Kristen Ashley - Fire Inside

When the bassist kicked in, my hand darted out to wrap around the edge of the table, to hold on even though I was sitting, eyes glued to Hop as he started singing about gypsy wind and scarlet skies in that growly, sexy voice of his, his eyes locked to mine.

Then Hopper Kincaid, badass biker and hot guy, sang Bob Seger’s “You’ll Accomp’ny Me” straight to me.

Straight.

To.

Me.

Words I’d heard time and again (and enumerable times recently) came from his beautiful lips and pummeled right into me.

Exquisite pain.

The kind you wanted to feel every day for the rest of your life.

It was the pain of finally having something you wanted. Something you’d longed for. Longed for since you had memories. Something life taught you to believe you’d never have. Something, if you lived without it, it left a void in your soul you knew would never be filled. Something, without it, you knew you’d never be whole.

It was something you needed.

It was as necessary as breath.

It was what was required to complete you.

And, I found in those four minutes as Hopper sang to me, when you got it, it filled you so full you thought you’d rupture but it was so precious, you would do anything to hold it all in and not lose a drop.

Not one drop.

That was what Hop gave to me by telling me through Bob Seger’s words exactly how he felt about me.

And what he intended to do about it.

By the time he was done, every inch of my skin was tingling, my eyes were burning from holding back tears, and my fingers hurt from gripping the table.

And when he was done, I had no idea what to do. How to communicate what I was feeling. How to tell him what he needed to know.

But I was Lanie Heron and even if my mind was scrambled by the beauty of all Hop had just given me, my body knew exactly what to do.

So I straightened from my chair. I put one high-heeled boot into the seat, pulled myself up and turned to Hop. Then I lifted the fingers of both hands to my lips and threw them out toward a good man, a handsome man…

My man.

Then I shrieked like a groupie, “You are the shit, Hopper Kincaid!”

It was the right thing to do. It got me a sexy smile that I was pretty sure melted my panties clean away (and those of most of the women in the audience) before he followed the Nine Tonight (Live) playlist, turned to his friend. His mouth moved and they went right into “Hollywood Nights”.

I danced on my chair until a bouncer told me I had to get down.

Hop finished the first set with his boys and then the entire band joined us for a drink at both their breaks.

Hop held me so close while he was talking to his buddies I was practically in his lap.

Later, looking back, I had no idea if I even spoke a word.

But I do remember smiling so big and for so long, the next morning, my face hurt.

Like I said.

Exquisite pain.

“So, you were a rock star?”

I grinned as I watched Hop press his handsome head into the pillow and burst out laughing.

It was Tuesday night.

I was in Hop’s bed at Hop’s house. It was the first time I’d been there.

I found, after following his directions, that Hopper Kincaid lived in a nondescript split-level on a cul-de-sac in a regular neighborhood, not a clandestine biker bunker I had to be led to blindfolded.

This was a surprise but not a disappointment.

The house was nice although it was clear he could spend more time on the yard. The moment after I had this thought, my mind purged it. Hopper Kincaid and yard work didn’t go together. What did go together was, if his neighbors didn’t like it, since he was a badass biker, they probably didn’t complain and just put up with it.

The minute I walked in (after Hop laid a hot and heavy one on me in the open doorway), I was assaulted by décor that shouted, “A man lives here!”

The prevailing colors were black and brown. Dark brown. The feel wasn’t “sit and stay a while,” but “kick back and lounge for however long you want, preferably with a beer.”

It was not the way I would decorate but I had to say, I liked it.

It was pure Hop.

There was framed rock memorabilia everywhere. Signed pictures of Springsteen, Seger, Clapton, Page, these intermingled with framed tickets, rock concert posters, and posters from motorcycle rallies.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have much time to peruse this Museum of Rock (and Motorcycle Rallies) because dinner was ready and I got surprise number two of the night.

Hop could cook.

He made a meatloaf that had been basted in a sweetened tomato sauce that was out of this world. It was so good Mamaw would approve, and that was saying something.

When I shared this information, he grinned at me and stated, “Don’t get excited, lady. I can kick ass with ground beef and I can broil the fuck out of a pork chop but outside that, my cooking is not much to write home about.”

