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“Fuck you,” I spit.
“Maybe later,” he says. “Who are you?”
So this is the infamous Grisham. His first name’s David, but nobody calls him that. He’s the leader of the Barking Angels, and he’s a big guy, I’ll give him that. He looks like an MMA fighter with his broad shoulders, impressive height, and defined muscles. I squirm against him but he’s too strong, too big. He’s got my arms up over my head, pinned against the bed.
“I’m the girl that blond hillbilly kidnapped on your orders,” I answer. “Claim Drew’s daughter to get more territory, is it? Well, go ahead. Fucking claim me, then.”
His blue eyes go dark and stormy. “Fuck,” he snaps. “What’s your name?”
“Fuck you,” I say again, giving a fake smile.
“That’s not a very nice name for a nice girl like you,” he shoots back. He twists at my wrists and I yelp. “No wonder you have daddy issues.”
Boy, he has no idea. Still, I’m not so easy to intimidate. I clamp my mouth shut and glare at him.
“Why do I have to ask everything twice?” He digs his knee into my leg. “What’s your name?”
“Tanzie,” I say, breathing angrily through my nose, teeth clenched. “Tanzie Williams.”
His eyebrows dip into a V shape. If I had to guess, he’s trying to piece out why my name sounds familiar to him.
I let out an exasperated breath. “I’m the daughter of Drew Williams? You know, the President of Blazing Pistons Motorcycle Club. Seriously, you don’t know this?”
“Why the fuck would I know who Drew Williams’ daughter is?” he asks, still applying strategic pressure. I’d hate to be on the wrong end of a torture session with this guy, if this is him not hurting someone, His fingers dig into my wrists, hitting just the right pressure spot. I whimper, despite my best efforts not to.
“Because your lackey chased me down, roughed me up, tossed me on his bike, and threw me on your bed with a promise you’d come to claim me like the whore I am?”
I realize I’m baring my teeth at him again, like a rabid animal. Good, let him see how pissed I am. Let him see that I’ll still fight back, no matter how bad he hurts me. Men like this need to see that there are some people who won’t bow down to them, that there are people who won’t break under pressure.
“Huh,” he grunts, letting go of my hands and rolling off, his feet hitting the ground without a sound. He’s quick and agile for such a big guy. Noted.
“That’s it?” I ask. After all that, he just sets me loose?
He stands with his arms crossed over his broad chest, the dark blue tribal tattoo that snakes up his arm stretching out along his muscular arms. He wears jeans and boots with a form-fitting white T-shirt. Not sure where his colors are. Not that I wouldn’t know who he is, now that I’ve seen him. I’d heard that Grisham was good-looking, formidable, and huge. He’s got a close-cropped, thick beard, a chiseled face, and gorgeous blue eyes.
Women talk about him all the time, especially club girls who’ve made the rounds. They talk about wanting to hold onto his thick, dark hair, or lick on his extensive tattoos. More wishful thinking than anything, though, I’d guess. Interestingly, I’ve never heard of anyone who’s actually slept with him. So if he’s got club girls or an old lady, they certainly don’t talk as much as other girls do. I can tell he’s no saint, though. Probably eats pussy for breakfast.
I shake my head, trying to get back in the game. My core is a little achy thinking about it, which pisses me off royally. Who cares if he’s hot? He’s a thug who needs to let me go. He’s the enemy right now.
“Take me home,” I say, jutting out my chin.
“I don’t take orders from you, pipsqueak,” he says. “You’re here now. Might as well be useful.”
“I said take me home, you overgrown ape!” I yell.
He moves so fast, I don’t have time to process. One minute he’s a couple of feet away, and the next he’s pulling me by the ankles until he stands between my spread legs. I try to twist away but he grabs my arms and splays them to the side, his face inches from mine as he holds me down.
Our lips nearly touch. I lick mine, feeling my heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings inside my chest.
“Show some respect,” he says, low and menacing. “This is my house. My bed. My club. You don’t get to call me names.”
I thrash against him, biting his arm. He growls and flips me over, face down, his whole body aligned at my back. He smacks my ass hard.
“What are you, three years old?” he asks. “No biting. Stop acting like a child or I’ll spank you like one. What did I just say about respect?”
“Fuck you and your respect,” I say, somewhat breathless.
“Last warning, kid,” he says in my ear.
His breath is hot against my face and as much as I hate this guy, this place, this situation, I’m hyper-aware of this man’s body against mine. I wish he’d stop calling me kid and pipsqueak. I’m a grown-ass woman and it’s time someone treated me like one.
He backs off, just slightly, not quite ceding control but giving an illusion of space. “I’m going to let you loose again,” he says. “You hit me, bite me, claw me ... I’ll tie you back up, and it won’t be for fun.”
Well, if it wasn’t weird already, this strange chemistry of want and hate and fear and attraction just got weirder. Part of me wants to run for the hills. The other? Bring on the chains.
*
