“Just because she looked at your junk—”
“She’s been watching you, too,” I interrupt.
Rattler clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Maybe, but she also turned eleven shades of red when I told her we roll with the devil’s threesome.”
“You caught her off guard, but it didn’t send her running. She doesn’t give a fuck what people think of her. She’s fearless. Perfect. Besides Elle, has there ever been a single woman you’d want to keep between the two of us?”
He looks away but shakes his head. “We’ll see.”
“I’m going to her place to collect some things. Watch her.”
Rattler gives me a sarcastic salute and slides back into the room.
* * *
Using the keys I lifted from Elle’s purse, I unlock the front door of her house. It’s small. One level. The walls are decorated with pictures and shelves with little statues and stuff. It also seems like Elle has quite the green thumb. There are plants hanging from the ceiling, tucked into corners, and spilling down shelves. In short, her house looks like a magazine.
I look around, collecting anything I think she might want. Her toothbrush. Shampoo and conditioner from her shower. A little bag with makeup. I poke through her dresser, not really sure what I should grab. There’s a set of black clothes folded neatly on top, a sports bra and leggings, so I add that to my bag and guess on the rest. Jeans, a couple of shirts, a sweater.
Then I open the top drawer and nearly swallow my tongue. That is… a lot of lace. It’s not demure stuff either. Black with splashes of bright pink, cheetah spots, dark red, and metallic gold. I pick up a pair that has a sexy cut-out in the back and whistle. I’d payreallygood money to see Cherry in this. Unable to decide, I grab a handful of panties and toss those into the bag too.
There are books on her nightstand, and as I get closer, I grin. “Dirty girl…” Romance novels with titles likeWed and Bred,A Very Pierced Christmas,andDirty Santasare piled on the nightstand with an overflow pile on the floor. NotDirty Santa, singular.Santas.Plural. I pack the entire stack, putting the plural Santas right on top. Can’t hurt, right?
Pulling open the little drawer to see if there are more books, I freeze. My veins flatten as every red blood cell in my body fights their way to my dick. Vibrators. Dildos. Butt plugs. Anal beads. Even a leather box containing several pairs of nipple clamps. Some are pretty, with little feathers or charms dangling from them, others just look evil. The clover clamps with dangling weights are particularly interesting.
“Thank you, Jesus,” I mutter, pumping my fist and accidentally putting my elbow through her drywall. “Fuck.” I’ll fix that later. This might be the happiest day of my life. Maybe I’m an asshole for looking through her stuff. Scratch that, I’m definitely a bit of an asshole. But I was right. Elle is far from vanilla.
7
ELLE
Iblink against the sunlight, my eyes so heavy I’m tempted to close them and go back to sleep. I snuggle into my pillow, but it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t smell right either. Now that I think about it, my window looks weird… and where the fuck are my blackout curtains?
Disoriented, I sit up, trying to figure out what exactly is going on, but then my eyes land on the recliner and its occupant. Last night comes roaring back. Clint. The bar. Tailing Beast and Rattler. The barrel of a gun pressing between my shoulder blades. And oh, yes. The deal I struck with Reaper. Hard to forget that.
“Morning, Red.” In the spot where Beast watched me last night, Rattler now sits with a sly smile on his, admittedly handsome, face. But that’s not really what I’m focused on. He’s wearing thin, gray pajama pants. That’s it. His arms and chest are bare, thickly muscled, and covered in ink. Tattoos flow down his stomach, highlighting abs that must be a part-time job to maintain.
He has one leg bent up, his bare foot pressed into the leg rest of the chair. This guy takes ‘man-spreading’ as a personal challenge, and as much as I hate to admit it, he’s doing it soooo right. Those pants leave little to the imagination, but what they do reveal isfarfrom little.
Oh, goddammit.I glance up and realize there’s a reason he was making that sly expression. “You just had to show off?” I sass.
“Just wanted to start your day off right,” Rattler replies with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
“You are the classiest,” I mutter.
He shrugs. “No one made you look, sweetheart.”
I roll my eyes. Sure, he’stechnicallycorrect, but he’s still a dick. How the hell am I supposed to ignore an anaconda playing hide and seek in someone’s pants? I clear my throat, all too happy to change the subject. “Are prisoners allowed coffee?” I ask. “Or am I strictly on a stale bread and dirty water regiment?”
“Prisoners are encouraged to caffeinate. Fresh pot downstairs.” He gets to his feet, stretching his arms over his head. I swallow a whimper at the breathtaking display of rippling, shifting, bulging muscle.
I’m weak. I’ll admit it. No matter how hard I try to ignore my existential truth, I just can’t shake it. A biker covered in ink and battle scars makes my mouth go dry faster than shoving twenty cotton balls in each cheek.
I always knew I’d get out of Peril and pictured taking another path. One that led to a cute little house, a golden retriever, and a man that wears sweater vests on the weekend. Basically, the exact opposite of the world I grew up in; a way to really stick it to my father and brother. I absolutelycouldgo live that life, but the more I think about it, the more desperately bored I feel. Is it my fault that tatted-up bad boys turn my panties into the before shots from a paper towel commercial?
I pull on my jeans and follow him downstairs, doing my best to keep my gaze far, far away from, well, all of him. His back is just as sexy as the front, and it’s not doing me any good being behind him. Those evil pants ride low on his narrow hips, highlighting a butt so fine, Michaelangelo’s David would be jealous. I’ve never been this tempted to smack a man on the ass.
Coffee helps. It gives me something to do with my hands and a place to look other thanhim.Rattler stares at me over his coffee mug, squinting like he’s trying to puzzle something out.