Gypsy Bastards MC, 2
Do second chances exist?
Storm has been in love with Colin “Pope” O’Brien since she was thirteen but it wasn’t meant to be. Years later, the opportunity to be together presents itself—but it's stolen away in the blink of an eye.
After a near-death experience, Pope decides to bear his heart to Storm and finally claim the woman he loves. But it just doesn’t seem in to be in the cards for them. Patience isn’t his strong suit, but forcing his way in will only push Storm further away.
Secrets, lies, and an outside threat could keep them apart. Is the timing any better this time around? Is love enough or will there always be something keeping them apart?
Be Warned: spanking
She takes a deep breath and nods. She steps away from me but takes my hand as she leads me to her bedroom. Stopping at the foot of her bed, she turns to face me again. Slowly, like she isn’t sure of what she’s doing, she raises her hands to my shoulders and starts to work my cut off. When she gets it past my arms, she folds it with care and places it on the stool in front of her vanity. Returning to me, she lifts the hem of my t-shirt to remove it. I don’t speak, don’t tell her to take off her clothes the way I want to. She needs to be in control at this moment and this is me giving that to her.
She doesn’t show the same care for my clothes as she did my cut, instead, tossing my shirt to the floor. As she stares at me, her breathing accelerates and she touches my bare skin. Her nails run over my tattoos and then my abs before she moves around me. She touches the tattoo on my back and plants a kiss between my shoulder blades. I always knew Storm loved the club, but her reverence to my cut and the tattoo of our patch on my back almost unmans me. It’s enough to nearly bring me to my knees.
She turns me around so I’m yet again facing her. Pushing, she walks me back toward the bed where I wait on the edge. She has a plan and I’m smart enough to know not to interfere. Taking three steps back, she smiles at me, but it’s not the smile I’m used to. Instead of the self-assured Storm I have always known, the woman in front of me is almost shy.
“Tell me what you want.”
The words leave her on a breath, no louder than a whisper. She’s dressed in jean shorts and a black halter neck top. She isn’t wearing the shoes from earlier, having kicked them off somewhere along the way.
“Let me see you. Show me what is mine from today on out.”