Page 13 of Guarded By a Broody Biker

Six

Axel

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of this all goddamn afternoon. Not enough to let my guard down, not enough to get distracted and risk Jem’s safety, but as a constant background thing.

How pretty Jem is. How spiky and strong and cute.

What her slender body would feel like pressed against mine.

And how she’d shiver beneath my touch—how she’d widen her thighs for me, letting me closer to that secret heat—

“That’s it.” I lick the bare skin of Jem’s shoulder, soothing where I bit down. She tastes like soap and rainwater, and beneath all that, sweet as toffee. Or maybe that part’s in my mind. “Relax, princess. Let me in. Good girl.”

Her body clutches at my finger, so tight and hot and wet, and it’s like her inner muscles can’t decide whether to suck me deeper or force me back out again. I’m only as far as the second knuckle, and already we’re both shaking as I press inside, my wrist jammed awkwardly between her thighs.

What would she feel like wrapped around my cock instead? Would Jem claw at my shoulders and urge me deeper? Would she moan and thrash and beg for more? Or would it be too much for her?

I’m not a small man. I’m big and brutal all over.

But some instinct deep inside me says Jem could take me. That she wasbuiltfor my cock, just like I was made for her.

“Perfect,” I grit out, hiding a smile in Jem’s hair when she moans, lifting her hips and trying to ride my hand. “You’re so goddamn perfect, Jem, look at you.”

A few more heated words, a hungry kiss beneath her jaw, and then my finger slips deeper inside, pressing as far as it can go. Jem’s body clutches at my digit, her inner muscles rippling with desire.

Christ, it’s hard to think straight when she does that.

In the end, it doesn’t take long. We’re both too keyed up, too on edge, with every single touch feeling electric. Jem rides my hand, crying out until her voice cracks, while I urge her on, thrusting deep with my middle finger while grinding my palm on her clit.

My wrist aches, but I don’t care.

The armchair creaks, but I don’t care.

I’m too hot in my leathers, sweaty and uncomfortable, and I badly need to change, but I Do. Not. Care.

Nothing matters except Jem’s weight in my lap, and her hair tickling my neck, and the shocked sound she makes when stiffens up and comes—like she didn’t expect how this all would end.

The light from the TV screen flickers across our tangled bodies. We sit in silence for a long time, limbs sprawled, breathing hard.

Twenty four hours? I’m not sure I can walk away from this girl.

* * *

Jem falls asleep so easily, she reminds me of my old man. One minute she’s fussing around the bed, plumping the pillow and asking me for the millionth time if I want to share. The answer, as I explain to her gently, isyes, of course I want to sleep beside her, but if I stretch out on that tiny single bed, I’ll reduce it to a pile of lumber. She laughs, and it takes some of the bitterness away.

The next minute, Jem’s tucked up and breathing softly, the blankets clutched beneath her chin, while traffic rumbles past outside the window and the streetlamp glows steadily through the curtains.

I watch her for a long time from my spot on the floor. She built me a kind of nest on the rug, with a spare blanket and a wadded up clean towel for my head, and I stretch out gingerly, careful not to knock any furniture. I’ve changed into the sweatpants from my backpack, and my limbs feel weirdly unencumbered after a full day of leathers, but my mind is crystal clear.

Sure, it’s warm and dry and I’ve slept in plenty of worse places—but this isn’t gonna be a good night’s sleep for me.

But then, it wouldn’t be anyway. I’m on duty, and I need to stay alert. Really, I’m just lying down to work the kinks out of my back.

Hours pass, and shadows shift across the ceiling. Even in the half-darkness, I pick out at least three DIY projects for me to do tomorrow before leaving Jem’s apartment, and I make a mental list of supplies I’ll need to run out for. It’s restfulthinking, meditative and calm, so my breathing is steady when a floorboard creaks outside the front door.

I go still, ears pricking.

A person shifts their weight out there. Something metal scratches against the lock, like a key held by a clumsy hand—but after a few failed tries, the key slides into the door and turns.

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