Impulsively (Dante's Nine MC) Read online

  A Dante's Nine MC Novel

  by Colleen Masters

  A Hearts Collective Production

  Copyright © 2014 Hearts Collective

  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

  Also From Colleen Masters:

  Imperfectly (Dante’s Nine MC) by Colleen Masters

  Impossibly (Dante’s Nine MC) by Colleen Masters

  Faster Harder (Take Me... #1) by Colleen Masters

  Faster Deeper (Take Me... #2) by Colleen Masters

  Faster Longer (Take Me... #3) by Colleen Masters

  Faster Hotter (Take Me...#4) by Colleen Masters

  Other Books by Hearts Collective:

  Crushing Beauty (Harbingers of Sorrow MC) by Celia Loren

  Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC) by Celia Loren

  Wrecking Beauty (Devils Reapers MC) by Celia Loren

  Riding Dirty (Ruiners Motorcycle Club) by Abriella Blake

  DEDICATION

  I'd like to dedicate this book to my awesome fans :)

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  IMPULSIVELY

  A Dante's Nine MC Novel

  by Colleen Masters

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Las Vegas, NV

  Present Day

  The air is thick with rough laughter, heavy smoke, and the kind of sizzling sexual tension that can only be found in a self-proclaimed den of sin. I’m immersed in this world of vice, pleasure, and lawless freedom. And I know I’m about to be dragged even deeper.

  I can feel his intent gaze raking along my body as I throw back another shot of liquid courage. My eyes flick up, lock with his across the rowdy bar. The scene around us—brimming with drunken, raucous voices, muscular inked bodies, and scantly clad women—falls away. We may as well be the only two people in this bar. The only two people in the world.

  “I’m going to get some air,” I shout above the blaring rock music, more for his sake than for the sake of my two companions.

  “Air, huh?” grins the friend at my right, spotting my intense admirer watching from down the bar. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  “Shut up,” I grin, letting my tiny denim skirt slip a little higher along my thighs. I can practically hear the roar of his desire as I hop down from my barstool. A tight black tank top perfectly showcases my God-given curves, and daring scarlet lipstick makes my blue eyes pop even more than usual. For the first time in my life, I feel sexy. Unstoppable.

  And I all had to do was become someone else entirely.

  “What are you waiting for?” my second girlfriend laughs, giving me a playful slap on the ass. “Go get him, tiger.”

  The easy blush spreading across my porcelain skin is hidden in the dim light, but my trembling fingers give me away. Anticipation and nerves mix with the desire that already pulses thickly in my blood. It’s a potent cocktail, that’s for sure, but not nearly as intoxicating as those emerald green eyes tracking my every step.

  With one last glance at him over my slender shoulder, I turn toward the back door of the clubhouse. Raking my fingers through my long red curls, I will my heart to quiet down. I’m sure the entire bar can hear its incessant pounding, even over the heavy bass thumping through our very bones. All around, the lithe shapes of writhing women are spot lit, surrounded by the grinning faces of their male admirers, cloaked in the shadows below.

  This is the last place I ever expected to find myself—a palace of lust and fantasy deep in the Las Vegas hills. But then, I’m not here as myself, am I? The thought gives me courage, as it always does. This is just a dream, I tell myself. An illicit, booze-soaked, incredible dream...starring the sexiest man I’ve ever met.

  I slip through the back door at last, out into the cooling darkness of the Nevada night. Drinking in huge lungfuls of fresh air, I press my back against the brick wall of the club. Any second now, he’ll join me here. And as soon as he does, I’ll be a goner. I know that I’m crossing all kinds of lines, daring to be with him. He’s the last person in the world I’m supposed to want...

  But that only makes this whole thing sweeter.

  “Smoke?” a rugged voice growls in the darkness.

  I whip around to face him, taken off guard by his stealthy approach. The sudden flare of a lighter illuminates his chiseled features—the strong, scruffy jaw, the high cheekbones, the vibrant green eyes. All lit up above the full, firm lips that cradle his just-lit Marlboro. Jesus, I think longingly, to be that cigarette...

  “I’ll take a drag of yours,” I manage to reply, my voice riding low and lusty in my chest.

  A crooked grin spreads across his face as he walks slowly toward me. I’m pinned against the brick wall, paralyzed with aching want. He plants himself in front of me, running a hand through his dark, tumbling curls. Ink scrawls all across his cut chest, his thickly muscled arms. I want to memorize every line of his perfectly balanced body. A deep, pulsing need ripples through my core as he plants a hand above my shoulder, closing me in.

  With those wicked green eyes fixed on my face, he plucks the cigarette from his perfect lips and places it between mine. I breathe in a fiery drag, unable to focus on anything but his body, mere inches from my own. The air between us crackles with electric tension. My rational mind screams at me to turn and run from this dangerous, powerful man, but my heart and body have other ideas.

  I toss the smoldering smoke to the dusty ground, crushing it beneath the heel of my leather boot.

