I was wearing Drew’s boxers (well, technically, they were mine now), and he was wearing a pair of mine (which were his now), and his body was pressed up tight against mine. He fit against me like a glove, or the perfect pair of football pads. I’d grown so used to sleeping with him beside me, the one night a few days ago we slept apart, I’d barely slept at all.
I was so surly the next day from lack of sleep and agitation from not getting to cop a morning feel, I’d nearly ratted out all four dickheads in this house and then stepped back to watch the house react.
I didn’t, though. I reined it in and thought about today.
But I did whisper some sweet nothings in Con’s ear all through breakfast.
Sweet nothings = veiled threats
After that night, I told Drew there was no way in hell we were sleeping apart again. My bossiness earned me a blowjob. That got rid of my shit mood real fast.
The football game was set to take place at the indoor field where the Wolves practiced and sometimes held scrimmages. It was smaller than the actual outdoor field, so it was never used for actual college games. We could have used it today, but we scheduled it under the dome just in case there happened to be some weather.
Since it didn’t start until later in the morning, I planned on spending some quality quiet time in bed with my guy.
You know what they say about best laid plans?
Me either.
Anyway, half the house was woken up when someone started acting like the doorbell was a freaking piano and pressing on it like he was Mozart.
I sat up in bed, Drew’s arm still draped over my waist and him still totally asleep (I swear the dude could sleep through a freaking alien invasion) and listened for a moment, trying to make sense of what the hell was happening.
Some footsteps in the hall and on the stairs made me think maybe they guys would tell whoever the hell it was to go the hell away.
Instead, all I heard was the slamming of the front door and someone bellowing for Con.
What. The. Fuckity fuck?
A few more doors opened, and some voices echoed in the hall. I kicked off the blankets, and my feet hit the floor.
“Wha—?” Drew said, lifting his bedhead off the pillow and cracking open one eye.
He looked like a surly pirate.
It was hot.
“Someone’s at the door,” I whispered. “I’ll be back in a few.”
His head hit the pillow again, and then his middle finger lifted off the mattress. I grinned, figuring the gesture wasn’t for me, but for whoever was at the door, and picked up the first pair of sweats my hand closed over. They happened to be his.
They were gray and really soft inside.
Damn. Why did all his clothes feel so much more comfortable?
I didn’t even bother with a shirt, just went to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open a crack. Before shutting it completely behind me, I reached around and locked the handle—you know, just because.
By that time, the front door slammed again, and Con’s agitated voice carried up the stairs. The insistent ringing of the doorbell started up again.
“What the shit is going on down here?” I snapped, jogging down the stairs. It caused a little tweak of pain in my ribs, and it only made me more irritated.
I was pretty much healed from the number Con and the three stooges pulled on me, but my ribs were still healing and the bruising around them was slightly yellow.
“Con’s pissed off some biker,” said one of the guys standing in the entryway.
I glanced at Conner, who had an angry, flushed look. “I told you I have no clue who that guy is!”
“What guy?” I said as the doorbell rang again about fifty times in three seconds.
That was some talent right there, making that much racket with a damn doorbell.
I stalked over to the front door and yanked it open.
Sure enough, there was a biker standing on the other side with his finger pressed to the button. He was close to six feet tall, with a stocky, wide build and a bit of a beer gut. His full beard (which was nowhere near as sexy as Drew’s scruff) was peppered with gray to match the dark hair on his head. He was wearing a pair of jeans and leather chaps. To match, he had a black leather jacket and a T-shirt beneath it with the Harley Davidson symbol on it.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked.
“Where is he?” the biker demanded, trying to see around me. I was bigger than him, so he wasn’t having much success. “That little weasel hiding behind you?”
“Which weasel is that?”
“The one who promised me a Harley Davidson Seventy-Two.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the doorjamb. “You mind explaining a little bit more?”
“Who the fuck are you?” he growled, trying to look behind me again.
I did him a favor and shoved the door open wide.
All the brothers standing around in the entryway stared out at him.
“What the hell, Con?” one of them whispered loudly.
“He in there!” biker man demanded and started forward.
“Whoa,” I said and put a hand out to stop him. “Sorry, this is private property, members of the Alpha Omega fraternity only.”
“Says who?” the biker challenged.
I straightened and dropped my arms at my sides. “Says me,” I growled. “I’m the president of this house, and if you got a problem with one of my guys, talk to me.”
“You rich types are all the same,” he muttered.