I was looking forward to him “broiling the fuck out of a pork chop” for me, but I didn’t share that mainly because I was shoveling meatloaf in my mouth.

Now, the dirty dishes were in the sink and we were in Hop’s bed. This was because he didn’t waste time after dinner in starting the tour of his house. This included a lot more man stuff, the not-surprising knowledge that Hop wasn’t exactly tidy, and the equally not-surprising knowledge that Cody was a Hop Mini-Me (seeing as his room was filled with motorcycle and rock stuff).

The revelation was Molly’s room, which was painted a pastel yellow and decorated effusively in every shade of purple under the sun, with a liberal sprinkling of daisies in the form of daisy lamps, a daisy motif to the bedclothes, daisy prints on the walls, and a daisy nightlight.

Glancing into Molly’s room was more proof badass biker Hopper Kincaid loved his daughter. It didn’t belong in this rambling, split-level man cave.

And yet, getting to know Hop, it absolutely did.

The end of the tour was Hop’s room, and I was again surprised when confronted with a mammoth, black leather-padded waterbed. Although it looked incredibly cool, I’d slept on a waterbed twice in my life and, albeit an adventure, being tossed on the waves every time you twitched wasn’t my idea of a restful night.

I didn’t have a chance to think much on this because Hop wasted no time ending the house tour and beginning another one.

The new tour lasted two hours.

During it, it took Hop thirty whole minutes to take all my clothes off me. It took ten more for me to get all his off him.

In other words, it was about taking our time. It was about exploration, rediscovery and memorization, of touch, taste, sound, and sensation.

Two hours.

Two hours of making love.

It was phenomenal and, by the time Hopper slowly slid inside of me, his eyes holding mine, I was so primed, I came instantly. I did it hard and it lasted a long time.

And it was the best I ever had.

Every time with Hop seemed like new.

And every time with Hop was a new best.

So now I was lying on top of him, his dark sheets pulled up over my booty, his chest hair rough against my breasts, his fingers curved around the cheeks of my ass, pads digging in, and I was doing something I knew in that instant I could do for a lifetime.

Watching him laugh.

When his laughter died down to chuckling, he dipped his chin and focused on me to say, “I was never a rock star, babe.”

“You seemed pretty comfortable up there,” I noted.

“Yeah, guess it’s like ridin’ a bike,” he mumbled and I pressed closer, sliding my hands up his chest to wrap my fingers around the sides of his neck.

“Tell me,” I urged softly and he bit his lip, his strong white teeth sinking into the flesh of his full lower lip and I had to beat back a shiver, it was so sexy.

He stopped biting his lip and started, “Right.”

I tore my eyes from his mouth to look into his.

He went on, “After a fight, Dad bought a guitar. Pissed Mom off, which was his intention. She went fuckin’ ballistic. When he came home with that guitar, it was the worst fight up until then, but she was dedicated to upping the game so it wasn’t their worst fight ever. Still, she was off on one. Dad, for once, didn’t back down and return the guitar. He was out in the garage all the time, plucking at it. The whole point was him bein’ shit at doin’ it, and since it was electric and he also got an amp, him makin’ nothin’ but noise and that noise bein’ loud sent her over the edge time and again.”

“I’m beginning to think your childhood was worse than mine,” I shared and watched Hop’s face get warm and intent.

“How long’s she been at the bottle?” he asked quietly.

“One year, she tripped and spilled a glass of red wine on my fabulous gypsy Halloween costume,” I answered instantly. “Since it wouldn’t do for me to go out in a wine-stained gypsy costume, no matter how fabulous it was, Dad had to cut holes out of a sheet from the guest bedroom so I went as a blue paisley ghost. The sheet was so huge I tripped on it and chipped my front tooth on the sidewalk outside our neighbor’s house. My tooth is capped. I was nine.”

“Babe,” he murmured, his voice low and gruff, filled with feeling.

Feeling for me.

That feeling coming from Hop felt nice, but the reason he was giving it to me didn’t, so I shrugged. “Something life has taught me over and over, it can suck.”