  “I was hoping you were out here for more than a smoke break,” he growls, letting his strong, rough hands slide down my bare arms. His fingers leave a trail of goose bumps all along my pale skin.

  “You know exactly what I’m out here for,” I breathe, reveling in the sensation of his expert touch.

  “Sure,” he shrugs, resting those hands on my slender hips, “but I still want to hear you say it.”

  I gasp as he tugs me forward, flush against his ripped body. I swallow a groan as I feel his swelling desire pressed against me, exactly where I want—no, need—to feel it. The urgency of my yearning skyrockets, knocking every lingering worry from my mind. All I can think of is how good his hands feel as they run all over my body. Now that I know what he can do to me, there’s no way I could keep from coming back for more. He’s far more addictive than his signature Marlboros, that’s for damn sure.

  “Tell me that you want me,” he commands, his voice raspy and rich in my ear. The scruffy stubble along his jaw brushes against my smooth cheek, driving me mad. The smallest things about him turn me on. And that’s to say nothing of the big things.

  “You know how much I do,” I breathe, circling my arms around his tapered waist.

  “Come on,” he grins, taking my face in his hands, “it’s just t
hree little words. And not even the ones people usually get worked up about.”

  I laugh, resting my forehead against the smooth leather of his vest. He’s got a point. And if saying it out loud means I get to have him that much sooner, then...

  “I want you,” I whisper, my eyes fixed firmly on the rocky ground beneath our feet.

  “What’s that?” he asks, raising my chin. He won’t let me get off that easily. His intense gaze nearly renders me speechless all over again, but I screw up my courage and find my voice.

  “I want you,” I say, my voice full and forceful, “Now.”

  “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, lowering his lips to mine at last.

  The taste of him—smoky, sweet, unmistakably male—satisfies and intensifies my craving at the same time. What’s a girl to do?

  He pushes me up against the red brick wall as our mouths move together. His sure, deft tongue glances against mine, sending a jolt of pleasure rolling down my spine. I slide my hands over his firm, denim-clad ass, tugging him tightly against me. He’s hard and ready as I arch my back, grinding my hips against his. He catches my bottom lip between his teeth, biting just hard enough, and a low groan escapes my throat.

  “Do you know how hard it is to keep from jumping you the second you walked into the room?” he says, kissing along my neck, nipping my collarbone. “Just look at you...”

  “I’m too busy looking at you,” I grin, marveling at the staggering man before me. How the hell did I ever snag him, even for a night or two? I’ve been next to invisible all my life, content with the bottom of the manly barrel. This whole eye-catching thing is going to take some getting used to.

  I run my hands down his cut chest, my fingertips brushing against the MC patches he wears so proudly. Women like me are not supposed to fall for bad boy bikers. And we’re certainly not supposed to hook up with in the shadows of strip clubs. But he makes me want to be bold, brave. To ask for what I want and refuse to apologize. And that’s the kind of woman I’ve always wanted to be.

  As my nimble fingers undo his belt, he shakes in head in captivated wonder.

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he asks.

  You have no idea, I think to myself, brushing my lips against his neck to dodge his question. He’s more than happy to let the matter drop as I run my fingertips down the muscular v of his hips. How long before one of those surprises comes out into the open? When will he discover the scope of my deception?

  Not tonight, I remind myself, Your secret is safe for tonight.

  And as I slip my fingers beneath the band of his briefs, seeking out that throbbing length I crave, I realize that “not tonight” is good enough for me.

  Chapter One

  San Bernardino FBI Resident Agency

  Three weeks earlier

  A misshapen package of Hostess Cupcakes lands on my desk with an unappetizing thump. My head jerks up from where it’s been resting on my palm, and I blink up at the fluorescent light in a daze. I’ve been staring at endless pages of code on my computer screen, and the rest of the world outside of my cubicle has begun to feel like a faraway land. I finally manage to focus on the heavily-lined face looming over me, and remind myself to act like a normal, socialized human being. Even if it is a bit of a stretch.

  “To what do I owe this thoughtful gift, Chuck?” I ask, prodding the packaged sweets with the end of my pencil.

  The man standing beside my desk shrugs his burly shoulders, smiling wryly. “No room in the budget for a real cake, I’m afraid. This’ll have to do.”

  I cock my head at my prickly mentor. “Are we...celebrating something?”

  “Quinn Collins,” he replies, his bushy white eyebrows raised in mock surprise, “have you forgotten our anniversary?”

  “I’ll be damned,” I laugh, shaking my head, “has it been two years already?”

  “Already?” Chuck scoffs, crossing his arms across his barrel chest. “I’m glad the time flew for you, newbie. Training you damn near killed me.”

  “Oh, please,” I say, waving away his disdain. “You didn’t train me, you tolerated me. There’s no way you could wrap your head around what I do in cyber.”

  “Well excuse me,” he drawls, “I didn’t realize that your Web surfing was more useful to the Bureau than, I don’t know, my thirty years of experience.”

