Ripley's Saint by Isabel Wroth

Author:Isabel Wroth [Wroth, Isabel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-07-25T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“So. Finally gave it up, huh?”

Ripley slanted Frankie a sideways glance, feeling the immediate flush that fired across her face. She had checked her hair and makeup before leaving The Velvet Box. Checked to make sure it wasn’t blatantly obvious she and Saint had just spent the last few hours having sex on his desk. And later in his chair. And then Ripley had done her little ice cream trick…

She gave herself a shake and cleared her throat, tucking a limp curl behind her ear, doing her best to steady her voice when she answered the salaciously grinning biker as he drove her home.

“Gave it up?” she questioned.

Frankie chortled, using his palm to twist the steering wheel to get out of traffic. He shot his hand out the window to flip someone off and she jumped a bit when that someone honked back in answer.

“Gave up treating Saint like he was too busted up to fuck.”

“Um…I don’t…ehm…” Ripley fumbled and stuttered for some kind of response.

Frankie took his hand from the wheel and gave it a dismissive little wiggle. “Don’t sweat it. I’m glad you two patched shit up. He’s a good guy. Better brother. And you? Dayum. Saint’s one lucky sonofabitch.”

Ripley ducked her head and rolled her lips together, fighting the goofy grin that threatened to bust free. It was dark, chances were Frankie wouldn’t see her smiling like a cat who’d caught herself a canary, but still.

“Thank you for taking me home, Frankie. Sorry about the chauffer and babysitting duty.”

Frankie snorted derisively and she could see the way his brows slammed down as a pair of headlights illuminated his blocky features. All teasing fled and Frankie’s tone turned rough with his sincerity.

“My brother is trusting me to protect his woman. Trusting with some seriously precious fuckin cargo. I ain’t sorry at all.”

Floored by his response, for a time Ripley just sat beside Frankie in the darkness. Milo was waiting with a prospect on her porch, both of them apparently trying to sneak a cigarette, but as soon as Frankie pulled in the driveway the two men rushed to put their cancer sticks out and flicked the butts into her front lawn.

She thought about demanding they retrieve their trash, but late as it was, it just seemed ludicrous. The taller of the two prospects rushed over to open her door before Frankie had put the truck into park, smiling at her when he extended his hand to help her out.

His cut clearly labeled him a Prospect, but he wasn’t young like Ruckus and Gee. If Ripley was pressed to put a number on him, she would have guessed he was in his thirties.

“Thank you.” she said as she stepped out, self-consciously wondering if he could tell what she had been doing for the last few hours.

“You’re welcome. We haven’t met yet. I’m Damon.”

He seemed friendly, though there was a hardness to his unusually colored eyes that made the fine hairs on Ripley’s nape give a twitch. Damon was

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