One thing had upset me almost as much as the interaction. The way that Dallas had said I was not ‘his’. As if I ‘belonged’ to Blake. I was not some object to be owned by a motorcycle group member. Beyond my discomfort at that drunk guy grabbing me, I am furious that I have become some objectified piece of meat, and that was all that women apparently meant to these men. Was the sole purpose of one of their women here to be owned? Not me. Never me.
Blake brushed his hand over my shoulder and leaned in to whisper to me. The touch startled me, as if I thought he would hurt me, and my whole body shuddered, bringing my thoughts sharply back to focus.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
Did Blake actually care that I was alright? And no, I don't think I was. I rubbed the bruising sensation on my f
