Page 74 of Ridin’ Dirty

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“We goin’ home or what?”

She chuckled, and the smile that accompanied the sexy sound was gorgeous.

His dick jerked when he felt her hook two fingers into the top of his shirt, pulling him down closer. He followed her lead, dipping his chin toward his chest as she brought her lips to his ear and whispered, “Oh, we can go home, baby—but if you think you’ve somehow earned back the right to fuck your wife, think again.” She kissed his cheek then added, “Had fun, though,” before she ducked underneath his arm and started backing her way toward the door.

“Max, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yup. Bye, girl!”

Pistol watched it as Lyla sauntered out, more amused than he was pissed.

She played him—and she played him well.

“You deserved it. You know that, right?”

He pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly, turning to look at Max only after Lyla slipped through the exit and out into the night.

He didn’t have to dig very deep to know she was right.

When they were strangers with nothing between them but desire, there were no rules. No boundaries. Together, they found the height of freedom in their passion, and it was bliss.

Now, whatever they were was a giant fucking mess.

A mess he hadn’t planned on.

A mess he couldn’t sweep under the rug.

A mess he found himself wanting to chase.

His curiosity had him by the balls.

“You fucked up with Cherry. And, I know—” Max held up her hands, warding off a rebuttal he didn’t even have it in him to formulate, and then kept at him. “I’m no poster child. You know that better than anyone. I’m not even going to pretend to lecture you. But I stood up for you. I told her you’re a good guy, because you are. And now, it’s her I’m going to stand up for.

“I said it the other day, Lyla’s the shit. She’s loyal. And with that face and those legs, she could be a total bitch if she wanted to be—but she isn’t. You don’t know it yet, but you lucked out when you married her.”

He studied Max for a moment, the sincerity of her words mirrored in her eyes. He then twisted his neck and looked toward the door, replaying Lyla’s exit.

Truth was, he was starting to clue-in, and he suspected Maxine was right.

Now, he needed to figure out what he was going to do about it.

In spite of our exchange, after a couple hours of making eyes across the clubhouse, Pistol didn’t follow me home Thursday night. At least, not right away. I was more than half sleep when I felt him crawl into bed, and he was gone Friday morning before I woke up.

I swear, the man ran on no more than five hours of rest each night.

On the plus side, there was a bacon, egg, and cheese croissant waiting for me when I went to make my last remaining cup of coffee.

As much as I wanted the opportunity to have an uninterrupted conversation with him—maybe even over breakfast—it worked out for us to miss each other. With my closing shift at the diner leaving me a free morning, I decided it was finally time for me to hit the grocery store.

Entering the weekend with no coffee was just setting myself up for disappointment.

With still no idea what kinds of things Pistol liked to eat, outside of grilled cheese, I shopped like I normally did. The way things were going, I wasn’t sure how often we’d share a meal, anyway.

I took my time wandering through the store, appreciative of the mundane nature of the errand. I almost forgot what mundane felt like.

When I got home, I found another delivery waiting for me at the front door. There were four boxes, each filled with the storage containers I bought for the pantry and the fridge. With so much going on, I wasn’t really keeping track of my purchases and their expected delivery dates—but this one was a very pleasant surprise.