Page 6 of Guarded By a Broody Biker

“You’re the best,” I say.

Axel’s cheeks turn pink above his beard. He looks a whole lot less mean when he blushes like that.

“I’m going to find us another chair.” I start to get up. “Wait here.”

But a huge hand lands on my shoulder, gentle but firm, pinning me in my seat.

“That’s not how this works,” Axel says. “Youwait here, and stay where I can see you. I’ll go find something.”

My mouth is dry, and the heat of his calloused palm scorches the bare skin of my shoulder. As long as this man’s hand is on my body, my insides are rioting, with tiny fireworks going off in my belly. Crap, is this normal?

“…Okay.”

My bodyguard squeezes past me, careful not to knock any candles over, his leathers creaking softly and his scent drawing into my lungs. Soap and rain and something electric, like the air just before a thunderstorm.

Hurry back, I want to call, and not just because I feel so vulnerable and exposed without him gone.

Because my bodyguard is an addictive presence.

* * *

The sky dims high above the domed glass ceiling, and electric lanterns glow to life around the maze of the market hall. Everything is cast with a warm glow, and the crowd gradually shifts from daytime shoppers to the after-work crowd, rubbing shoulders in their finely cut suits.

A few new stalls open up in the food section, their wire grates trundling up as they open for business. Curries and pizzas and tacos, everything smelling so delicious. Suddenly alcohol is for sale, and the crowd gets louder, looser, all while I’m tucked safely behind my table, my chair so close to Axel’s that our legs keep brushing.

Every time they do, every time there’s that split-second of contact, the air hiccups in my lungs. And Axel’s so big and broad that we accidentally nudge each other often, reaching over to pass each other candles and the card reader, so by the time the evening draws in, I’m a squirmy mess.

“How’d you get into this?” Axel asks. He’s leaning forward, fussing over the candle display, and I can’t help watching the shift of his back muscles beneath his dark red t-shirt. He shucked his leather jacket an hour ago, draping it over the back of his borrowed chair.

“My mom,” I start to say, but my voice cracks and I have to try again. Axel pauses, then settles back into his seat to listen, his eyes scanning the crowd. “My mom used to make candles as a hobby. It was kinda her thing, and she taught me when I was about twelve. Then it wasours,the thing we did together. After she died…”

I trail off, pulse thudding in my ears. Even years later, I hate talking about this. Hate thinking about it, even though it crosses my mind every hour of every day, and I’m pretty sure it will for the rest of my life.

A big hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes me there, and it’s the same touch from earlier, but this time I lean into it. Can’t explain why. Maybe all these accidental leg brushes have made me bold, eroding the normal personal boundaries that exist between virtual strangers, or maybe I’m just too exhausted to keep fighting all the time.

Because Axel feelsgood.He’s a soothing presence, solid as a rock, and he’s been helping me sell candles all afternoon, chatting steadily in that rumbly voice of his. Maybe I don’t really know him, maybe I’m fooling myself that there’s some kind of connection here, but…

I don’t care.

His hand on my shoulder feels good, so I lean into his touch.

“I had to support myself,” I finish. Not such a long story after all. “And candles are what I’m good at.”

Axel grunts in agreement, giving my shoulder one final squeeze before picking up the closest candle and sniffing it deeply. He nods in appreciation, then sets it back down with a dull thud.

“Never bought a candle before, but I’d buy one of yours,” he says.

I bite my lip against a smile. “You can pick one for free. As a thank you for selling so many today.”

Axel’s smile is here and gone so fast, I nearly miss it, then my bodyguard settles back in his seat and folds his arms across his chest. The dark ink of his tattoos looks intricate, almost like the designs are shifting and changing in the low light. It’s eerie in here, but beautiful too.

Where else does Axel have ink? On his chest? His back?

Would he show me if I asked? Let me trace the designs with my fingertip?

“You look hungry,” my bodyguard says after a while, and lord, he has no idea. With his muscled bulk folded next to me in this small space, his body heat tickling my side, I’m hungry for things I’ve never wanted before in my life. I’mstarving.

For a heavy weight settling on top of my body.

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