Page 9 of Her Obsessed Biker
“Next time,” Rock says, taking one step forward, “don’t mean anything within two hundred feet of her. Got it?”
They nod jerkily, instantly backing off with their hands raised in surrender. No fight. No back talk. Just three grown men scrambling like rats with their tails on fire.
Rock turns to me then, and for one long, breathless moment, we just stare at each other. His eyes scan me from top to toe, making sure I’m whole, unharmed.
“You okay?” he asks finally, voice still low but without the edge.
I nod, barely. “Y-Yeah. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “They touch you?”
“No.”
He exhales, long and slow. Then steps closer. The scent of leather, smoke, and something distinctly male wraps around me like a second skin.
“This place isn’t for someone like you,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine.
I force my chin up. “Someone like me?”
“Innocent. Unarmed. Unprepared.”
I should be offended. But instead, heat curls in my stomach, wicked and slow.
“I can handle myself.”
The words leave my mouth sharper than I intend, but it’s a lie and we both know it. Still, I need the illusion of control.
Rock doesn’t move.
If anything, he steps closer.
The heat of his body rolls over me like a wave, thick and suffocating. One second I’m standing beside my truck, and the next, I’m pinned between it and him, without him even touching me.
His hands are still at his sides, fingers loose, relaxed…but every inch of him screams control. Power. A silent kind of domination that makes my knees feel like water.
“You think you can handle yourself, huh?” His voice is a low murmur. Dangerous and dark. “Think you’d be okay if I were one of them?”
My breath catches. “You’re not.”
“No?” His head tilts. “What makes you so sure, darlin’?”
The way he saysdarlin’wrecks me. Smooth and gravelly and intimate enough to make heat flare low in my belly.
“I’d know,” I whisper, before I can stop myself.
A muscle ticks in his jaw.
And then, like a switch flipping, his big, hard body is pressing forward, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel every breath he takes. He raises one hand, planting it against the truck beside my head, then brushes the other lightly along my hip as he leans in, his movement slow and predatory.
“You wouldn’t last two minutes in this world,” he says, his lips hovering just above mine. “Not without someone like me keeping the wolves off your pretty little neck.”
His voice is a mixture of heat and danger, a low masculine challenge that makes every part of me hum with a delicious sensation.
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do,” he cuts in, voice a rough whisper. “You want to prove otherwise?”
His mouth is inches from mine. So close I can feel the rasp of his breath on my lips.
