Sometimes you break my heart, Player. There was a time your mother must have cherished you. You don’t want to remember because it hurts too much.
His entire body flinched. Shuddered at the idea of even allowing that thought into his head. How did she get to be so damned smart? She was right. He refused to think about his mother. Not when he first was taken to what all members of the Torpedo Ink club referred to as the dungeon and not now. He rubbed his hand over hers and kicked their speed up a notch.
Her arms tightened around him. He felt the possession in her. The slow, smoldering burn. The ache was there for both of them. He knew, for him, it would never go away. Just looking at Zyah would put it there for him. Thinking of her could do it, but having her riding down the highway with him was going to ignite a blaze that rivaled anything he’d known.
She nuzzled her chin against his back. Show me your house. Where you live. You made me a promise if I came with you tonight.
His cock jerked hard. Every cell in his body was suddenly alive, aware. There was no way to miss the unashamed invitation in her voice. The way her tone slid along the walls of his mind like a temptress. His woman seducing him. She didn’t have to work very hard.
I did make you a promise, didn’t I? I meant every fuckin’ word. Deliberately, he took one of her hands and moved it to the very front of his jeans, curling her palm over the thick monster of his cock. He held his hand over hers as he guided the Harley toward Caspar, finding the way toward his home. He ached for her in every way possible. If she came home with him, they would be alone. They would have a night together. She would need to work the next day, but he would have her alone, just like their first night. He could work with that. Neither one of them was going to get much sleep.
The house he’d bought suited him perfectly. He hoped Zyah would love it the way he did. It was out a little farther from the ocean than some of the other homes. He wanted to be closer to the trees. The house sat in the middle of three acres, which gave him privacy from neighbors, something important to him. He drove straight up the private drive, through the wealth of flowering trees and shrubs, to the sprawling single-story home. Every time he saw it, he was glad he’d bought it.
Aside from the main house, there was a two-car attached garage as well as an extremely enormous workshop with three garage bays, something he’d wanted, since he was always working with wood. Brick patios, a firepit, a greenhouse, fenced gardens and even a small fruit orchard had really sold him on the place. The chicken coop was empty at the moment, but someday he knew he would get chickens. He’d always wanted to have them. He didn’t want to think too hard about his reasons why, afraid that might have something to do with his mother.
Player helped Zyah off the bike as the motion lights automatically came on around the house. He slowly got off, watching her as she wandered around the outside, looking at the things he thought were particularly beautiful in the front of his home. He loved plants. The colors and textures of them. The subtle differences in their leaves and structures even within the same varieties. Apparently, she did too, because she bent over one of his favorites, a lacy fern he’d planted near the front entryway.
She turned back to him as he pulled off his gloves and held out his hand to her. “Come in and see the inside.” He couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice. He knew most of the other members of Torpedo Ink had problems sleeping away from one another, a byproduct of the torture and rape of their childhood. They wanted eyes on one another. But Player always worried that he would somehow harm the others. He wanted distance from them in order to keep them safe.
Because he was alone so much, he took pride in his home and worked at making it as nice as he could. The band members came often to jam there, or practice. They wrote music and created songs. He had the workshop so they could build cabinets and furniture. Inside the house were two kitchens, a chef’s dream, allowing him to cook for the others or use the outside brick oven to feed them when they were over.
They took their boots off at the door, leaving them at the bench where he always left them. He had little places built in at the doorways for his shoes. He preferred to be barefoot in his house, to feel the wood under his feet. Zyah didn’t object, removing her boots and socks as well. He appreciated it. His fellow Torpedo Ink members gave him a bad time about it and said he was a pain, but they usually removed their dirty boots before entering his home.