Kristen Ashley - Own the Wind

She was leaving.

Leaving her family, leaving him, leaving people who had taken her back for a fucking year.

Leaving.

Leaving him.

“Not doin’ this,” he growled right before his bike roared to life.

“Doin’ what?” Roscoe shouted over the pipes and Shy looked to him.

“This. Our gig. You need someone at your back, call Tug or Snapper. I got shit to do.”

Before Roscoe could say anything, Shy backed out and roared out of the parking lot.

On his way to Tab’s, he did not make one single effort to calm his ass down. He’d need everything he had not to wring her pretty neck when he got there and lit into her.

Leaving.

Leaving him.

Fuck!

Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside her apartment, parked, switched off the bike, and scanned for rides he knew.

Tack’s bike wasn’t there, neither was his Expedition. Cherry’s Mustang wasn’t there. Tab’s girl Natalie’s ride wasn’t there either.

But Tabby’s electric blue ride that she took care of like it was her baby was gleaming in the sun.

The way clear, Shy swung off his bike, jogged to the steps, took them two at a time, and didn’t hesitate to pound his fist on her door the instant he hit it. He also didn’t stop pounding until he heard the locks turn and the door was thrown open.

“Jeez, Shy, what’s the deal?” Tabby snapped, staring up at him.

He hadn’t seen her in a month.

This meant that was the wrong greeting.

The way wrong greeting.

Making matters even worse, behind her everything but the furniture was boxed up.

Fighting back his need to explode, he prowled in and Tabby had to jump out of his way. Once in, he turned on her.

“Shut the door, Tabby,” he ordered.

“Shy, what—?”

“Shut the fuckin’ door, Tabby!” he roared and watched her face pale as she shut the door and turned to him.

“Okay, Shy, calm down. We’ll talk,” she said gently.

“You leavin’?” he asked.

“I…” she hesitated, licked her fucking lip and, Christ, that hit him straight in his dick like that always hit him straight in his dick. “Yes, Shy,” she admitted. “I was gonna call you next week. Talk to you. Tell you what’s—”

He cut her off, “You’re not leavin’.”

Her head jerked then she told him, “I am, Shy. I need space to get my head together. The contracts are signed—”

“You,” he interrupted her again, “Are. Not. Leaving.”

She shut her mouth and stared at him.

He kept talking.

“You gotta get your head together, you do it here where I can get to you, not somewhere where I gotta haul my ass on a plane to get to you. Are you comprehending me?”

“But, Shy—” she started.

She was not comprehending him.

“You’re not leaving,” he repeated.

“I have to, the—”

He leaned toward her and growled, “You are not leaving.”

Suddenly, she lost it, throwing her hands out to the sides, she asked, “Why?”

“This is why,” he clipped, stalked the three steps that separated them, snaked an arm around her waist, drove a hand into the back of her hair, and hauled her into his arms.

He slammed his mouth down on hers.

Then he thrust his tongue between her lips and there it was.

Christ, there it fucking was.

That taste he’d had on his tongue for fucking years.

Sweet, God, so fuckin’ sweet.

Beautiful.

He took more and she gave it, her body melting into his, her feet coming up on her toes, her arms circling his shoulders, holding on to him, one hand sliding up into his hair, holding his mouth to hers.

She kept giving it so he took even more and Jesus, the taste of her, the feel of her pressed close, the world melted away. It was more intoxicating than any liquor, a high better than any fucking drug.

Phenomenal.

Better than he would have guessed. Better than years of wondering how good it could be.

The best he ever had.

With just a fucking kiss.

He broke his mouth from hers but felt her short, excited pants against his lips when he said yet again, “You are not leaving.”

“Okay,” she breathed, and he closed his eyes, dropped his forehead to hers and sucked in a breath to gain control over the burn in his chest.

When he had it, he opened his eyes and looked down at her.

Her eyes were unfocused, hazy. She was pressed up against him, still holding him, hand in his hair.

He’d made the world melt away for her too.

That burn came back but it was different, and the change was fucking brilliant.

“You’re gettin’ your head together here,” he demanded.

