Page 33 of Rocky Top

Damn, I was sweaty and hard. Reaching down, I tugged my dick free and stroked while I thought of bending the blonde to my will. Spreading her thighs wide and tasting her honeysuckle pussy.

Beneath the desire lurked a gnawing fear. The wolf inside me howled to claim her, to mark her as mine in the most primal way. Still, the implications of that bore down on me. Marking her would bind us irrevocably, intertwining our souls and destinies. But it would also change her, thrusting her into a world she might not be ready for, a world filled with darkness, danger, and instincts that could consume her.

Tomorrow, I’d take her up in the sky.

But the part of me buried deepest, the wolf?

He already wanted to run.

And I was startin’ to think he didn’t want to run alone anymore.

Chapter 7

Birdie

The low rumble of a Harley shook my front porch just as I was pouring coffee. I froze, staring through the window like a raccoon caught in the glow of porch lights.

Was he serious?

I tiptoed over and peeked through the curtain.

Yup. Serious as sin and twice as tempting.

Rocky sat there on that big ol’ black beast of a Harley, boots planted wide, thick arms crossed over his chest like he had all the time in the world. His cut flapped in the morning breeze, and his eyes, those glacier-blue eyes, were unfortunately shaded behind mirrored sunglasses. He looked like trouble wrapped in leather, and I’d never wanted to unwrap trouble more in my life.

My phone buzzed with a text from him.

Rocky:You up? I’m outside. Don’t need to dress fancy. Just grab your laptop. I’m takin’ you to work with me.

I blinked at the screen, then at him.

Work?

I stepped onto the porch in my pink robe, clutching my coffee like a lifeline. “Rocky, you are aware it’s 8 a.m., right?”

He pulled off his sunglasses, tucking them into his collar. “Sun’s up. World’s turnin’. Surprise, Sunshine, today’s your lucky day.”

I stared at him. “You’re telling me this is... what? Take your girlfriend to work day?”

He grinned. “Exactly that.”

“Are you even allowed to do that?”

“I’m the boss when it comes to flyin’ tourists up over the Smokies. I make my own damn schedule. Now get dressed. This ain’t a PJs-on-Zoom kinda job.”

Oh. Right. Helicopter pilot. Big, rugged, tattoos-for-dayspilot.

“Lemme get dressed,” I said, turning back toward the house. “And I mean, like,actuallydressed.”

“Take your time,” he called after me. “Just not too much, I charge by the hour.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was back on the porch in jeans, a flowy button-up, my laptop bag over my shoulder, and my signature red sunglasses perched on my head. My nails were pink. My lips were glossed. I may have been climbing on the back of a motorcycle, but damn if I wasn’t doing it in style.

Rocky handed me a helmet.

“Does this clash with my vibe?” I teased, pulling it on.

“You’re a vibe all on your own,” he said, real low, helping me fasten the chin strap.

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