After I did that, using my hand to scoop water into my mouth, I downed two ibuprofens and two acetaminophens.

To end my toilette, I put on my undies and the clean T-shirt.

I needed clothes, specifically underwear, but really everything.

I had to talk to Buck about that and what he said last night about my stuff being brought here and this being my place, my space.

I ignored the fact that I liked this place, this space and that it was Buck’s, who I also liked.

I further ignored the fact I liked to be somewhere that I wasn’t imminently going to get tossed out of.

I didn’t like Dallas Hill, but that didn’t change the fact that I genuinely owed him money and was living on his dime.

Sure, his apartments were crappy, his rent was inflated, and he treated his tenants like nuisances, even though their rent allowed him to drive a brand-spanking-new Jaguar.

Still, I didn’t like the guilt that not paying rent made me feel or the person that it made me be.

I ignored all that and thought about the fact that I didn’t know what to make of what Buck had said or what it meant. Everything seemed to be going very fast. Too fast. Too much happening. Some of it dangerous, some of it scary for other reasons.

But I needed to prioritize.

And clean panties were always top priority.

Panties and making sure Tia was safe. Then making sure Mrs. Jimenez and her children didn’t hate me after what knowing me had put her through the day before.

With these things heavy on my mind, I walked out of the bathroom being quiet so Buck could sleep, intending to go to the kitchen and make coffee.

I was two steps into the room when I heard Buck’s deep, gruff voice calling my name.

“Clara.”

His voice saying my name felt like a touch, a nice one that glided across every inch of my skin.

I stopped and turned my head to the bed.

He was on his back, sitting partially up, head and shoulders to the headboard. Covers around his waist, chest, muscles and tattoos on display, hair a sexy mess, eyes lazy, the Arizona sun shining into the room behind him.

He looked like an advertisement for the biker way of life.

Any man seeing him would want to be him.

Any woman seeing him would want to hook her star to the nearest MC if it meant she could be me, standing in his room, wearing his T-shirt after having taken a shower in his bathroom and spending the night in his bed.

And there I was, that woman.

My belly got warm.

“Morning,” I said quietly.

“Come here, baby,” he replied just as quietly.

I went there. I didn’t hesitate and I didn’t think. My feet just moved me to him, such was the power of his pull.

When I got close, he curled up slightly, grabbed my wrist and gently tugged so I was sitting on the bed by his hip. He released my wrist, settled back, and his fingers curled around the skin on my thigh, warm and strong.

“How you feelin’?” he asked.

“I’ve been better,” I answered honestly.

His eyes moved over my face.

“Swelling’s gone down,” he observed, and I nodded. “Bruising’s come up,” he carried on, and I nodded again.

He curled to sitting, his hand moving to my belly and around to rest on my waist as his torso got close.

“We need to get you some breakfast and pills,” he told me.

“I took a cocktail of ibuprofen and acetaminophen,” I replied. “We’ll see if that helps. Those pills knock me out.”

“However you wanna play it, Toots,” he muttered, his eyes dropping to my mouth.

I felt my belly warm again when they did, and it got warmer when he leaned in to brush his lips against mine.

I liked him doing that and how he did it, light, this rough man touching me gently, his beard tickling.

I liked it so much, my hand lifted to rest on his chest, and when it did, he brushed his mouth against mine again.

I slid my hand up his chest to curl around the base of his neck and he did another lip brush. My body leaned in closer and he did a lip touch, no brush this time, and I felt the tip of his tongue against my lips.

I liked that so much, my body leaned even closer, my lips parted, and my head tilted. His slanted the other way and then his tongue was in my mouth.

God, I’d forgotten how good he tasted. Even in the morning.

Amazing.

I slid my hand around and up, fingers in his hair. I wrapped my other arm around him, pressed my soft chest to his hard one and my tongue tangled with his as a low moan glided up my throat and into his mouth.

The minute it left my throat and moved down his, Buck’s arms locked around me and pulled me closer as he took the kiss deeper. My arms tightened, the kiss deepened further, and his arms tightened too, powerfully as he growled.

I liked that growl, the taste of him, his arms around me.

I liked it so much the pain seemed to come from nowhere, not only in my ribs but also from the cut on my mouth.

I whimpered involuntarily, pulling a hint away.

“Fuck,” I heard him mutter.

I opened my eyes as he loosened his arms, but he didn’t let me go.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

“Don’t be, baby,” he whispered back, the fingers of one of his hands stroking the small of my back over the T-shirt. “I didn’t intend it to get heated.”

He released me with his other arm so he could cup my jaw then his thumb glided along my lower lip.

I liked that too.

“You just taste good,” he finished on a murmur, his gaze going back to my mouth.

It must be said, I liked that too, his thumb at my lip, what he said, the way he said it and his eyes on my mouth.

“Thanks,” I said softly.

His gaze came back to mine, and when it did, his eyes were smiling.

His arm around me loosened more, his hand at my jaw moving back around me, and he pulled away a bit but didn’t let me go. I left one arm around him but took my hand from his hair and trailed it down his chest.

My heart was still beating fast from his kiss, my breathing slightly escalated, and my belly still felt warm, so I took that moment in Buck’s arms to recover before leaving him and making coffee. I was bruised and beaten, I didn’t need to get up and topple over because my knees were weak.

Even so, I felt awkward, busted up and sitting on the side of his bed, barely knowing him and not only depending on him but also easily slipping into a make out session with him.

This wasn’t me, none of it.

Not that I knew who me was. I just knew that wasn’t it.

Or it didn’t used to be.

I dropped my eyes to where my hand was on his chest and saw through my fingers the tattooed Gear over his heart.

Without me telling it to do so, my forefinger traced the curved edge of the G in “Gear.”

“Locke,” I heard him mutter, and I stopped tracing and lifted my head again.

“Sorry?” I asked.

“My boy, Locke,” he answered, and I blinked at him.

“Your boy?”

“Yeah, Toots, my boy,” he replied, his gaze holding mine. “Gear is his nickname. Because he’s a gearhead. From the time he could even minimally cogitate, he was takin’ shit apart and tryin’ to piece it together. Swear to fuck, I had Big Wheel parts and Tonka toy pieces all over my house for years. Even when he started to get it, and be able to put shit back together, I still had bits and parts, screws and spokes and anything you can think of all over, because the more he figured out, the more he wanted to learn.”