Page 52 of Snared Rider

I stare at him. “You would have brought me?”

“I said I would have, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, because you have nothing better to do than traipse around the country with a woman who can’t even get herself home after being ditched by her dickhead boyfriend.”

Ex-boyfriend, I mentally amend.

Logan twitches next to me, then says,

“This entire situation would never have happened if you’d told someone where you were going.”

I scoff at him. “What? And have half the Club tailing me here? No fucking chance.”

“It wouldn’t have been half the Club, just a couple of members.”

My eyes nearly roll out of their sockets. “I’m nineteen, Logan—twenty in a few months’ time. I shouldn’t have to ask permission from my dad to go out of town, and I don’t need or want a chaperone. It’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, it is, but it’s also necessary in this lifestyle.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yeah, darlin’, it is.”

I glare at him. “Says who?”

His lips tip up at the corners. “Woman, has anyone ever told you you’re hard work?”

I move to smack his chest, but he grabs my wrists before I make contact. He gives me a dimpled smile that melts my knickers nearly off me. Sweet Jesus. I stare at his mouth; I can’t help it. I want to kiss him. The urge is overwhelming.

“You’ll have to be quicker than that, B.”

I try to pull my arms free, but he doesn’t release me. I struggle against him. “Logan, let me go.”

“So you can hit me again?” He grins. “Nope.”

Restrained, I can do nothing but glare at him. “Sometimes you act more like two than twenty-one.”

“Probably, but you’re still stuck.”

And this is true. I pull again, but his grip is ironclad. I don’t know what happens next (or even how it happens) but my arms are pinned to the bed over my head and he’s half lying on top of me. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. His hard body feels glorious pressing down on me and I want to rub against him.

I don’t, but I do stare up at him.

My breathing is heavy and I’m no longer grinning. Nor is he. His expression is intense, so intense it’s a little scary. His eyes move to my mouth and I think he will kiss me but he doesn’t move.

“Logan?” I breathe his name, invoke it even. He swallows, and I see the indecision in his expression.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says, and I don’t understand what this cryptic message means.

“W-what?”

He stares at me, then says, “Fuck it.”

Without warning he leans down and captures my mouth.

His lips are soft, warm and he tastes amazing. I can smell his aftershave, leather and him; the mix of scents is heady. For a moment I’m so stunned I stiffen under his touch and he pulls back, his eyes scanning my face.

Dismay floods me until he asks,

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