Page 5 of Biker In My Bed

Never in a million years would I be able to look at Red.

This was my sign to become a hermit and never step foot out of my house, right?

CHAPTER 2

RED

Tara.

The name suited her.

Tara was hot as fuck, and she was going to be mine.

CHAPTER 3

TARA

“This is not something a hermit does,” I whispered.

I raised my hand to knock and wrapped my knuckles on the door two times. Yup, I knocked on Red’s front door to give him back his shirt and a beer as a thank you. It had killed me to wash his shirt, but I knew I needed to return it to him. He didn’t need to know I had slept in it two nights in a row before finally washing it.

“Hermits do not knock on Hottie McBiker’s door,” I muttered. “Nope, they most certainly do not.”

“You talking to yourself, baby?”

I whirled around and clutched the cleaned shirt and beer to my chest. “Jesus! Where the hell did you come from?” I gasped.

Red chuckled and wiped his hands on a rag. “I live here, baby. I was in the garage working on my bike,” he explained. He sauntered over to me and leaned against the step railing.

“Makes sense,” I muttered.

“You lock yourself out again?” He looked me up and down. “At least you’re dressed this time.”

I was dressed in a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a black tank top, but I didn’t lock myself out again. “I actually hid a key outside in case I do that again.”

“Smart,” he smirked.

I thrust the shirt and beer out to him. “I just came over to return your shirt, and thank you again for helping me the other day. I’m sure I must have looked like a crazy person.”

Red looked at the shirt and beer, then his eyes connected with mine. “You looked like something, baby, but it sure wasn’t crazy. A wet dream might fit better.”

“Oh, uh, I…” What was I supposed to say? I knew I should have been offended, but this god of a man telling me I looked like a wet dream was not insulting at all.

“You can keep the shirt.”

I tipped my head to the side. “Um, why? And I also brought you a beer.”

Red shook his head. “Shirt looked a fuck of a lot better on you, and I’m about to go for a ride,” he explained.

“But the beer is a thank you,” I offered. I wasn’t going to argue with him to take the shirt. I offered it, and he told me to keep it. What was I to do but keep it and sleep in it for the rest of my life?

“Baby, a beer is not what I want from you.”

The butterflies in my stomach took off. “I just want to say thank you.”

He straightened and tucked the rag in his back pocket. “Come for a ride with me. That can be a start to you saying thank you.”

“A ride? Where are we going?”

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