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dividing the two areas, she guessed at one time it had been two rooms. There was another door off to the side near the bed that led to a roomy bathroom.
    Besides a pair of socks near the bed and a towel thrown in the corner, the area was cleaner than most bachelor pads. There were no drug paraphernalia or pictures of naked girls straddling bikes, and no cement blocks to hold up furniture. It was a more cared for and mature version of downstairs.
    She turned around and almost bumped into his chest. He jumped back as if she had tried to contaminate him. She felt a little hurt by the gesture until she noticed his face had a paleness around his lips. Was he going to be sick? What was going on with him?
    “Are you all right?” she asked.
    “I’ll sleep in a recliner. Won’t be the first time.” He strolled to the pinball machine and leaned on it, clacking the paddles, ignoring her. Or was he trying to pull himself together?
    Heart beating fast, she decided to ignore his odd behavior. She walked over to the matching recliners. They each were large and deep enough for two. Pressing on the soft brown leather, she found the stuffing was thick enough to be a feather mattress. They would be as comfortable to sleep in. Some of her guilt at the thought of taking his bed eased away.
    But she couldn’t help asking, “Don’t you have a spare guest room? I noticed a few other doors in the hallway.”
    Maybe she was being silly, but she asked about another room for a good reason. It was as much to keep her from temptation as to keep him away. Those broad shoulders appealed to her too much.
    “You’re sleeping here, and I don’t want to hear another fucking word about it,” he said, still facing the pinball machine. Obviously, his patience had come to an end.
    Her eyebrows lifted. A few snappy comments zipped through her mind, but she saw no purpose in angering him further.
    As if he regretted his sharpness, he turned to face her and said in a soft voice, “I’ll be back in about thirty minutes. Don’t worry about a light. I know my way to the recliners in the dark.”
    Then he was gone.
    —
    Storm carefully closed the door behind him and stalked down the hallway but hesitated at the top of the stairs.
    What the hell just happened? He not only handed over his room, but his bed to the girl. He glanced back, imagining her stripping and getting ready for bed.
    Girl. That was right. He needed to think of her as a girl, not woman. Hell for that matter, she wasn’t his usual type. He liked his women short and curvy with a big ass and tits. He had to admit, having her small firm breasts and beaded nipples pressed to his back had driven him crazy. He never let anyone touch him, especially his back, but those small mounds felt good.
    What was he thinking of bringing her to the clubhouse? To his bedroom? Sure, the Thirty-Second ass-wipes would be searching for her, and there was no way he would allow them to touch her. No woman deserved to be treated like they planned.
    Sliding his hands into his hair, he pulled, barely holding back the scream he wanted…no…needed to release. With a shake, he regained his composure. Then he loped down the steps and headed toward the front door.
    “Hey, boss! Where’re you going?”
    Wolf stood at the bar with a half empty bottle of beer to his mouth.
    “Getting some air.” He jerked the door open and headed toward his bike. That was one thing he couldn’t get used to, being the chapter president everyone wanted to know where he was twenty-four-seven. He’d had enough of that in prison.
    When he was paroled six months ago, he’d come back to the club as a patched member. His award for taking one for the club and going to prison. The clubhouse was his home away from home. Hell, the only place he’d almost felt like he belonged.
    The club’s national president, also called the Skull, Mitch “Speed” Crane, had been his foster father and that helped to move him into position as chapter