“Salty…”
“You know that’s a weird thing to say to a woman, don’t you?”
“Babe, let’s be honest. I’m forty years old. I’m a biker, and I am who I am. I’m not about to change now. I’m too fucking set in my ways. You seem so fucking sweet at times you make my teeth ache, and then all at once you throw something in my face, surprising me,” I confess.
“Still…I mean, it’s not really what a woman imagines her man will say to her. It’s not how she wants her man to think of her.”
“You’re looking at it wrong. Have you ever had caramel that’s so fucking good it melts in your mouth and makes you moan just from the taste?”
“Yeah…”
“That’s definitely you, and after eating out that sweet little pussy of yours, I know just how true that is,” I tell her, and I want to laugh when she squirms in my lap blushing. I’ve never been around a woman like her in my life. She’s soft, delicate, and untouched. In my world that’s unheard of. It brings out urges in me I’ve never experienced before. An urge to claim, to protect, and shield her from the rest of the world.
“Jax...” I love it when she says my name.
“But it’s still a one dimensional thing… but salted caramel…You get the sweet, soft and delicious taste. But, the salt brings another side out. And somehow a fantastic thing, gets even better. That’s you, Bree. Sweet, salty, flavorful, but always surprising.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
“You can call me salty anytime you want,” she says deadly serious, which for some reason makes me laugh out loud again and kiss her lips. Then I forget what we are talking about. I forget everything, but the taste of her lips and the softness of them against mine. I suck her bottom lip into my mouth teasing it with my teeth, while letting my tongue brush against her delicate skin. I’ve never been one to do a lot of kissing. There’s more important things to do with a woman. But, with Bree, I’m pretty sure I could spend days doing nothing but kissing her.
“Stop distracting me,” I joke, suddenly feeling that pain return in my chest again. Fuck, forty years and it takes this small slip of a girl to knock me flat on my ass. I situate her back on the couch, spread the afghan over her body, and place a kiss against the inside of her neck.
“Don’t leave me,” she whimpers, her fingers tangling in my hair. I disengage slowly. She doesn’t realize how hard it is to break away from her. I need to though, for my own sanity. At least for a moment.
“Where’s your cellphone?”
“What? Oh…um…in the back pocket of my jeans. Why?”
“Hold that thought,” I tell her and then walk into the bedroom to retrieve her cellphone. Holding it in my hand that guilt hits me again when I see the case; it’s all glitter and crowns. Jesus she’s too young for me…Right? Irritated for a number of reasons and wishing Bree could be older—not to mention have different family, I hand her the phone without touching her and kissing her again. Which would have been my first choice. “Call your grandfather or whatever. Make up some excuse he’ll buy as to why you won’t be home tonight,” I order her gruffly.
“Okay…is something wrong Jax?” Everything. I rub the back of my neck roughly, knowing there’s no point in telling her what’s on my mind. She’s too young to understand, and though she might be a Chrome Saint’s Princess, she doesn’t know my world…not really. I know Tucker enough to put money down on that.
“I just really need a shower and to get some sleep,” I tell her gruffly. I see the worry in her eyes, and I don’t really want that either. I’m worrying enough for both of us. “Now call. Make Daddy happy,” I order her again, turning away.
“Daddy?” she asks, so softly I might have missed it. My dick, which was starting to go back to normal practically rages to life again. If she was calling me that right now, I know there’s no way I’d be able to resist taking her right where she’s at. But she’s not. Not really. She’s questioning me as to why I’m using the name. Fuck. That’s the twenty-four-thousand-dollar question.
“What’s wrong?”
“Is that…well normal?”
“Normal?” I ask pissed off, though if I stopped to think about it, probably more at myself.
“Should we be…I mean…you’re not my father. I hated my father. I don’t want you to be my father…I just…it seems strange,” she says, flustered, her face red and her eyes avoiding mine.