At his words, desperate need zapped through her body—it had been days since she’d had him inside her and that needed to be rectified immediately. Without a thought to her tattoo, she rolled over into a sitting position and then shoved him down onto the mattress. Starting with his boots, then his T-shirt and jeans, she made quick work of his clothing. Thanks to his skillful first aid, she was already naked from the waist down and that was all she needed.

She climbed on top of him and sank right down onto his shaft. A moan escaped her lips as her body accommodated him. She met his gaze and grinned.

“Damn, you feel good,” he uttered, sliding his hand into her hair and pulling her mouth toward his.

“Good?” she whispered, starting to move slowly up and down his cock. “Who wants to be good when being bad is so…much…more…fun?”

In reply, he smashed his lips against hers, planted his hands on her thighs and met each move she made with a fast, hard thrust of his own. Her clit pulsed against him and she knew it wouldn’t take long to be exactly where she wanted to be. Hell, she was already there and, if the way he cursed her name was any indication, so was he. And being bad with Travis was better than anything she’d ever experienced before. Thoroughly spent, she flopped against him, her ear pressed against his chest as she listened to the beat of his racing heart. A sound more beautiful than any she’d ever heard, and one she’d never tire of listening to.

Then, he brushed back her hair and whispered, “I love you, Billie,” and she had to reassess because those words and his voice…they were the most beautiful things ever.

To my fabulous Deacon girls—Megan Crane, Maisey Yates and Jackie Ashenden—thanks for a wild ride and the awesome memories of New Orleans!

About the Author

RACHEL JOHNS is an English teacher by trade, a mum 24/7, a supermarket owner, a chronic arachnophobe and a writer the rest of the time. She rarely sleeps and never irons. She writes contemporary romance for Loveswept and HQN and lives in rural Western Australia with her hyperactive husband and three mostly gorgeous heroes-in-training. Rachael loves to hear from readers and can be contacted through her website, below.

rachaeljohns.com

Facebook.com/RachaelJohnsRomance

@RachaelJohns

When the biker who broke her heart rides into town, a woman must choose between passion and duty. Jackie Ashenden ups the ante in a seductive series co-written with Megan Crane, Rachael Johns, and Maisey Yates. Hold Me Down Coming soon from Loveswept Continue reading for a sneak peek

Chapter 1

Leonidas St. John Delacroix III—who way preferred to be known as Blue—kicked his boots up onto the worn wood of the chair in front of him and leaned back to survey the bar.

Fuck, the more things changed, the more things stayed the same. Ten years since he’d set foot in The Priory, the bar his old motorcycle club, the Deacons of Bourbon Street, used to frequent, and it was like he’d never left. Still the same shitty cracked black-and-white-tiled linoleum floor. The same layer of grime that coated said floor and the worn and peeling wallpaper on the walls—a combination of sweat, spilled alcohol, and years-old cigarette smoke. Same fans on the ceiling, turning lazily, moving the muggy air exactly nowhere.

And same kind of crowd. Tourists looking for the authentic New Orleans experience, a few locals looking for escape, and the usual down-and-outs looking for oblivion.

Except it wasn’t entirely the same.

The Deacons who used to call this bar home were conspicuous by their absence. Since a hurricane nearly destroyed their town and the death of the old man, Priest, their president, had nearly destroyed the MC, the club was in ruins, its members dispersed.

It broke his heart if he thought about it too much. Just like it had broken his heart when Priest had exiled him from New Orleans to a nowhere town on the Louisiana bayou ten years earlier. A heart that had stayed broken throughout the long years he’d spent there, marking time, keeping the vows he’d made to himself. Until the day came to return.

Blue grinned savagely to himself. Well, fuck, now that day was here. Ajax had given him the call a couple of weeks earlier, giving him the news Priest had died and he was needed back home. And he hadn’t been able to get back fast enough.

It was just a pity that the club that had once been more a family to him than his own blood relatives was a now a mere shadow of its former self. Hell, not even a shadow. More like a ghost.

But, shit, but he wasn’t going to think of it in those terms. He had his last vow still to fulfill. There were four Deacons left and if it was the last thing he did, he was going to restore the MC back to its former glory. And get a little payback for Priest’s death while he was at it.

Murder and revenge. Fuck, he missed this place.

He folded his arms and narrowed his gaze, focusing on the bar with its pitted wood and ancient bottles stacked behind it on glass shelves. Fancy liquors that no one ever drank. Beer or bourbon, that was the deal here.

A woman was leaning against the bar. She had her back to him, tight jeans showcasing generous hips and a nicely rounded ass.

He let his gaze move over her, allowing himself to enjoy the sight. It had been a long time since he’d had anything decent of the female persuasion to look at—not many chicks out where he’d been living. Hell, a long time since he’d touched a woman at all. The brothers would probably call him crazy if they found out he’d been celibate all this time, but that had all been part of his vows.

He wouldn’t wear his cut. Wouldn’t ride his Harley. Wouldn’t touch a woman until the day he rode back up Bourbon Street, a Deacon again.

The woman shook her hair back, long and straight, gleaming copper in the dim lighting of the bar. A memory turned in his head of another copper-haired girl. Serious sky-blue eyes in a passionate, willful face. Younger than him, but not enough that he didn’t listen to what she had to say. A friendship that had grown after he’d left the Delacroix ancestral mansion for the streets of New Orleans and the Deacons.

A friendship he’d broken when he’d had to leave.

Alice Day. What had happened to her in the ten years he’d been gone? He should look her up, see what the deal was. Her father had been the Deacons’ mechanic, another one who’d passed away while Blue had been living in exile.

At the bar, the woman shifted on her feet and he found his gaze traveling down her slender thighs to the heavy black boots she wore. Not at all like the other women in the bar, with shoes so high it was a wonder they didn’t fall off them and break their necks.

The boots drew attention to the long length of her legs, encased in black denim. Nice. Very nice indeed. He couldn’t see her face, but that didn’t matter when she had legs like that.