When I got back from Connecticut, with Elliott gone but Hop alive, breathing and so freaking good-looking, my mind went there.

Again and again and again.

Thick, black, unruly hair that was long in front, often fell into his face and had little flips and waves all through it but especially around his neck.

Gray eyes with lines radiating out the sides, that stated not only did he not have a desk job but that he lived his life, didn’t exist through it. Whether those lines were from squinting, laughter or frowning, they were intriguing and took your attention to the gray that was a pure gray, not slightly blue, not dark to black, just a startling gray.

His mustache, facial hair something else I didn’t like on a guy, was the epitome of biker cool. Thick along his upper lip and down the sides, bushier at either side of his chin.

He had no body fat in evidence, at all. He was tall, lean. There wasn’t bulk to his muscle but the definition stated without doubt there was power in his frame and that power wasn’t insignificant.

A dusting of black chest hair, not a thick mat. Short, rough, sparse but not meager, arrayed across his pecs and ribs, hair that felt crazy-good against my skin.

The best part, defining the center ridge in his six pack, the hair got thicker, darker, leading in a thin line from the valley of his pecs to his navel, then got thinner as it led down to one of the best parts of him.

I loved his chest hair. I loved his height. I loved the power behind his body. And, if I was honest, I loved the beauty of his cock, perfectly formed, both thick and long, and it helped a whole lot that he knew what to do with it.

I also found that I loved his tats, something on other men I wouldn’t like. The Chaos emblem on his back. Another one all the men had that Hop had had inked into the inside of his right bicep, a set of scales, unbalanced, reapers, scythes, and the words, “Never Forget” at the bottom. There were also black, yellow, and red flames dancing from wrist to elbow on both of his forearms.

Badass.

Hot.

Fantastic.

And last, Hop was the only man I’d ever had who wore jewelry. He wore a lot of it and, as with everything else, he looked good in it. Bulky silver rings on his fingers, sometimes two or three, sometimes five or six. Leather bands or silver bracelets at his wrists. A tangle of chains with medallions at his neck. Stud earrings in both ears, the same every day: a small silver cross in one, a tiny silver profile of a skull, the back of its head a set of flames, all this set in black in the other.

No man looked good in jewelry.

No man except a biker in a motorcycle club that had great chest hair, zero body fat, and flame tattoos up his arms could carry off that jewelry.

The man in my bed.

I watched as he came toward that bed then stopped, bent and tagged his jeans.

At that, my belly hollowed out.

He never left. Not until dawn.

Now it appeared he was preparing to leave.

I didn’t lift my cheek from the pillow I was cradling when I asked, “What are you doing?”

His gaze came to me even as he tugged up his jeans. “Chaos business, babe.”

I tipped just my eyes to the clock on my nightstand. Eleven thirty-six.

It was late and I could use some sleep.

I still didn’t want him to leave.

Damn.

Do… not… process, Lanie!

I didn’t process and therefore said nothing.

Hop dressed, yanking his black tee over his head, pulling it down, and I watched with some fascination as it sculpted itself to his torso as if by magic.

Nice.

Unbelievably nice.

He nabbed his boots and socks and sat on the side of my bed.

I didn’t move.

He tugged them on then turned to me and bent in, his hand shifting the hair off my neck, his face coming close.

I wanted to ask if he was coming back the next night. Maybe the next morning. Whenever. I didn’t care. I just wanted him to know whenever he showed, I’d be there.

I didn’t say this. I couldn’t say this. I wouldn’t allow myself to say this. It would expose too much. It would give too much. I didn’t have it in me. I had nothing left to give. Whatever I’d once had leaked out of my body in the form of blood on a floor in Kansas City while my eyes stared into the dead ones of my fiancé across the room.

So I just tilted my eyeballs up to look at him.

His hand moved to my cheek, the pad of his thumb gliding whisper-soft on the skin just under my eye as his eyes studied mine, not like he was looking in them but at them with an expression on his face that said, quite clearly, he liked what he saw.

This was another thing he did frequently that was something I was trying not to process. I liked that he liked looking at me. I liked that he didn’t hide that he liked what he saw. He certainly wasn’t the first man to do that.

