Cole: The Wounded Sons, Leah Sharelle [the reading list .TXT] 📗

up my bag and starting to heft it up onto my shoulder when Cole moved forward and took it off me.

“You packed light, good girl,” he praised, testing the weight of my bag by hanging it from one long finger. My core clenched at his deep voice and hearing him say good girl to me. It should disgust me, but for some indiscernible reason, I kind of liked it. He’d said it last night, too, sending an embarrassing gush from my channel to coat his fingers.

My god, I am sick. Sick and twisted and destined to burn in hell for all eternity.

“Temptress, you ready to go?” Cole asked, staring down at my thighs, his eyes dark with heat as they narrowed in, seeing something that interested him.

“Psst, Oaks,” Thayer whispered, not quietly. “You are rubbing your thighs together like a wanton hussy,” she informed me in her own unique way.

“Not that I blame you; I would be rubbing one out if a sexy, hot soldier called me a good girl too.”

“Oi,” I muttered, reaching out to hug Thayer, then accepted Cole’s outstretched hand.

“Stay here this weekend, Thay, okay?”

“Will do, thanks,” Thayer answered easily, but I saw the relief that swept over her face. Her home life was anything but comfortable or safe, and more often than not, she bunked here with me. Not moving in, rather leaving my house as a sanctuary when her limits were reached at home.

Cole stilled, staring at Thayer intently, his black eyes seeing what no one else could, without knowing her. Squeezing his hand twice, I tried to signal that he should leave it; it was like I told him at the Bar and Grill—Thayer’s story was hers, and if she wants to share, she would.

After another round of goodbyes to my bestie, I followed Cole through my small house and outside to face his favourite mode of transport.

I was nervous, nearly shitting myself about getting on the back of the monster beast and putting my life in the hands of another person–no matter how amazing that person was at giving me orgasms.

“You squeezing the shit out of my hand because you can’t wait to have me all weekend or for another reason, Temptress?” Cole asked me without missing a step.

“I have seen those shows on TV about car and bike crashes, Cole, and I don’t want to die in a fiery crash or have my skin grated off,” I blurted out, coming to a halt at the bike feeling anxious.

“Baby, we aren’t going to crash,” Cole chuckled as he strapped my bag on top of his on the back fender with a stretchy strap.

“How can you be sure, kangaroos jump out on the road all the time, Rambo, then there are pot-holes, falling trees, as well as sleep-deprived truck drivers.”

Quickly walking around the bike, Cole stepped up to me, his muscle-riddled chest pushing into me as he used two fingers to lift my chin up to look him in the face. It didn’t escape my attention that Cole did this to me a lot. Eye contact seemingly very important to him for some reason.

“The eyes don’t lie, baby,” Cole murmured with a lopsided grin, “that’s what you are thinking, isn’t it? Why I insist on having your eyes?”

“H—how do you know that?” I stammered, half impressed with his observation skills and half annoyed I was so transparent.

Pressing his lips to my shocked open mouth, Cole grunted a laugh.

“Without going into too much detail, baby, it’s a skill that has kept many men alive, including me. Facial ticks, eye movement, the pulse at the base of the throat, all of them are a signature of a person and a lead to what they are thinking. Everyone has a sixth sense; mine is just more refined, and my attention to detail.”

“Because of your mum?” I guessed, sliding my hands up his broad chest to rest them on his shoulders. Cole was tall, but not so much I couldn’t reach the places on his body I wanted to touch. Standing at five foot eight, I was taller than the average chick my age. And the reason my weight loss looked so bad, short is better for an anorexic.

“Initially, yes, but I honed my skills over the years to what they are today. Now,” Cole patted my butt and turned us to look at the bike.

“If you are really dead set against taking the bike, I can bolt back to the Club and swap it for my car, totally your call, baby,” Cole suggested easily without any judgement or annoyance. A fuzzy and warm feeling spread through me; Cole’s sweet, caring nature was endearing. It cemented the agreement we made together to stay off the radar from his family.

He cared. Deeply. I didn’t have to possess his super spidey skills to recognise that.

Taking a long, deep, cleansing breath and pulling up my figurative big girl panties, I smiled at Cole and pushed up to kiss his cheek.

“I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to go as fast as Valentino Rossi,” I joked, then laughed outright at Cole’s possessive growl.

“Fuck Rossi, he rides a crotch rocket, this is a Harley, baby. The only bike you will ever be on.” Reaching for a helmet, Cole gently dropped it on my head and fixed the strap under my chin, his scowl on his face cute and amusing to me.

“Jealous, Rambo? Valentino is one of the greatest champion Moto GP—”

Lips crashed down on me, stealing the breath from my lungs and reducing my brain to a puddle of jelly.

“Mine, Oaklee, my bike, my everything. Got it?”

Mindless from his kiss, all I could do was nod my head and stutter a breathless yes.

“Good girl.”

Biting back a moan, I listened to Cole give me instructions on being a pillion passenger, then accepted his hand and swung my leg over the wide seat.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Oaklee, I promise,” Cole stated firmly, kissing me one last time, then swung