Page 21 of Jingle Belle's Biker

Nomad lifts his head and meows in approval.

“This is not my cat.”

“Maybe not, but I think you’re his human.”

“Can you leave the fucking creature be and help out?”

I grin. “Of course. And,” I say as I shift past him to wash my hands at the sink, “I like it spicy.”

“This might be the best guacamole ever,” I say, leaning back on the sofa, my shoes on the floor. I’m still in my work mode outfit, but with my shoes off, I feel relaxed.

If only the slight tremors of awareness didn’t spark along my veins, I might be tempted to fall into a food coma.

He’s good company, this biker named Saint. And the newly minted nomad does things to my heart. The cat stretches out on the floor, turning in a back arch that might make some yoga enthusiasts jealous.

“Learned it from a brother’s Mexican grandmother back when I lived on the California-Arizona border. Or was that Texas? One of them.”

I gaze at him and take another bite of the sinfully delicious, perfectly spicy tacos. The man-made the tortillas with masa harina and a chopping board to press. Something inside me swooned at seeing the big, bearded man cooking and handling things deftly.

“You’re not like any biker I know,” I say, taking another bite and then a small mouthful of the tequila and lime.

He looks at me from where he sits on the opposite side of the sofa, the cat rolling to attack one of his boots. “Do you know any other bikers?”

“No.” Heat flares. “I just meant you didn’t fit the stereotype in my head.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well . . .” I’ve got a metaphorical shovel, and I’m more than aware of the hole I’m digging.

“You think I go around and fuck a load of women, commit crimes. Have high-speed shootouts on my bike with rival gangs?”

“I . . .” I lick my lips, unsure what to say.

“Or maybe you think we’re all degenerates?”

“Maybe you knit for a living.”

“Maybe. But I think you mean the first, that’s all your cliché. Do you want to ride on the wild side, Little Red?”

“I’m a teacher.”

“So?”

He leans forward, steals my third taco, and takes a bite before putting it back. It should annoy me, even though I’m getting full. But it’s so weirdly intimate that I’m finding it hard to breathe. The scent of leather, lime, and sun suddenly invading my senses.

The sun is like fresh cotton in a breeze, something I want to bury my face in, something warm and appealing. The lime, sharp and unexpected. The leather, dark and sensual and full of things I don’t understand and desperately want.

When I pick up the rest of that taco, it’ll be almost like a kiss, and the one in my hand, the bite left, loses all appeal, and I want to put it back.

He catches my eye, holds it, and then leans farther in, down, and his mouth closes over the bite, and he sucks on my fingers.

The sensations that swarm inside me is like an explosion of heat and searing awareness coursing through my veins almost as if it were molten lava. Things go high and tingle. The suck of the wet touch of his tongue makes other things wet, like my panties. I swallow.

My body clamps and spasms.

Then he leans back. “I’m just teasing, Red.” He smiles, watching as I take a bite of the taco he tried first. “I like to knit.”

My mouth is where his was, and I can barely taste the taco as the slide of his tongue on my fingers, the suck of his lips, the heat and wetness all overwhelm me.

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