Page 52 of Baby for the Bikers

Her cheeks flush pink. “All of you?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

She looks down at her plate. “Kind of, yeah.”

I reach out, tilting her chin up so she has to meet my eyes. “Why?”

“Because I’m nothing special,” she says, so matter-of-factly it hurts. “Just a baker with a debt to pay.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, princess.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “You’re something else entirely.”

Her eyes widen slightly, and I watch as her pupils dilate, the green darkening to emerald. My thumb traces her lower lip almost of its own accord.

“How was the diner today?” I ask, not moving my hand.

She swallows, her lips parting under my touch. “Busy. The usual.”

“Did you serve a lot of customers?”

Something in my tone makes her breath catch. “I…yes. Quite a few.”

“Did they watch you?” I move closer, my knee bumping hers. “As you moved between tables? As you bent over to wipe them clean?”

Understanding dawns in her darkening eyes. “Some of them, maybe.”

“I would have.” My voice drops lower. “If I’d been there. Would’ve watched you all day.”

“Maddox…” Her voice is barely a whisper.

“But they can only look,” I continue, sliding my hand to cup her cheek. “They don’t get to touch. Not like this.”

“We’re not at the diner now,” she says, but her body leans toward mine.

“We could be.” I brush my lips against her ear. “In a way. If you want.”

Her breath hitches. “What do you mean?”

“Imagine it,” I murmur. “The diner after hours. Everyone gone. Just you and me.”

“And what would we do?” Her voice has that breathless quality that makes my blood run hot.

“Whatever we want.” I trail my fingers down her neck, feeling her pulse race. “No one is watching, but there’s the thrill of knowing someone could walk in any minute.”

She shudders slightly. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The risk of being caught.”

“I’d like you,” I correct, meeting her gaze. “Everywhere. Anywhere. But especially there, where you’ve been teasing me for weeks without even trying.”

“I haven’t been teasing you,” she protests weakly.

“Every time you bend over. Every time you reach up for something on a high shelf. Every time you lick the frosting from your fingers without realizing what it does to me.”

Her lips part, desire clear on her face. “Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“What you’ve imagined.” Her voice grows bolder. “What you’d do to me in the diner after hours.”

I pull her to her feet. “First, I’d clear a table. The one by the window.”

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