Page 10 of Reaper & the Lioness
I chuckled, releasing her wrists but keeping her pinned against the wall with my body, my arms caging around her. “Oh, I’ll make my move. But not here. Not now. When I do, you’ll be begging for it.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” she breathed. She brushed her hands across my shoulders before moving them down my chest.
The tension between us crackled, charged with a dangerous cocktail of attraction and defiance. I should walk away, but something about this woman drew me in like a moth to a flame. Or maybe like a fly to a black widow’s web.
I leaned in, lowering a hand to wrap it softly around her throat to pull her closer. Her lips parted slightly, and I could feel the warmth of her breath.
I sensed a savage edge beneath her polished, corporate persona. A dark side she kept hidden away. This woman was lethal, but there was a softness between her sharp teeth and claws. She drew me into her deadly web, but damn it all to hell. I wanted to kiss her anyway.
As our lips were about to meet, Thane shattered the moment, his thundering voice echoing down the hallway.
“Reaper! We need to handle the Ranger situation. Now.”
I shifted back, but my eyes remained locked on Eva’s. She deftly stepped away and moved around me, smoothing her clothes with practiced ease.
The transformation happened instantly. She glanced toward Thane, who had already walked away, not caring to see what woman had captured my attention. She ran a hand through her long hair and inhaled a steady breath. The woman who’d just been pressed against me, all heat and challenge, shifted back to the cool, collected professional I’d first seen in Linc’s file.
“Goodnight, Reaper,” she said as she sauntered past me, the sway of her hips a deliberate taunt.
As I watched her disappear around the corner, it became clear I was in trouble.
Eva fucking Harland was about to become my own personal hell.
Chapter Five
The cool night air hit my flushed skin as I drove home with the windows down.
The Mavericks weren’t what I’d expected. Sure, they exuded that tough biker image, but beneath the leather and ink, I’d met business owners, family men, and community members. It was a welcome shift from the soulless weasels, bloodthirsty hyenas, and political vultures I’d dealt with in D.C. Throughout the evening, I’d built connections and walked away with a few solid leads on stories to develop.
I’d also crossed a line in the clubhouse. Reaper was a client, which meant he was off limits. No matter how much replaying our encounter in the hallway sent shivers down my spine.
His intensity both thrilled and unnerved me. I’d dealt with powerful men before, but Reaper was different. He didn’t hide behind a sharp suit or boardroom bravado. He didn’t bother with masks or manners. Reaper personified raw, untamed power. He embodied the fears whispered about outlaw bikers—making him intoxicating and achingly tempting. God, whatwas it about bad boys and beasts that caused women to lose all common sense?
Pulling into my driveway, I gripped the steering wheel tighter, forcing myself to focus, and drew a deep breath. I couldn’t afford to blur the lines between professional and personal. I had to remind myself why I was here: to rebuild my life and escape the shadows that had chased me from D.C.
As I braced myself for the whirlwind of puppy energy waiting on the other side of the door, I made a silent vow. I would give this project my all, pouring every ounce of my skill and determination into it. And I would maintain my professional boundaries, especially with Reaper—no matter how my skin tingled at his touch or how my heart raced when I looked into his dark eyes. I couldn’t risk compromising the contract.
The Lone Star Mavericks Motorcycle Club was now my client, and I had a job to do.
The sun beat mercilessly as I pulled into Jack’s Car Repair, the gravel crunching under my Jeep’s tires. Thane’s quick green light on my ideas represented another small victory for my growing PR business.
Even better, the reporter responded to my pitch within a day, practically salivating at the chance to cover a story associated with the boycott. The news outlets were starved for the kind of gritty, humanized narratives I planned to package for them—even if they featured stories showing only a carefully orchestrated side.
Hawk’s excited bark pierced the air as we stepped out, his tail wagging at the sight of the lanky high schoolers millingabout outside the repair shop. I couldn’t help but smile at his infectious enthusiasm.
Jack rolled out from under a red 1950s Ford truck, his face a mix of grease and apprehension.
“Hey, Jack.”
His hands twisted together, and he cleared his throat twice. He smiled at me, clearly nervous about today’s interview. I’d expected as much; he’d only agreed because his president insisted.
“It’s good to see you. You brought a friend.” He wiped the grease from his hands on a stained red rag and smiled at the wiggling pup in my arms.
“This is Hawk. He’s my foster puppy. I’m trying to expose him to more people and teach him some manners.”
Jack relaxed as he ruffled Hawk’s ears, earning an excited nip. The tension in his shoulders eased, and I made a mental note: Hawk proved an excellent icebreaker. I lowered the puppy to the ground and hooked the leash around a belt loop to keep him anchored nearby.
“The reporter will be here in about an hour. I wanted to run through a few things with you first.”
