Page 51 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“Can we keep him, Mommy?”

“No, he’s Mr. Saint’s cat.” Then she scrambles off her barstool. “I need to be back here tomorrow. You wouldn’t babysit, Belle? I know you must be over kids on the weekend?—”

“I’d love to.” Then I go to get up too but Saint’s hand comes down on my shoulder, keeping me there. It’s not a firm hold, but it’s enough to stop me from moving at least without a scene.

Or maybe the scene’s in my head.

Because I really, really want to be with him.

Just for a night.

To taste.

Feel.

See.

I want that wild walk where I’ve never been, far away from Lance or the other two nice guys I’ve had sex with. I want . . .

I want my world torn apart and my mind blown.

I think Saint can do that.

“Can I get a lift, Mel?”

She goes to answer, but Saint leans in. “Coward, Red. Pretty little coward.”

“I-if you want?” But she looks at him as she says it, and it comes out as a question to him.

He meets my eye, and I’m caught. Willingly.

I want whatever might happen.

It’s probably nothing. After all, he made that clear last night. Or I made things screwy. But he did kiss me in the first place. Then he kissed me again. So maybe . . .

I want this.

Whatever this is.

Just once, I want to let go.

“Actually, Mellie, Saint’s going to give me a ride home.” Then I smile at him. “Nomad too.”

“This fucking cat,” Saint mutters, unzipping his jacket and letting Nomad jump free.

I smile, ignoring the rapid and irregular beat of my heart. The cat winds around my ankles, rubbing up against me, and all I can feel is the tingle in my body where I touched Saint on the ride home.

My hands are full of tiny sparks of static electricity, the heat of him, of where my hands were, low on his hips, clasped just above his dick. And I’m not just throbbing, I’m aching. The rumble of the engine is still vibrating in me, and I know I’m wet. And pressed so tight against him . . .

He pulled me that close. He placed my hands on him.

The low whistle of Gravel when we left still burns in my ears and senses. But it pales to the sear of the look Saint gave me when he asked if I wanted to go.

“Belle?”

I swallow. “Saint?”

He goes to say something, but he grabs my throat and backs me into the wall, in the pool of darkness from the overhead light that burned out, just before his apartment.

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