CRASH: An Evil Dead MC Story (The Outlaw Series) by Nicole James Page B

moved out of the kitchen, and Shannon watched him
disappear into the bedroom area behind the chains. A lamp switched on, and
through the links of chain she could make out the silhouette of his form moving
around. She watched as he pulled his tee over his head. The sound of a drawer
opening and closing carried to her. A moment later he reappeared, walking
toward her. He had on a pair of dark charcoal-grey sweatpants, riding low on
his hips…and nothing else. His chest and abs on gorgeous display. Taut muscles
shaped his body all the way up his arms and across his broad shoulders. He had
tattoos on both arms and some awesome tribal art running vertically down the
outside of his right ribs highlighting a six-pack to die for. Lord that was
sexy as all hell. Her eyes dropped lower to the sexy v that started at his hips
and disappeared into the low-slung waistband. And there, she caught the top
edge of another tattoo peeking above the waistband. Lord, she wondered, how
many did he have?
    Her
eyes lifted when he was almost to her, a clean folded tee held in his fist. He
tossed it to her. Grabbing it, she clutched it to her chest. He moved around
the loft, turning off lights, and her eyes followed him. Good Lord, the back
view was just as good. His shoulders were broad, his back muscled to
perfection, all the way down to the two dimples at the base of his spine. Get a
grip, Shannon, she told herself. Snatching her shoulder bag off the island, she
moved toward the bathroom as he moved toward the sectional couch. Out of the
corner of her eye, she saw him lie down, jam a throw-pillow under his head and
pull an afghan off the back of the couch.

 
    Crash
watched Shannon disappear into the bathroom, her purse clutched in her arms,
and he thought about the way those arms had clutched his body as he’d ridden
her here on the back of his bike. She’d felt good there. And then, in the
elevator when he’d had her body pressed up against his, all soft feminine
curves. Shit, he’d gotten hard on the spot. He’d gotten a whiff of her perfume,
and the arousing scent had gone straight to his brain, that part of his brain
that had him feeling suddenly in all animal instinct mode. And then tonight,
out on the roof, the sight of those fuckin’ legs. Christ. Maybe he’d been a
fool to volunteer for this hell. He was going to spend the next couple of weeks
in a perpetual state of hard-on. What the fuck had he been thinking? He hadn’t
been thinking, or even worse, he’d been thinking with his dick.
    A
few minutes later, she emerged and headed towards the bedroom. He watched her
pause in the doorway, no doubt wondering about the long strands of paperclips,
strung together, that made up the childish ‘beaded-curtain-like’ door, if you
could call it that. He waited, but she didn’t ask about them. He’d have to tell
her about the meaning behind them one of these days. He stopped her before she
went inside his bedroom. There was one thing he wanted to say to her.
    “Shannon?”
He watched her hand drop from the strands and look back at him. “About this guy
you’re runnin’ from? I know you don’t want to talk about him, and that’s okay.
But I just want to give you one piece of advice when dealing with guys like
that. Always trust the voice in your head. Trust your instincts. Trust your gut.”
    She
nodded.
    “Night,
Princess.”
    “Night,”
she replied and moved inside the bedroom.
    He
lie watching her dark silhouette move around the room in the dim light of the
bedside lamp.
    Fuck.
    He
should have lain down in the other direction. At this angle, he couldn’t help
but watch as her arms lifted, and the dress was pulled over her head and tossed
aside. He swallowed. Then her arms were reaching behind her, unfastening the
clasp of her bra. He bit his lower lip, willing her to turn and give him a
profile shot. And then he got his wish as she turned to reach for his tee
laying on the bed.
    Christ.
    The
tee went over her head and down.