Page 36 of Biker's Tribute: Property of Bear

I take her hand, forcing Amanda to cast her wicked glare upon me directly. But she doesn't yank it away or force me to let go.

"I don't want to hurt you. I'm not like that guy earlier."

She shivers.

"You didn't have to do that," she says. But she doesn't acknowledge the other part of my statement.

"I saw his hand on your ass. He was twice your size. If anything like that ever happens to you again... I'll kill the guy."

"And go to jail?"

"I'm not in prison yet," I respond, dropping her hand and stripping my shirt off. I'm serious about this shower and even more serious about watching Amanda's response.

If I can't place any more bets or watch pig races or any of that shit, I need entertainment. She looks my chest up and down, but doesn't visibly react.

"I work out a lot."

"I can tell." She doesn't seem impressed.

"What? You like fat guys?"

Amanda rolls her eyes. "I like guys I have a connection with."

"You had a connection with me on the Mass Turnpike."

"You were trying to kill me with that death trap. I clung to you for dear life."

My body ached as she clung to me with those vicious badger claws, but the pain felt strangely good. She can pretend that my abs don't affect her, but she won't be able to hide her reaction to my dick. Every woman has reacted the same way.

With one hand, I undo my belt buckle and have to work to slide my pants and underwear over my thick, muscular legs. I had the most impressive football career of all my brothers and while I might be a little old to withstand a tackle... I'm in even better shape now than I was back then, my muscles defined with maturity and more purposeful shaping.

My dick hangs about halfway down my femur, semi-hard. Amanda looks at it. And looks at it. But she says nothing. No reaction. Even if I just showed her a twelve-inch dick in the flesh.

"You need water to shower," she says sassily and then spreads her hand out in front of her like she's conducting a thorough examination of her fingernails.

Heat courses through me.

"You don't smell so good yourself," I growl at her. "Maybe you should shower before bed."

"You first," she responds dismissively, picking at the nail bed of her middle finger.

She's ignoring me. Which takes effort. Which must mean she's concealing her true feelings. I make my dick jerk a little to get her attention, but she just picks at that nail bed, refusing to give me a second look until I turn the shower on.

When I step inside, I catch her in my peripheral vision and smirk.

Did she really think I would miss that blatant double take? I knew there would be parts of me she couldn’t resist. Especiallythat part.Amanda might be a fancy doctor, but she’s also a human woman with the same vulnerabilities as any normal, red-blooded woman.

I turn the water on, running it lukewarm. I imagine Amanda gazing at my ass as I turn to face the water. Get a good look, sweetheart. She clears her throat, trying to urge me to walk under the water, but I pretend to test the temperature a little longer.

When I get her nice and comfortable looking at my butt, I step beneath the water and face the nozzle, letting it drip down my body, soak my hair and my beard, get my skin all tingly and clean. From the first rinse, I smell the road on my body. Asphalt and gasoline. The scent forces a cigarette craving. And a poker craving. I crave just about anything I can get addicted to. It’s in my nature. Been that way since I was a kid.

Every real gambler remembers his first big win and the incredible rush that is still better than any sex I’ve had so far. I’m willing to bet Amanda’s thick ass could change that situation, but like I said, I’m willing to bet on just about anything. My first win was pot bellied pig racing, believe it or not. I bet on the runt because he was named Bart Simpson after my favorite television menace. He won by a lot because the bigger boars, distracted by pheromones or something, quit racing and fought each other instead. Bart was the only one who launched his ass out of the pig pile.

Never lost my taste for gambling on state fair pig races. Worst thing I’ve ever done was drive all the way from Kentucky to Florida aided by some of Ruger’s speed to bet on multiple races in the same weekend.

“Showering usually involves soap,” Amanda says critically. My mind did wander off there thinking about old Bart Simpson. What a pig.

“You can come show me how any time, Dr. Yancey.”

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