“That’s a kickass name too.”

“Yeah. Tab and Shy named their boy after him.”

“Sweet,” I whispered.

But secretly, I was kinda ticked they got to it first.

“Though everyone calls him Playboy,” he shared.

That was surprising.

“How old is he?”

“He’s a baby, but he’s still a flirt.”

I smiled at him and said, “You boys are into your nicknames.”

“Biker names. Street names.” He gathered me closer. “Old lady names.”

“Tyra is Cherry,” I told him what he knew.

“To the men. Dad calls her Red.”

It wasn’t original.

But it was cool.

“I’m not a Punk,” I announced.

“Babe, don’t fight it. It lands on you, no getting rid of it. Speck’s been trying to get us to call him Doomsday for years now, and that shit is never gonna happen.”

I giggled. “Doomsday?”

He smiled at me. “Yep.”

“How’d he get the name Speck?”

Rush shut up.

Oo, this was going to be good.

“How’d he get that name, Rush?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

“I do.”

“Trust me.”

I pushed into him until he fell to his back and I was lying down his side, my face in his. “Tell me.”

He gave in.

I knew he would.

Easy.

“He was a recruit, goin’ at a biker bunny on the couch in the Compound. Hound walked in, surprised him. He pulled out and kinda came, but didn’t, shooting a little on her shirt. Wasn’t there. Not in the know about what his normal wad is. Don’t wanna know. But Hound was there. And he became Speck.”

I giggled more.

“So don’t bitch about Punk. At least you’re not Speck.” He paused. “Or Spunk,” he finished.

Gulk.

“Totally not gonna bitch about Punk after that,” I told him.

His hands moved over my ass, his eyes doing the same over my face, and he murmured, “Things get kinda wild with us, babe.”

“This is not a surprise, babe,” I replied.

“You gotta roll with it.”

“I’m down with that.”

His gaze kept roaming my face.

Then he turned me and covered me.

“I’m not gonna fuck you on the couch in the Compound,” he promised.

“Thanks for that,” I teased.

“Might feel you up.”

I grinned up in his handsome face as I moved my hands on his warm skin.

Thus I caught his beautiful eyes going lazy.

“Gonna eat you now, though,” he told me.

My hands stopped moving as I trembled beneath him.

He touched his mouth to mine then he slid down my body.

It was Rush who spread my legs.

But I didn’t fight him.

I had both hands flat to the headboard over my head, pushing my body down rhythmically, my ass cradled in the V of Rush’s thighs, my focus hazy, my eyes on him as he knelt between my legs, thrusting inside.

His eyes were on me, all over me, both hands gripping my hips, yanking me into his cock.

“You ready to get busy, sweetheart?” he crooned.

This wasn’t getting busy?

“Yeah,” I breathed.

I gasped as he lifted up to just his knees, taking my hips with him.

He powered in harder, holding me to take his drives, dropping his head to watch me do it.

God, that was hot.

“Sweet pussy,” he murmured.

Hot.

“Rush,” I whimpered, pushing harder into the headboard to get more.

His eyes came to mine. “Clit, Rebel.”

I did as bid, moving one hand to roll my finger on my clit.

Awesome.

My neck bent back and my knees lifted.

“Yeah, baby,” he grunted.

I rolled into his quickening thrusts.

His hands went behind my knees, holding them high, spreading them wider.

My head straightened and my gaze caught his.

“Rush,” I whispered.

His attention locked on my face.

And he fucked me.

Hard.

My back arched, my hand between my legs flew behind me, slamming into the headboard. I flattened it and pounded into him, my lips parting and my eyes closing as it overtook me.

“You down?” he asked thickly as I started slowly skidding out of my climax.

My eyelids fluttered.

“Rebel, you down?”

I licked my lips.

“Babe, look at me.”

I fought to focus on him.

“Rebel, watch me fuckin’ you,” he growled.

I focused on him.

God.

His face dark. His eyes shadowed. The muscles in his chest and biceps bunching. His abs and hips surging with a rhythmic beauty that was power and maleness and grace all rolled into one.

Okay, maybe I was beginning to understand the concept of porn.

“You’re beautiful,” I whispered.

“Baby, you got the wrong view,” he returned roughly.

Nice response.

“Fuck me,” I urged, even if my body was already bouncing, taking his thrusts.

He did as I urged, but harder.

I slid my hand back between my legs and with the tips of my fingers felt in another way him taking me.

We felt great.

“Fuck me, Rush.”

He let my legs go, bent over me, gathered me in is arms, lifted me to him, then pounded me down as he drove up, grunting in my neck where he’d buried his face.

I rounded him with my legs at his hips, my arms at his shoulders, and held on for the ride.

His hand fisted in my hair as he ground me into his cock and tagged my earlobe in his teeth before he let it go and groaned heavily in my ear.

I clutched him with everything I had as his hips twitched up into mine a few times before he settled back on his calves and held me to him, still connected.

His lips moved on my neck, but I did nothing, just breathed him in, his tang, the hint of leather, and held him back, tight to me.

He eventually pulled his head away and I took my cue, giving him my mouth.

He kissed me, deep and long, before he broke it.

“Get rid of this condom, be right back,” he whispered.

“Okay,” I whispered back.

He touched his mouth to mine again before he pulled me off him, set me gently in bed, then exited it and walked to the bathroom.

I watched.

I stretched after he disappeared.

And I smiled when he came back.

“Green, you.”

“Red. So . . . coffee.”

“Cream, no sugar. You.”

“Black, no sugar. Food.”

“Tacos. You.”

“My dad’s pancakes. Alternate, steak. Now movies.”

“Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. You.”

“The Way of the Gun.”

Good choice.

“Song,” he said.

“Vintage, ‘Life in the Fast Lane.’ Not as vintage, ‘Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town.’ Somewhat recent, ‘White Trash Millionaire.’”

“Babe.” He grinned. “Black Stone Cherry?”

I grinned back and said, “You.”

“Vintage, ‘Midnight Rider.’ Totally bad but still good, ‘Party Hard.’ Underrated, ‘Play Guitar.’ Inspired, ‘Bittersweet Symphony.’ Love song, ‘Where Dirt and Water Collide.’”

“The White Buffalo,” I whispered.

“‘Wish It Was True.’”

“‘The Observatory.’”

“‘I Got You.’”

We stared at each other through the shadows cut by moonlight, finding ourselves connecting in new ways that were not as exciting as giving each other orgasms, but they were just as important.

“Vacation,” he said.

“Beach. You.”

“Long stretch of road, my girl on the back of my bike.”

How did that sound better than a beach?

“Mountains or city?” he asked.

“Mountains. You.”

“Totally. Girl name,” he said.

That came as a surprise.