Page 73 of Ridin' Free
I offered him a shy nod and held out my hand in offering. Rather than wrap his fingers around mine, he went to the door and locked it, then snatched up his rucksack. As soon as his boot hit the bottom step, he took my hand, and I led him up the stairs.
As he undressed in my bedroom, I slipped into the bathroom and twisted my hair up into a bun before I started the water. I couldn’t say what time it was when we both climbed into the shower, but under the bright light above the bathtub, the exhaustion I heard in his voice over the phone was clear as day on his face.
For the first time since he left, I wondered what he’d been up to. I wondered if he’d been successful, if it had been worth it, if it was truly finished and behind him or if whatever it was might still be weighing on him now that he was home.
I wondered, but I didn’t ask.
We didn’t linger long under the water—but it was still fifteen minutes I knew I’d never forget. He washed my body first, taking extra care between my legs, and then it was my turn. Neither of us spoke the entire time, and yet our exchange was undeniably a conversation of sorts.
Tender.
Intimate.
Perfect.
When we were finished and both of us dry, I went to my dresser to grab a night shirt. Twister grabbed me instead, pulling me toward the bed. He slipped between the sheets naked, positioning himself in the middle of my queen-sized mattress.
It had never looked smaller.
He then reached for me and tugged. I switched off my bedside lamp and allowed him to guide me directly on top of him—my legs straddling his tatted thigh, my breasts smushed against his hard, inked chest. I relaxed, resting my head against his shoulder.
“Good to be home,” he said on a sigh, placing one of his hands on my right butt cheek.
He was asleep in under five minutes, his hand still holding me possessively.
For years, I was convinced to be possessed by a man was to be owned—like an animal.
Yet, in this moment, as sleep pulled at my eyelids, my last conscious thought was how much I wished I belonged to Benson Wright.
He woke wrappedinthe softest sheets his skin had ever known, the smell of wildflowers as strong as if he was lying in a bed of them. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know the summer sun was up, the light pouring into the room coaxing him further into a state of consciousness.
He felt around the bed in search of Ali but found nothing but the coolness of her absence. He pried his eyes open and pushed himself up onto his elbows as he looked about the room. There was no sign of her—at least, not physically.
No question, he was in Ali’s world.
As he shook off the drudges of sleep, he had to remind himself he was home, in as much as his hog was parked in a suburb of Gillette.
His recon mission had been a long one in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He and Wrangler agreed any allegiance issues which could crop up, should Scorpion try to make a play, would be easily handled given the strength of their numbers and the ranked members who knew they were better off as things stood. Twister was received at each clubhouse with the respect and camaraderie that came as a result of belonging to a brotherhood spread out across three states. There’d been plenty of booze, good conversation, and wild shenanigans to keep him entertained, but it wasn’t enough. Not like it used to be.
When they hit Montana, they ran into completely unrelated trouble, delaying his trip home longer than he liked. There was a time when taking care of club shit was what he lived for—regardless of which chapter. This time, it was nothing but a pain in his ass. The worst of it was, one of their own got himself in a jam that put him in handcuffs. No doubt, his brother earned himself a few years behind bars. Twister had stuck around out of loyalty, but he wasn’t happy about it.
When he pulled into his garage and called Ali, her invitation swept away any irritation which remained after his ride. Then he walked in, she offered herself so easily, and he understood better than ever why a man would claim himself an ol’ lady.
He’d been too worn out the night before to notice much about her place. Then his Ali-Mae dropped trou, climbed onto the stairs, and called to him with that tight ass and wet pussy. From that moment on, the only thing he saw before he fell asleep was her.
Now, taking in the details of her bedroom, the memory of his woman on the stairs held more significance than he couldadequately wrap in words. He knew, him waking up in her bed made her his.
Heart, body, and soul.
She was hard on the outside because she needed to be. On the inside, she was girly as fuck. He smiled to himself, remembering all the times she gave him grief about how his house was no home. Turned out, her home was cozier than a photo in a damn catalogue.
‘My house isn’t just my home—it’s my sanctuary.’
Twister couldn’t remember the last time he stepped foot into a church, but as he tossed aside the sheets and placed his feet on the ground, he felt certain he was in sacred territory. In the dead of night, he trod around in his boots and his exhaustion. Now, he thought better of it.
After a pitstop to the bathroom, he tugged on a pair of jeans then went in search of the woman of the house. He made his way down the stairs slowly, his eyes devouring details as he went. There were touches of her in every piece of art, every trinket, every plant and book he saw scattered about, each item in its rightful place.
He approached the mouth of the kitchen and found her at the stove. Her hair was piled on top of her head, a few missed strands dangling loose down her back. Her face was void of any makeup, making her look younger with an innocence he saw in her for the first time. Her body was covered by a baggy Pink Floyd tee—the sleeves draping to her elbows, the hem barely covering her ass.
