Caitlin was in the middle of taking a gulp of water when she must have felt the electricity that zipped between them. Her eyes slid to him mid-swallow. She lowered the water bottle and said firmly, “No.”
“Yes.” His body seized with lust as he grabbed hold of her calves and yanked her underneath him.
“Travis!” Caitlin was laughing and gasping as she lost hold of the water bottle.
“Fuck,” Travis muttered as he realized her shorts wouldn’t come off with her hiking boots on. He pulled away a bit, lowered the zipper, pushing his own shorts low, and freed his cock. He shifted to a kneeling position, moving her to all fours, spreading her legs, and slammed in behind her. His hips pounded her ass, an arm gripping her against him. He folded over her back and fucked her in the most primitive way, out in the open in a field of wildflowers.
“You’re insatiable,”Caitlin muttered when they finally hiked down to where they had parked their car. He knew that self-satisfied grin he had on his face infuriated her. He dominated her very well when it came to sex, and if she protested too much afterward, he knew it was just an attempt to regain control in their dynamic.
“Only for you, babe,” he shot back as he bleeped the locks. The roar of Harley pipes caught his attention, and he felt himself tense. A grouping of five Harleys cruised down the road. Judging from their cuts, these bikers were not of the Iron Skulls MC. Their lead guy gave him a salute as they passed their car.
“Get in, Cat,” Travis ordered.
After the run-in with the Skulls, Travis made it his business to find out what he could about the motorcycle club.
The Iron Skulls was a newly formed MC—a little over a decade old. Surprisingly, some of them were ex-military. Nicholas Crane used to be in the Navy’s Underwater Demolitions Team (UDT), a precursor to the establishment of the Navy SEALs in 1983. This explained his spot-on assessment of Travis during their first meeting. Ashe had been a staff sergeant with the Marines and had seen action in Afghanistan.
Like most MCs, they had lost faith in the U.S. government and decided on a life of anarchy to take care of their own. They operated legitimate businesses like a garage and several lucrative rental properties like the Foster Bar. A majority of the members had day jobs working in mostly adrenalin-fueled touristy businesses like white water rafting and rock climbing. There were rumors they controlled the crystal meth pipeline that ran the length of the Shenandoah Valley to Maryland. A huge population of Mexican workers in agricultural lands facilitated the smuggling of the banned substance into Virginia.
“I wonder where they get their money to run the club?” Caitlin asked. Obviously, Travis had not shared his intel. “I hear most of them run drugs.”
“Caitlin,” Travis said sternly as he backed out of the parking lot. “Don’t go around making such assumptions, especially in this town.”
“Sorry,” Caitlin said. “I think it’s exciting.”
Travis scowled. John Cooper fit the biker mold, with braids in his hair and copious amount of ink on his body. He found it odd that they were best friends, because Caitlin was not a typical biker chick. She wore little make up, and her blonde hair was wavy, naturally framing her face. She hardly wore jewelry, leather, or jeans with rhinestone shit on them.
“What’s exciting about running drugs, Cat?” Travis asked scathingly.
“Chill! There’s this biker show on TV with a very hot dude, okay?” Caitlin retorted.
“You like guys on a bike?”
She shrugged. He thought he heard her whisper, “Maybe.”
Before he had a chance to go off into another epic sulk, a vehicle parked on the side of the road caught his attention.
A couple was having an altercation by their car.
Shit. It was Bella.
14
It appeared to be a violent lovers’spat. Caitlin was about to yell at Travis to stop the car, but it seemed he was compelled to do so anyway when they saw the mean-looking Latino guy grab the woman by her throat and slam her against the car.
The woman looked familiar, but she wasn’t any of the club women who ganged up on her at Foster Bar. She heard Travis muttering under his breath. He was probably uncomfortable about getting involved in a domestic dispute, but Caitlin was still confused with the indecision on his face, because Travis didn’t strike her as a man who would let a woman face abuse, physically or verbally.
Travis parked their Suburban right behind a vintage Chevy Impala. The man was of medium height and wearing a wife-beater shirt that covered deep brown skin. He was almost the same height as the woman, but clearly had the advantage of pure viciousness.
“Hey!” Travis shouted as he slammed out the car. “Let her go.”
The guy slackened his grip on the woman and glared at Travis. “Mind your own fucking business, hombre.”
Yep, definitely from South America or Mexico.
“Travis . . . oh, thank God!” the woman cried.
The guy stilled, so did Caitlin as a strange sensation gripped her heart.