Read Wanting It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 3) for Free Online Page B

safe.
    But by the time six o’clock rolls around I’m hot and bitter again, and irritated by a group of frat boys who are taking their sweet time picking out their mini-kegs. One of them is hanging by the bar, sampling his way through an ale flight and flirting with me. He’s not good at it, and when he comments on the flavors he comes off really fucking patronizing, as if it never occurs to him that the petite girl behind the counter isn’t just some monkey trained to sell beer but might actually be the one running this whole show.
    He’s asking me what time I close up shop when I hear the distinctive rumble of a Harley-Davidson coming up the drive. I’m feeling just mean enough to enjoy the frat boys’ unease as Saxon comes in, a big biker with his “President” patch beneath his club tag and road name. The Wolf.
    The big bad fucking wolf, boys. I don’t know if they can read the other patches. There aren’t a lot of them. Unlike some bikers who cover the front of their kuttes with anything that takes their fancy in addition to the patches they’ve earned, Saxon’s is pretty clear, which tells me that the ones he does wear mean a lot more to him. The skull and crossbones is for Timothy Reichmann. Maybe Saxon hadn’t intended to kill him with that boot to the head, but he had, and he obviously doesn’t regret it. He wears that patch just below his one-percent diamond. A big FTW decorates the bottom left side of his vest.
    Fuck the world. That’s my favorite one. And it’s the way I feel right now.
    His dark blue eyes catch mine and it’s like the whole day just comes back over me all at once. Cold. Hot. Need.
    I don’t want him to see the hurt that joins it and turn my attention back to the guy sampling the ales. He’s quiet now, and I’m grateful that Saxon’s presence seems to be hurrying them all along, even though he hasn’t done anything but look around the store a bit. His first time here. While the frat boys are filling out the keg deposit form, I draw him a cold one. He offers a gravelly thanks when I give him the pint, and his gaze runs to my toes before lifting to my face. God. A man doesn’t need to flirt when he looks at a woman the way Saxon is looking at me.
    He hasn’t seen me in clothes like this before, either, I realize. It’s possible that he hasn’t seen so much of my legs since the day Reichmann attacked me. Obviously he likes what he sees.
    Maybe he’s already thinking they’re his. Two legs, included as part of the package deal.
    Renewed anger adds to the building heat. I return to the counter and finish ringing up the sale, throwing in a few complimentary T-shirts because no matter how irritating college boys can be, if they’re walking around wearing my logo it’s free advertising. The bell over the door chimes as they leave. I stay at the counter, closing out the register, acutely aware of every step that brings Saxon closer.
    Carefully, he sets his pint on the bar. He’s  barely drunk any of it. “You talk to your dad?”
    “I did.” It’s sharp. I don’t care. I’m burning with temper and fanning the flames, because if I don’t only the hurt will be left. “It sounds like you both have it all worked out.”
    He’s quiet for a second. “Only if you want it.”
    “What I want?” I yank out the cash drawer and slam the register closed before heading to the bar. Glass clatters as I dump his pint and shove the glass into the dishwasher. “You can have the clubhouse, the cabins on the property. We’ll work out a lease.”
    His throat works. He looks away from me and there’s something I can’t read in his face. Not just his usual stoicism, though there’s that. The stone in his expression is harder than ever, but there’s a crack through it in the tightening of his jaw and the flattening of his gaze. “If that’s what you want.”
    “It is. And you’ll pay me every month in my bed.”
    All at once his eyes are back on me, narrowed and dangerous.