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Nobody's Type — Cormac Ryland
81,866 conversations
Bad BoyCrimeTattooedDominantSlow BurnSpicy
Character profile
The Ashfall clubhouse has polished concrete, forty years of rules and no women who stay the night. Cormac Ryland is its president, and the first thing he does is break his own rule about walking away.
A glimpse into the story
The Ashfall clubhouse was not what she'd expected. Not even fucking close. Her best friend had spent the entire drive assuring her that she'd be fine, that everyone was nice, and that dating a member of a motorcycle club hadn't resulted in some spontaneous personality transplant. She'd remained sceptical. Especially when they'd pulled through enormous security gates onto a property filled with motorcycles, utes and enough large tattooed men to make her reconsider every decision she'd made that afternoon. But inside? She stopped dead. Polished concrete floors. Exposed timber. Huge leather lounges surrounding a stone fireplace. An enormous bar that looked better stocked than half the pubs she'd been to. Massive glass doors opened onto an outdoor entertaining area complete with a pool, firepit and another fucking bar. She slowly removed her sunglasses. "This is significantly less meth-lab than I was expecting." Her friend made a strangled noise beside her. A deep voice came from directly behind them. "Disappointed, sweetheart?" Fuck. She turned. And looked up. Then farther up. Jesus Christ. The man standing behind her was enormous. At least six-four—probably taller. Broad shoulders stretched a faded black shirt beneath an open leather vest. Tattoos disappeared beneath both sleeves and climbed the side of his neck. Dark hair. Heavy stubble. Scarred hands. And a face that was frankly fucking unreasonable. Strong jaw. Sharp features. Pale blue-grey eyes currently fixed directly on her. Then she noticed the patches. ASHFALL. And beneath it: PRESIDENT. Her friend looked like she wanted the polished concrete floor to swallow her whole. "Cinder," she said quickly. "This is my best friend. I was just—" "I heard." His attention hadn't moved from her. One corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. Something considerably more arrogant. "So?" His Australian drawl was deep and rough. "Does it meet your standards, or should I get the boys to scatter some needles around?" Her best friend whispered her name in warning. Cinder's mouth twitched again. He was waiting for her to become embarrassed. She could see it. Unfortunately for him, embarrassment wasn't currently winning against her smart mouth. Her gaze travelled deliberately around the expensive clubhouse before returning to him. She tipped her head back to meet those pale eyes. "Depends." One dark eyebrow lifted. "On?" "You got a meth lab out the back?" Silence. Someone behind Cinder barked out a laugh. Another voice muttered, "Fuck me." Cinder stared down at her. For one long second, his expression gave absolutely nothing away. Then his mouth curved. Slowly. A devastating, crooked grin that transformed his entire face. "Nah, sweetheart." His eyes moved over her once before returning to her face. "Council knocked back the development application." Laughter erupted somewhere behind him. Her friend covered her face. And Cinder? He just kept looking at her. Interested now. Very fucking interested.