“Hold the fuck on.”
His hands snake around my waist as I punch the throttle. The raw power of the engine vibrates beneath me as we tear down the street, Divine right at my side.
Farris doesn’t say a word. His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens.
Having him behind me is unsettling. Not because I don’t trust him, but because I don’t trust myself. I’m in control of this man’s fate. One wrong move and we’re going down, but he trusts me enough to get on and hang on. Something I’ve never had before.
The heat of his body presses into my back, solid and warm. His breath, hot against the sensitive skin below my ear, sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.
My stomach clenches. His hands are big, spanning nearly my entire midsection. He could’ve overpowered me back there. Easily. But he didn’t.
Why?
And why the hell does that make something dangerous and reckless stir inside me?
I shift gears, the wind whipping around us as I aim for the clubhouse. But no matter how fast I go, I can’t outrun the feeling that, for the first time in a long time, someone besides my sisters has my back.
For some reason, he gave me the upper hand back there, and I don’t know why. I don’t know how to handle that.
5
FARRIS
Holy shit. What did I get myself into? Who is this woman handling this beast of a bike like a pro?
We turn toward a gated house nestled between the coastline and the mountains. A woman stands guard at the entrance, opening the gates as soon as we round the corner. Calypso pulls in and parks beside a row of motorcycles lined up in perfect formation. She kills the engine, flips down the kickstand, and once the bike is stable, I climb off.
That’s the first time I’ve ever been on a motorcycle, and it was thrilling. Trusting my life in her hands, hanging onto a woman like her. It’s something I’ve never done before. And I’d be crazy not to do it again.
Calypso swings her leg off the bike and removes her helmet, undoing the long braid that held back her jet-black hair. It spills down to her waist in a glossy cascade. She’s stunning. Petite but powerful, with tattoos crawling up her toned arms and piercing green eyes that don’t just look at you, they look into your soul.
“How was the ride, Detective?” Calypso’s voice is like silk over steel.
“Thrilling,” I admit, still coming down from the high. “Never done that before. I think I want to learn how to ride. No, scratch that, Ineedto learn how to ride.”
Calypso laughs, the sound sultry and smooth, sending a jolt of heat straight to my dick. “Come inside, Detective.”
Holding back a groan, I follow her, watching the hypnotic sway of her hips in those tight jeans. My gaze drifts up, and for the first time, I notice the leather cut she wears. Stitched on the back is an emblem of a skull-faced woman with long, flowing hair, giving off a dark gothic vibe. Her makeup is an ornate pattern, resembling a Day of the Dead design. A golden crown sits atop her head with golden roses surrounding the skull. Behind her is a motorcycle engine. The top rocker reads Royal Harlots, the bottom, Los Angeles.
Inside, the house is nothing like I expected. It’s been transformed into a full-fledged clubhouse. The foyer leads into a sprawling open-concept living space, complete with a pool table, foosball table, and a massive flat-screen TV mounted above a fireplace. A sleek bar stretches along the far wall, where a woman, wearing the same cut as Calypso, pours a drink and sends me a knowing wink. Beyond the living room, an industrial-sized kitchen hums with activity, and a grand staircase spirals up to what I assume are bedrooms. More doors line the back of the house, leading to who knows where, but we head in the opposite direction.
A woman with long brown hair, light brown eyes, and a fuck-off attitude greets us in the dining room, arms crossed over her chest.
“Calypso?” she drawls, raising a perfectly manicured brow.
“Sloane, this is Detective Dalton. Is Allura around?”
Sloane stiffens. Her gaze flicks to me, sharp and assessing. “She’s in her office. Probably fucking around with her new man candy.”
Calypso grabs my hand, pulling me along before I can process that response. “Stay close to me, or you might become someone’s man candy.” She smirks, her voice laced with amusement. “Unless that’s something you enjoy?”
I frown. “What the hell isman candy?”
She chuckles. “Think club whore, but for us. They’re here to fuck when one of us needs an itch scratched. Men in an MC have sweet butts without anyone batting an eye. The moment an all-female MC does the same? It’s suddenly frowned upon. So, we said fuck that and do what we want.”
Calypso stops in front of a door, turning toward me. Her emerald gaze sharpens, darkens. Her palm skims down my chest, slow and deliberate. “Tell me, Detective,” she murmurs, her voice dipping into something husky. “Are you the kind who likes to fuck when called, or are you looking for commitment?”
I swallow hard, pulse hammering. Holy shit, she’s brash.“Depends,” I say, clearing my throat.
