Double Dare You: A Bedlam Butchers MC Romance by Ruby Dixon

Author:Ruby Dixon [Dixon, Ruby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ruby Dixon
Published: 2016-08-07T04:00:00+00:00

7

EPIC

Three Weeks Later

A hand taps my foot. “E, wake up.” Becka’s whispering from somewhere off to the side of the bed. “Where’s the corn?”

I rub a hand over my face and pull the blankets higher. “For fuck’s sake, Becks, you did not wake me up to ask where the corn is, did you?” I want to jam my pillow over my face, but I know that won’t stop her from just waking me up all over again.

On the other side of the bed, Locke groans and rolls over. He taps a sleepy hand on my arm. “Find her the corn so I can go back to sleep.”

“Damn it,” I whisper, and sit upright in bed, squinting at the windows. It’s barely dawn. No, not even dawn. Dawn took one look at how early it is and noped the fuck out. And Becka’s wide awake, grinning, her hands clasped in front of her nightshirt like it’s Christmas morning.

Aw, hell. She’s so damn cute like that I can’t even get mad.

“The deer are back,” she whispers, like the deer are gonna hear her or some shit. “And I can’t find the corn!”

I get to my feet, rubbing a tired hand over my face. The heart-shaped bed looks all girly, but it’s a shitty sleep, because my feet hang off the sides of the mattress and my end sags. Locke always says his side is the same. Miss Becka, who weighs all of ninety pounds soaking wet, gets to hog the middle, all cozy and protected by the two of us.

I’ve got morning wood, and I absently adjust it, arranging my dick while I try not to stare hard at Becka’s creamy thighs or the flashes of white panties that show under her nightshirt. She’s got tousled bed-hair, and her tits jiggle with every step she makes, but I force myself to ignore it all and head to the tiny kitchen section of our messy cabin, looking for the small bag of deer corn we got at a nearby feed store. Our place is a disaster, and I pick through a few noisy plastic grocery bags—ignoring Locke’s sleepy groan of protest—and find the corn.

“Gimme,” Becka whispers, making grabby hands. “They’re going to leave if we don’t hurry.”

“Please. Those deer are better trained than my last dog.” They show up every damn morning and stare at the back door of our small cabin, waiting to be fed. But Becka loves those damn things. She’s fascinated by them, and I’m fascinated by her, so we go through this routine every sunrise. I hand her the bag.

She gives me an impish look and opens the back door. I tuck my gun into the waistband of my sleep pants and trot after her, yawning. We’re safe here—it’s been three weeks of pure silence—but I never let down my guard, not since that first night we got drunk. I still feel guilty over that, because she needed me sober, and me?

I was kissing on my fucking ride partner.

I rub my mouth as she steps onto the porch and begins to throw handfuls of corn.

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