No, he couldn’t fucking risk that.
He also didn’t want to risk Judge’s wrath if he ever found out Cage had boned his sister. The big guy made it clear not to fuck with her, and Cage took that warning seriously.
He wasn’t really fond of attending blanket parties, unless he was the one throwing the fucking party. His ribs were still healing from the last one and he’d only just begun to breathe more freely through his broken nose.
More importantly, remaining upright and above ground was necessary to raise his daughter.
That same daughter took that opportunity to start crying.
His head twisted toward Dyna automatically and he released Jemma’s wrist. Unfortunately, that connection had been the only thing keeping her from leaving. Of course, she immediately took advantage of her freedom.
She mumbled, “I gotta go,” as he moved to get his daughter.
As much as he wanted Jemma, Dyna came first.
He reached down for the baby and noticed her head turned toward him as he said her name. Whether that was coincidence or not, he had no fucking clue, but he hoped it was because she knew he was her dad.
He scooped her up, along with the pacifier which was lying on the blanket, and cuddled her to his chest.
His anger quickly dissipated when his heart just about fucking melted as he read today’s onesie: Daddy’s New Riding Buddy, with a child-like stick drawing of a motorcycle.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He’d be disappointed when she outgrew all the cute onesies.
He offered her the binky hoping it would curtail her crying so he could continue the conversation with Jemma. She took it and stared up at him with her gray-blue eyes.
Jesus fuck.
This was his blood. He created her.
How could Ox use his fucking daughter as a shield? The thought of putting Dyna in danger, especially for selfish reasons, just about cut him off at the knees.
Once Dyna was sucking strongly and had quieted down, he turned to see, and hear, the Volvo’s door slam shut.
“Jem!”
Their conversation wasn’t finished. Not even close.
But not even a minute later, all Cage saw was her taillights as she drove faster than she should down the rough lane past the farmhouse.
“Fuck.”
With one arm holding Dyna against him, he curled the fingers of his other hand around his hip and dropped his head. With his eyes closed, he took a couple deep inhales. When he opened his eyes, he stared down at his future.
It wasn’t a woman.
It was his daughter.
Jemma was right. Fucking her wouldn’t be smart.
It still didn’t mean he didn’t want to.
Chapter Twelve
The Volvo’s headlight beams sliced across the dark figure sprawled in one of the Adirondack chairs.
Fuck.
Jemma had hoped she’d return after he’d already gone to bed. Or at least be passed out on the couch in front of the TV. Her goal had been to come home late enough to avoid continuing their earlier conversation.
She feared, if he pushed hard and long enough, she might cave.
To what she wanted. To what he wanted.
Which was the same thing. The exchanging of orgasms and body fluids in a horizontal, vertical or even diagonal fashion.
But when she thought about it with a clear head, which was what she did every time she wasn’t around Cage, she confirmed it was stupid.
So, so fucking stupid.
She could easily walk away and rid herself of the temptation. Nothing held her in Manning Grove. She was only there to help him.
So, really, if he wanted to screw that up, that would be on him, right?
Or would she feel guilty for abandoning him?
No, not him.
She’d feel guilty abandoning her. Dyna. She was here for the baby, not Cage. Dyna was the most important thing for both of them right now. Sex was not.
Simply put, she could find anyone for sex.
Hell, after drinking with two Fury members all night, she could probably return to Crazy Pete’s and ask Dodge to take her upstairs and, as long as she promised Judge wouldn’t find out, he’d most likely drag her up those steps with a sexy grin and a hard-on.
Or she could head over to The Grove Inn and pound on Ozzy’s door and, as long as he was alone, he’d probably invite her into his apartment and his bed to pound her into his mattress and give her brush-burn with his beard in several key areas.
Or, shit, she could walk the few hundred feet or so to the bunkhouse and find a willing volunteer there, too. A couple shots of whiskey and a condom later, she could be naked and drumming up a decent orgasm or two.
Guaranteed, none of those guys would say shit about it to anyone because of Judge and Deacon. Her secret would be safe.
But she didn’t want that.
She didn’t want to crawl into and then back out of some biker’s bed. She really didn’t want to do that in any man’s bed.