“Okay,” she agreed on another breath.

Fuck, she was cute. Hot and cute.

It was time to talk to Rosalie.

“What are you doin’?” he asked.

“Not leaving,” she answered.

Good. It was penetrating.

“Then what’re you doin’?” Shy pushed.

“Getting my head together,” she answered.

“How long’s that gonna take?”

“Two hours.”

He felt his lips twitch.

Finally.

Fucking finally.

“You got two hours, sugar, then you come to me,” Shy demanded. “My apartment. I’ll text you the address.”

Her beautiful blue eyes held his and she whispered, “Okay.”

“Two hours, Tabby.”

“Two hours, Shy.”

Yes.

There it was.

Fucking finally.

“Good, baby, now kiss me.”

Her eyes flashed in a way he also felt in his dick, then she rolled up to her toes, put her pretty, rosy mouth to his, and gave him what he’d been craving for four years.

That sweet, pink tongue of hers slid out, glided between his lips and touched the tip of his.

His tongue pushed it back into her mouth and he took over the kiss. It was a repeat of the first but longer, wetter, deeper, not better but a whole lot fucking hotter.

He broke his mouth from hers and ordered, “Two hours, babe.”

She panted against his mouth and nodded.

He let her go. She teetered. He prowled to the door, pulled it open, turned back to her and lifted a hand with his middle and index fingers extended to the ceiling.

Her cheeks were pink, her mouth swollen, her eyes dreamy, and it was a fucking good look.

She powered through the haze and nodded.

Shy grinned, turned, closed the door behind him, and he kept grinning as he jogged to his bike.

Gone for You

I stood outside Shy’s door trying not to hyperventilate and also trying to get my head together.

Two hours wasn’t enough time.

I knew one thing. My pit of denial could be denied no longer. Not after a month without Shy. Not after that kiss.

That kiss.

That fabulous, unbelievable, amazing kiss.

That wasn’t what I had to sort out in my head.

At least I’d been able to deal with the agency that was sending me to Cape Cod. I’d called and told them I had a family emergency that might mean I’d have to back out, which was a total lie, but after that kiss…

That kiss!

After that kiss I knew one thing for certain, I couldn’t take off and be that far away from Shy for six months or even for another day. I’d had a month without him in my life and I felt even more lost than I felt when Jason died.

I knew why this was. Unlike with Jason, I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it and even I was denying to myself why our separation affected me so deeply. Both of these made it more difficult, so difficult I couldn’t deal without escape. Therefore, Cape Cod it was.

So after that kiss, no way I could be most of a continent away from him and stuck on a freaking island for six months.

But we still had things to sort out. Like Rosalie.

One thing I had managed to do in those two short hours was phone Big Petey. I tried to pull the wool, dance around the subject, but I was thinking that he saw through it when I tried to ascertain without coming right out and asking if Shy was still seeing Rosalie.

Pete gave me the bad news sounding like he was giving me bad news, this why I thought I didn’t pull the wool. The bad news, Pete told me, was Rosalie got dropped off at the Compound three days ago and they’d gone off together on Shy’s bike.

Before we moved on from that kiss, I had to know what was going on with Rosalie.

And last but oh so not least, we needed to have a discussion about him losing his mind when he got annoyed at me.

I’d had a lifetime of watching biker babes and the way they got on with their badass bikers. I knew this was a minefield, and I knew that Shy was not the only badass biker who went gonzo like he did that night we discussed why I’d disappeared for two weeks and like he had again two hours ago when he confronted me about leaving.

As far as I could tell, there were three options for going the distance with a biker and after that kiss that was what was on my mind.

Going the distance with a biker. With Shy.

The options were, one, give up and let them roll right over you.

I didn’t think that was me, or I hoped it wasn’t.

The next was become a biker bitch, like my mom had become. Mom was just a bitch, so it was bound to happen that she’d let her bitch light shine through. But sometimes when the boys were the boys, bossy biker badasses, instead of setting the boundaries right off, I’d seen women go over the top with attitude, butting up against their man all the time and not talking to him so they did nothing but fight. Loudly. Publicly. Nastily.