  “Let’s not make this into a pissing contest,” I cut him off. “Last time I checked, you had the advantage there.”

  “Damn straight,” he grins, turning away. “And don’t you forget it, Agent Collins.”

  “Thanks for the anniversary gift, old man,” I pipe after him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Don’t let it go to your head, kid.”

  I roll my eyes as my mentor stalks back to his office. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been taking his brand of good-natured shit for two years already. It feels like just yesterday I arrived here in LA, fresh out of the FBI Academy in Quantico. At the ripe old age of twenty-five, I had just chosen an entirely new career, moved across the country, and started my whole life over from scratch.

  Talk about a quarter-life crisis.

  I try to drag my attention back to the task at hand, but my eyes just don’t want to focus on a screen for another second. The moment I arrived here at the San Bernardino resident agency, I was immediately assigned to the cyber division of the FBI. My background in computer science made me a perfect candidate for Web-based surveillance operations. And while I’ve been part of my fair share of interesting cases, most of my days are spent plumbing the seedy underbelly of the internet for obscene material. Not the most glamorous job, to be sure, but it’s what I signed up for.

  Snatching up my crumpled anniversary cupcakes, I head outside to enjoy the few blissful moments of my lunch break. No one looks up as I head for the exit, but that’s nothing new. I get along well with my fellow FBI agents and support staff, but they’re not the most talkative bunch. At least not with me. Most of the people I work with are men in their thirties and forties. Not exactly an ideal group of peers.

  A sigh escapes my lips as I step out into the bright afternoon. One glance at my reflection in the glass door confirms my suspicion: I’m looking a little short of a million bucks today. Despite having spent two years in the Golden State, my ivory skin refuses to absorb any of the sun’s glow. Not that I have many hours to spend frolicking in the Pacific. A smattering of freckles across the bridge of my button nose is the only evidence that I spend any time at all away from my computer.

  I straighten my pale blue button-up and gray woolen slacks. Unfortunately, the stereotypical suit-and-tie uniform of an FBI agent doesn’t translate well to a petite but curvy frame like mine. I’d totally rock a suit if I didn’t think I’d get laughed out of the office. Even my long red locks—or “man bait” as they’ve been called—have to be gathered into a boring low ponytail. I’m all for being professional, but the “office drab” look doesn’t do much for a lady’s self-esteem.

  Sinking onto a creaky wooden bench overlooking the parking lot, I resign myself to a lunch of processed pastries. At least someone remembered my two-year work anniversary. Agent Chuck Jones, the gruff fifty-something cupcake distributor, was tasked with looking out for me when I first got assigned here. He’s been a pretty decent mentor, whether he’d admit it or not. While he can’t offer much practical guidance about my work in the cyber division, his no-nonsense tough love has strengthened my spine and taught me to trust my gut. As a female agent, I constantly have to fight to keep from getting shouted down around here. It’s exhausting, but I’m getting better at it. I think.

  I’m just about to lift the first squished cupcake to my lips when a shadow falls across my little patch of sunshine. Peeved at having my daily dose of Vitamin D cut short, I glance up sharply, ready to snap at whoever has come to bother me. But instead, I bite my tongue as I feel my breath catch in my chest. Peering down at me is a stoic, impeccably composed man I’ve never seen before. I wouldn’t c
all him handsome, exactly, but his carved features are certainly striking. And rather intimidating. His spotless black suit almost shines in the afternoon sun, and his forty-something face is totally unreadable.

  “Agent Quinn Collins, I presume?” he says, his voice smooth and even.

  “Um, yeah. That’s me,” I stammer dumbly. “How did you know my—”

  “I know all about you, Collins,” he cuts me off lightly. “But please, don’t let me interrupt your, uh...lunch.”

  I blush furiously, imagining how I must look in this man’s eyes. A pretty little girl, playing FBI agent, eating her cupcakes in the sunshine. What a darling first impression.

  “Oh. This isn’t—these were my mentor’s idea of a joke,” I laugh shortly, chucking my treats in the nearest garbage can. “Agent Jones has a...unique sense of humor. I’m sorry,” I go on, holding out my hand to him, “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “That’s because I didn’t offer it,” he chuckles, shaking my hand firmly. “I’m Special Agent Max Mitchell. I run things over at the Las Vegas field office.”

  “Nice to meet you, I’m—Oh. Never mind. You already know,” I mutter, making a mental note to kick myself later. I can’t help but be flustered by this guy. Why would a senior agent have any idea who I am?

  “I do know, indeed,” Mitchell replies. “You’re the whole reason I’m here in Los Angeles, after all.”

  “I am?” I reply, taken aback. “Is something, uh, wrong? Did I—?”

  “I’m not here to discipline you, Agent Collins,” Mitchell assures me. “Quite the contrary. But perhaps we can discuss this somewhere a bit less public?”

  “Of course,” I say quickly, rise and moving toward the front door, “I only have a cubicle, but—”