Page 8 of Her Outlaw Biker
He shouldn’t affect me this way.
But he does.
Even when I was half-conscious, I could feel the heat rolling off him. I remember the way his arms felt around me—strong, protective. His callused hands treated my wound with suchunexpected care…and the moment he tucked the blanket around me, something inside me cracked.
He’s not just dangerous—he’s beautiful. Not in any safe or sane way, but in the kind of way that ruins you. He’s the kind of man my mother would warn me against if she were alive. He’s fire and ice. A storm I should take shelter from…yet—a bubbling curiosity stirs in my guts.
God, what’s wrong with me?
I pull the blanket tighter, trying to block the chill creeping in, but it’s not just the cold. It’s him. The memory of him. The way he looked at me like I was some puzzle he didn’t know whether to solve or destroy.
I reach out and take the shirt he dropped on the couch beside me, and before I can stop myself, I bury my face in the soft checkered material, inhaling the smell of him. He smells like leather and smoke, like the open road baked under a desert sun—sharp, wild, and a little dangerous. There’s a trace of motor oil and clean sweat clinging to the fabric, grounded by something unexpectedly warm. Sandalwood, maybe, or the faintest hint of cedar. It’s the scent of a man who doesn’t belong to anyone, who lives by his own rules…and it wraps around me like a memory I never had but suddenly can’t let go of.
I hesitate for only a second before standing up and pulling off my dusty, sweat-caked clothes, then slip the shirt over my head. It’s too big, of course, draping down over my thighs, the sleeves swallowing my hands, but somehow it feels like armor. Like safety. I’m pulling the last button closed, fingers trembling just slightly, when the door creaks open behind me.
I turn.
Ghost steps inside, shaking off the wind and dust like he’s carved out of the storm itself. His jacket is damp at the shoulders, hair slightly tousled. He looks up, his striking gray eyes clashing with mine.
My breath catches.
His gaze drags over me, slow, deliberate. Like he’s memorizing every inch of how I look in his shirt. His jaw tightens, one hand still on the doorknob, the other curled into a loose fist by his side. That unreadable expression he always wears slips, just for a second, and what’s underneath steals the air right out of the room.
Hunger. Raw, restrained, dangerous.
I press my legs together to relieve the strange heat building up in my core. My heart is beating too fast, my stomach knotting up under the intensity of his stare.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks finally, voice rough like gravel and smoke.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
My pulse is thrumming in my throat, hard and fast. I lower myself to the couch, wrapping the blanket around me like it’ll protect me from the heat in his eyes…from my body’s reaction to him.
His lips tilt upward in a faint smirk, and without a word, he steps closer. My breath catches when he crouches in front of me, his presence swallowing the space between us. He lifts his hand to my face, the rough pad of his thumb brushing my temple.
For a moment, I forget how to breathe. His touch is surprisingly gentle, his hand lingering for a second longer than it should. His gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back up, unreadable.
“You have a fever,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
The tension crackles, heavy and thick. Every nerve in my body is lit up and trembling like a tuning fork. I should pull away. I don’t.
“I’ll be fine,” I mumble, not quite meeting his eyes. My skin flushes. It’s just a touch, but it feels like he’s branded me.
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but almost.
“Sure,” he says simply, then straightens and steps back just enough that I can breathe again. Then his voice turns harder, cooler. “Now you’ve got two choices.”
I blink. “What?”
He nods toward the door. “You can walk away. Right now. Get on your bike and disappear before the storm gets worse.”
My stomach drops. “And the second?”
“Or you stay,” he says, voice like a combination of smoke and steel, “and start talking before I change my mind.”
I stare at him, blood pounding in my ears. Lightning flashes, right before a growl of thunder rumbles low and close. Wind is starting to beat against the sides of the trailer. This isn’t a passing storm, and I can’t survive out in it.
He knows that. So I don’t really have much of a choice.
