Page 16 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“I’ll see how things go,” I say, leaving all that out. It’s shit she probably knows, anyway.

It’s a city, but it isn’t big.

She nods. “I’ve got an early morning and homework to mark. Also, a bus to try and catch.”

“Bus?”

“My stupid car isn’t working. It’s the one-half in its parking spot because that’s where it decided to conk out.”

“Might want to get it seen to,” I say, fingers itching to get at a motor. “On account, you need a car that works.”

“After I get paid.”

I don’t push it because, though she doesn’t dress like someone struggling to make ends meet, I also don’t know her or her situation.

I remind myself that I’m not really going to.

She finishes her beer with long swallows that allow me to appreciate her throat. The delicate skin, the way it moves as she drinks, and I can’t fucking help but think of her swallowing other things, of my di?—

I shut that majorly inappropriate line of thought down.

Belle looks about for somewhere to put the can, but I push off the wall, come over to her, and take it.

She rises at the same time, and we’re close, too close. I’m hit with the faintest scent of honeysuckle and rosemary, fresh and sweet. Like a morning walk through a garden in bloom.

The heat of her warms me. I’m not sure how, but it does, like a transference through osmosis. As her tits rise and fall, tits I know are bigger than they look and soft as sweet fuck from the ride home with her pressed in against me, I want to see how soft the rest of her is. How inviting.

The urge to touch her hair is almost overwhelming. It looks like curling silk, and it hangs down her back to below her shoulder blades. Her baby bangs, the type that no doubt add to the buttoned-up deliciousness of her when her hair’s pulled up.

“I’ll walk you to your door, Belle.”

“Oh, I live right above you.”

It’s not a no. It’s not a yes. It’s a breathless little knock sideways of surprise that invites me in.

There are all types of women who get off on the rough and tumble image of a biker, of what we represent in their minds. Outlaws, secret societies, wild sex. Crime. I’ve seen them all before, from all walks of life, wanting one or all of those in me.

I can give them wild sex. I can give them my own rules and laws, but I’m not the criminal type. I don’t usually go for the woman worked up over what she perceives me as.

There’s an unconscious invitation in Belle, but I don’t think it’s from anything like that. I think it’s her and the spark of awareness in the air.

“So, I can bang on my ceiling if you get too loud?”

Her blush is so fucking worth it.

I almost tuck a strand of hair behind her ear when a meow shatters the mood.

We both turn.

There, on the windowsill, like it rose right up from fucking hell, is that damn black cat. It looks at me and yawns.

“Oh my God,” she says, holding out a hand to the cat. It jumps down and saunters up to her, rubbing on her leg and headbutting her hand. She scratches it behind the ears, and the fucking little monster purrs loud. “You have a cat. What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. It’s not my cat.”

“Sure seems like your cat.” Her attention is completely on the furry black cockblocker. “You’re a cutie, aren’t you?”

I swear the fucking thing gives me a feline-smug side eye.

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