Page 80 of Jingle Belle's Biker

Nomad’s in heaven because someone’s feeding him bacon and cheese, making sure there’s no tomato sauce on any of the bits the cat gets.

He’s purring loudly, and I’m soft inside, the whiskey doing its job. Saint’s talking to the cat, telling him he’s a good cat for vermin and it makes my heart squeeze and dance.

For a big bad biker who insists on repeating the cat isn’t his, Nomad’s burrowed in to Saint’s heart.

Anyone can see it.

Even if Saint doesn’t.

Or, rather, denies it.

His care for the cat, the fact he adapted one of those popular hard-shell pet backpacks so the animal can ride with him means something.

He won’t abandon Nomad.

“Fuck. You’re wearing this look, like you’re going to solve all the problems of the world.” He tilts his head. “Or just me. Don’t try and solve me. It won’t work.”

“You’re not as bad as you think.” I pause, refusing to let his words get to me. Refusing to let Sin’s. I know the score. This is a now thing, and I can worry about the future or enjoy it, and I want the latter. “By bad, I mean badass.”

“Ouch. Well, since we’re being all fucking honest. . .” He slides a hand around my shoulders, and Nomad jumps up, putting his paws on Saint’s thigh. “You’re not as sweet and innocent, either.”

“I am.”

He grins. “And what was that in my garage?”

Heat shoots through me.

I pick up the whiskey glass and take a swallow. “Oh, you mean when I asked about Nomad’s carry case?”

“Oh, that, and the fucking blowjob.” He leans in, kissing me. “You taste even sweeter when it’s tinged with embarrassed pride.”

I swallow. “Pride?”

“Pride.”

I let that settle. Does that mean . . . I look at him, and he’s so close, I note the couple of gray hairs in his beard. Why didn’t I notice them before? I?—

“You liked it?”

“Didn’t I tell you that out of the top ten best experiences, that comes into the top five.”

“Oh.”

“Wanna know what they are, Red?”

Thing is I want to kiss him, anything to not hear the list and yes, because I want to. Or maybe I do want to hear it. He ties me up in the kind of knots I’m not sure how to get out of. “I don’t know.”

“Sure, you do. In no particular order, except for number one, there’s that, eating you out, fucking you, swapping Serial Killers R Us shopping tips, and in first place? Kissing you for the first time.”

I spill the whiskey. He eases it from my hand.

“That might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said.”

“No,” he says, “that’s the fucking truth. I’m not a romantic guy. Shit.”

Then he pulls me into him, sending Nomad scrambling off with a hiss and a yowl of annoyance. Saint kisses me.

Deep, meandering, the kind of kiss that makes breath meaningless. I tumble into it, turning, climbing on his lap on the sofa so I can take his face and kiss him hard.

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