Page 6 of Devil's Haunting
That’s what he said his name is. I do have some questions, though. Why is he called Hammer? Who calls him by his nickname? Why can’t I?
It feels big, momentous almost, that he wants me to call him Tripp. I just have no idea why.
Nothing about this makes sense.
Not the way my body reacts to him. Not the way I want to press against him. Not the way I desperately want his calloused hands to run all over my body.
Tripp.
I can’t help but look him over again. He’s tall, much taller than he has any right to be, at least 6’3”. As if his height isn’t enough, his hair is cut short which accentuates his beard covered jawline, the pout of his lips, and the way his dark eyes are boring into me.
Fuck me, and the man is covered in tattoos. The skin from the edge of his shirtsleeves down to the tops of his hands are covered. They also peek up out of his shirt and cover his neck. It makes me wonder just how much of him is without ink.
If I had to hazard a guess, there probably aren’t a lot of places where I wouldn’t find a tattoo. Talk about a game I would love to play.
With my tongue.
And my lips.
His kissable lips tug up into a smirk as I give him just as much sass as I can muster up while my pussy floods with arousal and my nipples harden in a way that looks like a fucking invitation. Damn it. Nothing about my reaction to him says step back or stay away.
But I shouldn’t be interested. This is the guy I’m most likely going to hire to do the work on the house and mixing business with pleasure is never a good idea.
Even though I know there would be far more pleasure than I’d be able to handle.
“Why can’t I call you Hammer?” I scrunch my face up a little before I can’t help but ask, “And what kind of nickname is that?”
Tripp takes a step closer, the distance between us disappearing to the point where one good, deep breath would have our chests brushing. Am I tempted to do it? You better fucking believe it.
He tilts his head slightly while looking down at me. It makes me feel like I’m prey and the predator has locked onto me. I don’t exactly hate the feeling.
Does it make me want to run? A little, but only because I know I’d be caught. Quickly. By Tripp.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
My eyebrows shoot up as my eyes roam over his face. What the fuck is he talking about? What don’t I know?
When I don’t say anything, a genuine smile tips up his lips, and my heart starts to hammer in my chest. He looks fucking gorgeous when he smiles which is not something I’ve ever thought about a man before.
Strange.
“Devil’s Construction?” He questions me and looks at me like he’s waiting for some sort of connection to magically be made in my mind.
He’s shit out of luck because I have no fucking idea what he’s talking about. He gives one decisive nod before pulling up one arm of his shirt and exposing a tattoo of a devil’s skull hovering above some sort of mechanical part and the words ‘Devil’s Saints Motorcycle Club’ underneath it.
“I’m a patched brother in the New Orleans Chapter of the Devil’s Saints Motorcycle Club. The club owns the construction business as well as other businesses throughout town. We do a lot of good in our city, and it is ours. While we do a lot of good,” when he pauses my gaze comes up to meet his, “but people know not to fuck with us and ours.”
“A motorcycle club?” The question slips from my lips dumbly and he nods in response. I’m not sure why this revelation was the last thing I was expecting, but as I really look at the man in front of me, it makes perfect sense. “Okay?”
Tripp’s smile grows on his face and the sight of it sends a shiver down my spine. “My road name is Hammer,” he says as if his words explain anything. “Everyone uses it, but there is one person who will never call me by my road name. That’s the woman who will wear my property patch and has a place on the back of my bike—my Old Lady.”
My face scrunches up, and I parrot, “Old Lady?”
Tripp’s hand comes up and the tips of his calloused fingers brush against my cheek in a touch so light that I’m not entirely sure I’m feeling it or not. It sends a feeling through me I’m notused to and have never really felt before—a sense of belonging and of being seen.
“It’s a term filled with importance in my world. It’s the biker’s ride or die. The woman who can handle the weight of the leather we wear and the roughness of the world we occupy. Being claimed as an Old Lady is important in my world, it’s akin to being married and recognized in the same way without the paper or the ring.”
“Then you don’t get married in your world?” The question slips out before I can stop it; I should not be asking about marriage considering I just met this guy.