What could I say? I wasn’t blind. It wasn’t like I didn’t know God had been generous with me. It wasn’t like I didn’t appreciate it. But with every blessing, there was also a curse and my curse was that I was a dick magnet.

Handsome men knew they were handsome and it was my experience this did not skip a single good-looking guy. It was also my experience that they thought the world should throw roses at their feet just because they were hot. They definitely thought their women should bow down or eat shit.

If they weren’t exactly handsome but still smart, confident, charismatic, and successful, they were worse.

Hop was good-looking, smart, confident, and charismatic. What he wasn’t was a man who hid that he liked what he saw.

He could act the player. He could pretend he could take it or leave it. He could hide his attraction to me in order to gain the upper hand. He could even begin to lay the groundwork of tearing me down, making me feel less than I was, trying to make me feel lucky I had in my bed all that was him and, in doing that, embarking on a campaign that was usually scary successful not to mention swift, to make me feel like I was nothing.

He didn’t.

He liked looking at me, my eyes especially, like just then but particularly when he was inside me. I never came without my eyes to his and his to mine; Hop made it that way. I’d never had a man look me in the eyes so intently, so steadily, so hungrily, as Hopper.

I found my hand lifting even as the rest of me didn’t move, cupping his jaw, my eyes watching my thumb trail the side of his ’tache, moving over the thickness of his whiskers at his jaw, and he muttered, “You really like that, don’t you?”

My gaze went to his and I kept my hand where it was. “Yeah.”

That was an understatement. It looked good on him. It felt good on my skin. It felt better between my legs.

Heaven.

“Before you, was thinking of shaving it off. Growing a patch.” He lifted his hand, touched his middle finger to the indent under his lower lip and I took in his rings.

A plain silver band on his thumb and three rings, side by side, index, middle and ring finger, one that said “Ride”, one that said “Free”; the last said “Chaos”.

Badass, biker, cool.

“I’ll wait until we burn out before I do that,” he concluded.

My eyes cut up to his.

I’ll wait until we burn out before I do that.

His tone was light, his lips surrounded by that ’tache tipped up. He was teasing.

I didn’t like it. Teasing, I could take. A reminder we would burn out, I couldn’t.

I didn’t tell him this mostly because I refused to process it.

“Not that you need it but you have my encouragement to grow the patch,” I said instead then clarified, “Along with the mustache.”

His face dipped closer, taking my hand with it, his eyes never leaving mine as he whispered against my lips, “Then I’ll grow the patch.”

I smiled against his mouth.

“Gotta go, honey,” he went on and there was one good thing in that. He sounded like he didn’t want to.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he replied but didn’t move, didn’t let go of my eyes, nothing. When this went on for a while, he prompted, “Forgetting something?”

“Uh…” I mumbled.

“Lady, kiss me.”

Lady.

I’d been around Hop and all the Chaos boys for some time. They called women a lot of things, some of them good, some of them not so good.

Not one of them, not one, called any woman “Lady”.

This was something else he gave me. Something gorgeous. Something I wouldn’t let settle in my soul or I’d be lost, lost again. Not lost to a jerk or an asshole who played games or had to cut me down so he wouldn’t feel I overshadowed him. Lost in what I’d discovered the hard way was worse. Lost to a dangerous man who could not only get me hurt but who could hurt me worse by getting himself that way.

I didn’t share any of this either. I tilted my head, lifted it, pressed my lips to his, slid my tongue in his mouth and I kissed him. Hard. As hard as I could. As hard as I knew how. And I did it deep.

This lasted for a while then it lasted even longer when Hop’s arms closed around me. He hauled me out of bed, across his lap, arched me over his arm, and he kissed me. Deep and long.

When he broke the kiss, he twisted me back in bed, pulled the covers up under my arm, tucking them around my back (something else sweet and gorgeous I tried to forget the minute he did it, though not entirely successfully, alas) and he bent in to kiss my temple.

“Later, babe,” he muttered then pushed to his feet.

I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t call, “Tomorrow?”