Marked as His (9 page)

Paxton shifted his long legs as if unnerved by her silence. He jerked a thumb toward the house. “You coming in? I want to change.”

“Uh…no. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the quiet.”

Concern lit his eyes but he reluctantly nodded. She watched his hard ass move away. The minute the front door closed, she shot off the bike and started running. By her estimate, she was half a mile from a place she could hail a cab. And she was a good sprinter, even in her high boots.

She tore down the street back toward the place they’d come. The air was hot and stagnant, burning her lungs. But she pushed on.

Getting away from Paxton was uppermost in her mind. As each stride carried her farther away, she thought of how he’d react when he came out and found her gone. With any luck, he’d take a damn long time changing and she’d have a good headway.

She turned a corner and tore off faster, pumping hard. She never should have agreed to go with him. What was it about him that persuaded her so easily? She wasn’t a weak woman—she knew her mind.

And she wasn’t returning to the club. Ever.

She shouldn’t have been on the back of Paxton’s bike. Shouldn’t have allowed him between her legs. Dammit, she knew better.

He was no good for her—she was just a patch to him. What an idiot she was.

As she dragged in quick breaths, she caught it—the scent of the river. It cut along this stretch of road, smelling of living things. She’d always loved the river. As a teen she’d spent a lot of time walking along it, skipping rocks, and thinking.

She headed toward it like a dying animal to water. But she didn’t make it far before the bike engine filled her hearing.

Paxton rolled alongside her. She glanced over to his hardened features. His lips were a grim line, and his eyes glittered.

“Stop running, Santana.”

She cast around a wild look. There was nowhere to bolt. Why run anyway? She was strong enough to stand up to Paxton, her father, and every last Hell’s Son he sent after her.

When she stopped, her chest heaved and perspiration ran off her.

“Damn, you look hot.”

She lifted a brow at his drawled tone. Obviously he didn’t mean it the way he’d said it. Leaning over, she braced her palms on her thighs and dragged in lungfuls of air.

He pulled the bike off to the side of the road and cut the engine. Then he walked back to her, took her hand, and led her down to the river. As they cut through the screen of foliage separating the water from the road, cooler air kissed her hot cheeks.

Too bad the water was probably polluted by industries upstream. And who knew how many dead bodies the Hell’s Sons had dumped in. Her throat was parched.

Paxton kept a vise grip on her hand as if prepared for her to run again. He eyed her. “What other tricks do you have for me? Any weapons on your person?”

She shook her head, feeling juvenile all of a sudden. Ripping her hand from his grasp, she turned to face him. They were on uneven ground, putting her slightly above him.

“I’m not going to the club.”

He pushed out a sigh. “I gathered that when I came out of my house and you’d disappeared.”

She opened her mouth to say more, but he just took her hand and silently led her down to the water. He was dressed in clean clothes—dark jeans and a fresh black T-shirt. He wore his cut like a badass, along with a cross dangling from a chain around his tanned neck.

Once they reached the water, he let go of her hand and crouched. When he stuck a finger into the water, ripples formed around it. Without looking at her, he said, “You don’t trust me.”

“Why should I?” She set her hands on her hips and her voice escalated.

He threw her a look that singed her panties to ash. “You trusted me with your pleasure.”

She felt too hot and dipped a hand into the water, bringing the drops to her mouth regardless of chemical impurities. She didn’t get much but ran her damp hand around her neck to cool off a degree.

“Santana. What do you think’s going to happen when you get to the club? We lock you up and you’re trapped in a pit of Hell with Lucifer controlling your every move?”

Now that he said it like that, she realized how silly she was acting. She sank to a rock and stared across the meandering water. “I’m not ready.”

“That’s all you needed to say. You didn’t need to sprint half a mile in ninety-degree weather to get away.”

She sank her face into her hands and let the quiet babble of nature soothe her scattered soul. “I’m not myself.”

“I know.” He duck-walked closer and hitched half of an ass cheek onto the rock. She scooted over for him and they settled shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh, staring at the water.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about why I stay at the welding shop. I mean, it’s great pay, but I shouldn’t have to put up with the harassment.”

“No.” His voice was hard. “Want me to go down there and break a few legs?”

She laughed. “There have been plenty of times I would have taken you up on that.”

His dark eyes were dead serious. “I would, Santana.”

A shiver snaked down her spine. “This is exactly what I want to stay away from. The dark dealings of the club.”

He waved a hand as if illegal alcohol and blowing up rival clubs was as sweet as a summer’s day. “What about the good we do? Leukemia rides to raise money and sponsoring homeless shelters?”

She lifted a shoulder. “It seems small compared to the bad.”

“Ah…just as ten compliments will never outweigh one insult.”

“I guess.”

“Let’s just entertain the idea that Tommy is a real bad guy. The worst. He drowns babies and murders old men in their beds. Do his actions outweigh all the good of the rest of us?”

“No,” she said quietly, staring at her fingers.

He rested his big hand over hers, the nails bright pink in the summer sunshine. It didn’t take away a hint of his manliness. “You’re never going to be truly happy until you close this chapter in your life. Or open the door and let it inside. Either way, you have a bridge to cross, Santana.”

Before his words sank in, his cell buzzed. He fished it from the pocket of his cut and brought it to his ear. Through the speaker she heard a man’s low tones. Her father?

