Page 39 of Baby for the Bikers

The control I’ve maintained cracks instantly. I take her mouth with a hunger that should frighten her, my hands tangling tighter in her hair to angle her head exactly how I want it. She matches my intensity without hesitation, the wet shirt dropping forgotten to the floor as her hands clutch at my face, my shoulders, anything she can reach.

I break away, breathing hard. “You don’t want this,” I warn, my voice barely recognizable. “You can’t handle me.”

Her eyes flash, something familiar in their depths—a defiance that reminds me of another life where people told her what she couldn’t do. “I want this,” she says firmly. “I can handle you.”

“No.” I shake my head, fighting the need pulsing through every inch of me. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

She pushes against my chest, anger replacing desire. “You Kane brothers are all jerks,” she snaps, trying to move past me.

“I catch her waist before she can reach the door, the feel of her bare skin under my hands nearly undoing me. The hurt in her eyes cuts deeper than it has any right to. “It’s not that simple.”

“Itisthat simple.” Her voice drops, challenge in every syllable. “Unless you’re afraid.”

The accusation hits its mark. I’ve been trained to withstand torture, to face death without flinching, but I have no defense against this woman calling me a coward.

In one fluid motion, I lift her onto the supply table, my hands spanning her waist. She gasps, surprise and heat mingling in her expression. I don’t give her time to reconsider, to realize she’s making a mistake.

My hands go to her shoes first, yanking them off one by one and tossing them aside without a second thought. Then her jeans—tugged down, peeled away, leaving her in nothing but black lace and that soaked-through bra that still clings to her curves.

I suck in a breath. Fuck.

She’s perfect. Full thighs, full breasts, a body carved out exactly how I like it. My hands move without thinking, instinct taking over as I drag my palms up her legs, feeling the smooth heat of her skin.

She watches me, chest rising and falling, lips parted, that same defiant need in her eyes. I want to wreck it. I want to see those eyes go glassy. Her body melts against mine, all that bravado turned into helpless want.

I slide my hands higher, skimming the bare skin of her stomach before tracing the swell of her breasts through her damp bra. She sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, her nipples already tight beneath the soaked lace, begging for my attention.

“Ryder—”

“Shh.” I drag my thumbs over the hardened peaks, watching her reaction. The way her breath stutters, the way she instinctively arches, pressing into my hands.

I do it again, feeling the stiff peaks through the fabric, rolling them between my fingers just enough to make her shiver. I tilt her chin up with one hand, forcing her gaze to mine. Her lips are parted, kiss-swollen, her pupils blown wide with heat.

“You want me to take this off, don’t you?” I murmur, brushing my lips against hers, barely touching, letting the words ghost over her mouth.

She nods again, but that’s not enough.

“Say it,” I demand, pressing a teasing kiss to one corner of her lips, then the other, never giving her what she really wants.

Her breath hitches. “I want?—”

I cut her off with a kiss. My tongue slides against hers, coaxing, dominating, swallowing the little sound of need she makes. Her fingers clutch at my shirt, gripping it like she’s holding on for dear life.

I want her completely undone.

I kiss her harder, deeper, pouring everything into it—control, hunger, the raw possessiveness clawing its way to the surface. My fingers still tease her through her bra, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over her nipples until she’s squirming against me. Her moans are soft and needy, and I can feel the heat between her thighs, can feel the way she’s already soaked and desperate.

I pull back just enough to meet her gaze, dragging my thumb over her kiss-swollen lower lip. “Take off your bra,” I order, voice low, dark. “Now.”

She doesn’t hesitate. Her fingers slip behind her back, unclasping the tiny hooks, and she lets the straps slide down her arms. Her breath is quick and unsteady.

The lace falls away, and fuck.

I go still.

For a second, I just look.

Her breasts are full, gorgeous, fucking perfect, soft curves topped with tight, dusky nipples already begging for my mouth.I trail my hands up her sides, slow, deliberate, palms skimming her ribs before finally cupping her breasts in both hands.

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