn’t hurt her like whoever had in her past. She lumped him into a group of gearheads and guys who used their fists, and he could only guess how many bad decisions she’d made. Hell, he had quite a few notches of his bedpost too, but he was smart enough now to spot a good woman.
As he navigated the dark roads of Mersey, his mind returned to all he and the guys had discussed tonight. Decisions had been made. Hell, they’d voted him in as president in an official way, with Tank as his VP. The rest fell into various roles. The only man to refuse a title was Blade. Said he didn’t know if he’d stick around Mersey long enough to accept one of the ranks in the Dark Falcons, and they all respected his decision but welcomed him as a member.
Another thing—their membership was already growing. They were up to nine guys, and tonight another had approached them about being a prospect, who would earn his way and prove himself worthy of joining them as a full member.
Somehow, in a very short time, they’d become an MC. And he couldn’t be more fucking proud.
They’d already cleaned up Fiona’s bar. While he knew it wouldn’t last—the Mayhem had made it a point to gun their bikes past the front of the place several times tonight in a show of ownership—he and the guys would hold them off until they could drive them out for good.
He felt that time approaching, bearing down on his shoulders. Their ranks far outweighed the Dark Falcons’. When push came to shove—and it would—something big would go down in order to end it.
He rolled up in front of the shop and cut the engine so as not to wake his parents. His cock still bulged from those stolen kisses. Hell, now he couldn’t think of anything but sliding between Fiona’s round thighs and making her his.
That thought startled him. As he pushed his bike inside the garage and closed the door for the night, he tried like hell to understand his own thinking. There seemed no reason for this possessive streak he had for the woman.
She proved herself far from helpless. She didn’t need him, and made that clear on several occasions. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to throw himself in front of her, take a damn bullet for her.
He glanced at the clock on the shop wall. Almost three in the morning.
Tomorrow, he’d rush through his work and head over to the bar again. Maybe he could convince her to give him a chance. It wouldn’t all fall on luck—he remembered the way she responded to his kisses and touch.
Chapter Four
Dixon parked his bike in the far corner of the parking lot and climbed off his bike. He took a moment to remove his helmet and hang it off the handlebar, and then he turned to the front of the Painted Pig.
He noticed Fiona came to work a couple hours before the bar opened, and he hoped to catch her alone. He hoped to convince her that he wasn’t a bad guy and figured he had a better chance of her running away from him.
As he reached for the door, he got a call. He stepped back to bring the phone to his ear. Tank’s voice projected into his head, gritty with anger.
“Get to the old trail head. Now.”
“Tank, what the hell’s going on?”
“Just fucking meet us there.”
With a growl, Dixon strode across the lot and hopped on his bike. So much for catching Fiona alone. The woman worked nonstop hours, and his only chance of seeing her without thirty drinking buddies around them was now.
Years ago, a major hiking trail had been renovated. The path had been cut through a less treacherous landscape to make it safer for hikers in the area. But the old trail head continued to be a place where kids went to drink, party or have sex.
As soon as he reached the pull-off, he spotted Tank and Rio’s bikes. The pair stood there looking like they were about to break some necks.
He cut the engine. “What’s up?”
Rio jerked his jaw toward the incline. “Saw some Mayhem going down there a few minutes ago.”
“And you think they’re causing trouble?”
“My sister told me about some of her friends scoring drugs down here.”
Dixon’s body froze as cold rage hit his system. Setting his jaw hard, he said, “Let’s go.”
They took off walking with Dixon in the lead and the others close behind. Since the bar fight between he and tank and the Mayhem members, everything went relatively quiet. He felt it back-building.
The dirt and rocks underfoot had grown smooth over time, and Dixon was forced to watch his step or risk a fall. He angled his boots to the side and rushed down the hill. At the bottom, he caught movement in the trees.
Throwing out a hand to stop the others, he peeked through the foliage. He made out two adolescent boys and a couple big guys. As a member moved, Dixon spotted the colors of the Mayhem patches on their backs. Yellow and orange, like flaming beacons to him that Rio was right about these assholes selling drugs to kids.
He might be big, but he could sneak without being detected. Years of training and experience had him placing his feet in ways his step would be muffled if heard at all. When he circled the group and popped out behind the kids, one of the gang members narrowed his eyes on him.
“Get outta here, kids,” Dixon growled. He took a good look at their faces. Later on, he’d be paying each a visit and putting the fear of Jesus in the little shitheads.
“What the hell you think you’re doing here, piss ant?” The biker spread his legs wide in a menacing stance.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he shot back.
“Takin’ a hike. Enjoying nature.” The other guy spread his hands, which looked like two hams strapped to the ends of his arms. He was also missing part of a pinky finger, and Dixon pictured it getting sheared off in a knife fight.