“Right. I’ll be there. I’m about ten minutes’ ride away.” He repocketed the phone and stared at Santana. “I’ve gotta ride.”

Her alarms were going off. “A body to bury?”

“No. I need to run distraction. Fly through a couple red lights, maybe crash into some garbage cans or a mailbox.”

“Jesus. Are you serious?”

He looked more than a little happy to do this. “Yeah, I am. Look, you’re right. You don’t need mixed up in this shit. But some of our guys are in a jam, and it’s what a brother does. We help out. Now I can take you as far as Vista Road and you can grab a cab home. Or you can come with me.” He stood and extended a hand.

She thought of that bridge he’d mentioned. Somehow she’d come to a crossing point. If she got into a cab, she’d never see him again.

He wouldn’t get his patch and her father wouldn’t get what he wanted.

But Paxton was right—she’d never be truly happy knowing her father was out there asking to speak with her. She’d spent every year since the age of ten wondering about him, about the whys. Was she really going to hide in a cab and go home?

“I don’t think I’ll quit the welder’s shop quite yet.” She put her hand in Paxton’s and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

“Then I’ll be ready to bust some legs. C’mon, love.”

•●•

Sirens blared and Paxton hammered down on the gas. He swung his head right and left, on guard for cross traffic that could shoot out of the side streets and wreck his plans.

Just a few red lights and he’d lead the cops in the wrong direction. Somehow they’d gotten a tip the Hell’s Sons were awaiting a shipment of booze at one of the bars the club owned. The Tomfoolery had been evacuated, the gambling ring in the back room hidden away, and only a few good old boys sitting at the bar drinking slow gin and draft beer.

Santana clung to Paxton’s waist, holding on so tight. He was probably scaring the hell out of her but was neck-deep. Of course, she’d known what she was doing when she’d put her hand in his, right?

“Lean with me,” he called into the wind. She nodded against his shoulder and moved as an extension of him as he raced through two consecutive red lights. Her breath whooshed past his ear, making him as hard as a rock. Between her panting noises and the adrenaline rush, he needed to pull over and bend her over his bike. Hell, he might.

The sirens changed direction, and he cast out his hearing. Moving west? Yes. He grinned.

If retrieving Santana didn’t earn him a blood patch, surely risking arrest would. As long as Santana took the curves with him, they’d be safe.

Two more bikes veered out of a side street and flanked him. Santana squeezed him so hard he thought he might puke. He hardened his abs and called, “Hold on. Another light and two streets and we’ll slip in behind the warehouse.”

She breathed faster. When he blew through the light at high speed, she issued a whoop in his ear. Grinning so wide his jaws hurt, he whipped the bike around behind a building. The other bikers kept going, running the cops farther away from The Tomfoolery.

He eased the bike out of sight and cut the engine. Then he whipped his leg over the seat, grabbed Santana, and kissed her.

She tasted of excitement and the road. He smelled it in her hair and in her open mouth as he swept it with his tongue. She quivered against him. He pulled her off the bike and ripped at her clothes. Yanking her top up to palm her hard nipples and her pants down to sink a finger into her tight, wet pussy.

God, he was tore up bad over this chick. She ripped at his belt and jeans. When his cock fell into her warm grasp, he nearly spilled his come. Back here nobody could see them, and at this time of day, the warehouse workers were busy inside. Nobody would see him bare her hot ass and pound into her.

They might hear his roar of completion though.

She rolled his cock head through her fingers, her moan filling his mouth.

“Get your pants down and bend over, love. I need in you. Now.”

“Hurry.” She faced away and dropped her jeans and panties. He fumbled a condom over his dick, smirking at his hot pink nails.

“Brace your hands here. Spread your legs. Fuck yeah, like that.” He rubbed the head of his cock over her slippery folds. Christ, she’d liked the terrifying race through town as much as he had. In one hard shove, he buried himself in her.

She bit off a cry and pushed up. Her tight globes jiggled with his hard thrusts and he lashed an arm around her waist, yanking her up and into him. As he neared the dizzying brink of the cliff, he bit her earlobe.

“This won’t take long. So fucking close.”

She jerked his hand down to her pussy. His fingers buried between her folds and found her distended clit as if he’d been born to do this. Breaths rasping in a wild forbidden symphony, he circled her clit as he drove into her.

Plunging deep, deeper, hitching her up, almost lifting her on his cock. Juices flooded his fingers and her inner walls clenched.

She was coming.

He couldn’t have stayed quiet if his roar had ended the world. He threw his head back and joined Santana on the other side of heaven.

Several long heartbeats passed before she roused him. “Paxton…”

“Yeah, love?”

“We never hit those garbage cans.”

He bit into her shoulder to stifle his laugh. Damn, he couldn’t get enough of this woman.

The handgrips vibrated under Paxton’s fingers and the hot Alabama wind caressed his face. He couldn’t be happier—especially since Santana’s arms were around his waist.

In twenty-four hours, he’d gone from enemy to lover. He’d made her an accessory in a crime. But he hoped she would let him be more—and put her trust in him. He was as serious as a twenty-car pileup when he said he’d get her out of the club as soon as she felt it was too much.

He leaned into a turn and she moved too, in tune with him. On a bike, a good woman was so important. She could throw him off and cause a helluva case of road rash. Or she could glide on an even keel with a man.