Page 10 of Guarded By a Broody Biker

“Yeah.” I nod, even though we’re edging into dangerous territory here. “The whole ride over.”

“And what were you picturing, exactly?”

Is it just me, or is she inching closer? Shit, it’s so hard to tell in this tiny room. Maybe Jem’s swaying closer, like I want her to be, breathing faster like she’s hoping for a kiss—or maybe the walls and low ceiling are throwing off my sense of perspective, and she’s only shifting near because there’s nowhere else for her to stand.

Either way, the rain-damp scent of her hair is a constant low-grade torture, drawing into my lungs and making my abs clench. Christ, I want to kiss her. Want to scoop her up and wrap her thighs around my waist and grip her peachy ass andsqueeze.

“Axel?”

I blink. “What was the question?”

Jem laughs. “Never mind.” She pats my arm then heads toward the bathroom. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Five

Jem

Confession time: my slobbiest PJs are ugly as hell. They’re an old pair of men’s sweatpants and a faded Pepsi t-shirt from the thrift store, the fabric washed so many times that it’s gone all bobbly, and they’re so big on me that I become a shapeless morph when I put them on.

So I don’t. Put them on, I mean.

I’ve got one night with Axel, and I’m not spending it dressed likethat.Sue me.

Steam fills the cubicle as I scrub myself squeaky clean under the hot shower spray, then comb out my wet hair in the tiny bathroom, before dressing myself in the clothes I brought in here with me: tiny gray jersey shorts that hug my ass, and a low cut, clingy white top. My boobs aren’t big at all, but in this top they’re almost indecent.

The mirror has fogged over, but I wipe a patch clean and stare at myself. The ends of my damp hair rest against my white top, soaking through the fabric and turning it see-through. I’mscrubbed pink, wide-eyed, chest straining against my top as it rises and falls.

Perfect.

Nodding once, I hang up my towel and toss today’s clothes in the laundry basket. No need to think too hard about what I’m trying to achieve with these clothes; no need to admit to myself what I’m hoping for here. Because Axel’s on duty right now, and he probably doesn’t see me like that anyway, so why get my hopes up, you know? Why lead myself on?

“Tragic,” I mutter to the mirror, pausing one last time to fluff up my damp hair, then I spill back out into the apartment on a cloud of soap-scented steam.

My temporary bodyguard is sprawled in the armchair, his thick thighs straining against his leather bike pants. Does he ever take those off? Is there anything beneath? His dark hair is messy from first being rained on, then squished under a helmet, then dragged along my ceiling—but somehow it still looks good. Tuggable.

A movie flickers on the TV screen, the sound turned way down: an old, grainy Western movie from before I was born. Axel’s not watching the screen. He’s dragged the armchair into a new position, one where he can see both the window and the front door, and he’s scowling between them like he’s spoiling for a fight. His broad shoulders are tense.

“Everything okay?” I ask awkwardly, tip-toeing further into the room, and Axel grunts, his gaze pinned to the front door. It’s kind of funny to see him like this: with his boots kicked off and his hair all messy, but with a knife still sheathed at his belt. Half comfortable, but fully on duty. “There’s hot chocolate in the cupboard, if you want some. Or I could fetch you a glass of water.”

Axel shakes his head, staring at the window now. “I’m good,” he mutters.

I glance at the window too, where a nearby street lamp glows through the drawn curtains. “Did you hear something out there?”

Axel’s frown gets impossibly broodier. “No.”

Oookay. My churning stomach settles a little, and I risk a few more steps toward the armchair. “Then why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

Finally, he looks over—and startles at my clothes. That brooding gaze turns hungry, roaming all over my body, and Ifeelit like a hot caress. Like a pair of bristly lips dragging down my throat.

My nipples press against the fabric of my top. Axel zooms in on them, eagle-eyed, and grips the armchair with those big, scarred hands until it creaks. His jaw works, and something rushes over me—the giddy sense of power that comes with seeing my effect on this man.

Hewantsme.

Maybe not forever, maybe not in more than a physical way, but the fact is undeniable: my temporary bodyguard wants my body badly. The flush rising on his cheekbones and the tendon popping in his neck give him away. Not to mention the way he shifts, wincing at his suddenly tight bike leathers.

I burst out laughing and give a little twirl. The faint sounds of gunfire and racing hooves float from the TV.

“Those aren’t slobby PJs,” Axel says, and his deep voice is strained, but there’s humor there too. He holds out a hand for me, ordering me closer with an unspoken command, and I’m more than happy to skip over to his armchair. When I get in reach, he wraps his fingers around my wrist, anchoring me there. “Where are your comfy clothes?”

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