Page 20 of Her Savior Biker
“Savior here! You stay! Make breakfast!”
Reyes’s deeper voice rumbles in response, trying to quiet him. “Easy, buddy. Mama’s still sleeping. We gotta be quiet, remember?”
“But you here,” Aiden’s whisper-shout is as subtle as a foghorn. “You stay all night.”
A warm, stupid flip happens in my chest at the pure joy in my son’s voice. When’s the last time he sounded that happy? That secure? The answer lodges in my throat—probably not since before Mason.
I should get up. Should join them and help with whatever breakfast situation they’re trying to manage. But I stay in bed instead, pressing my palms against my closed eyes, trying to process everything that happened last night.
My body is still alight with the memory of Reyes’s hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was something precious instead of something broken. I brush my fingers over my breasts and can still feel the heat of his attention there, the reverent way he touched me like he was memorizing every inch.
Heat pools low in my belly at the memory, and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. The way he made me come apart with just his fingers and his mouth—I’ve never felt anything like that. Never knew my bodycouldrespond like that. He gave me the kind of orgasms girls read and brag about.Othergirls.
And then he stopped.
Somebody’s got to be the adult in the room.
The words still sting, even though I understand what he meant. Even though he apologized and explained himself afterward. But lying here in the gray morning light, I can’t shake the feeling that he sees me as something fragile. Something that needs protecting, even from him.
I’m not a child. I’m a grown woman who knows exactly what she wants, and I want Reyes. All of him. The gentle way he reads bedtime stories to Aiden and the dangerous way he handles threats to our safety. The careful distance he tries to maintain and the raw hunger in his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking.
Maybe he’s right about needing time. Maybe we both need to figure out what this is before we cross a line we can’t uncross.
The smell of coffee drifts down the hallway, followed by the sizzle of something hitting a hot pan. My stomach growls, reminding me I barely ate dinner last night. Too wound up, too aware of Reyes’s every movement as we shared the small space.
“Pancakes.” Aiden’s screech carries clearly now, along with the sound of a chair scraping against the kitchen floor. “Like restaurant.”
“Not quite like a restaurant, buddy, but we’ll make ‘em work.”
The domestic sound of it—Reyes cooking breakfast for my son while I lie in bed like some princess—gets me moving. I’m not a woman who hides from awkward morning-afters, and I sure as hell am not starting now.
I pull on yesterday’s jeans and grab a clean sweater from my duffel bag, finger-combing my braids into some semblance of order. In the tiny bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and try to compose myself. Whatever happened between us last night doesn’t have to define this morning. If Reyes wants to pretend we didn’t nearly combust on the kitchen counter, I can play along. For now.
When I walk into the kitchen, Aiden is perched on a chair pushed up to the counter, supervising Reyes’s pancake-flipping with the seriousness of a quality control inspector.
“Mama.” He stands in his seat, pointing at the griddle. “Savior makes Mickey Mouse.”
Sure enough, a slightly lopsided Mickey Mouse shape is sizzling in the pan, complete with round ears that are more oval than circular. Reyes glances up at me, something careful in his expression as he gauges my mood.
“Morning,” he says, his voice neutral. Professional, almost.
“Morning.” I keep my tone equally light, accepting the coffee he slides across the counter toward me. “Mickey Mouse pancakes? That’s advanced-level dad skills.”
Something flickers across his face at the word ‘dad,’ gone so fast I might have imagined it. “YouTube tutorial while the coffee was brewing. The kid deserves cartoon pancakes.”
The simple statement hits me harder than it should.The kid deserves cartoon pancakes.Like it’s obvious. Like Aiden’s happiness is worth the extra effort it takes to shape batter into mouse ears at seven in the morning.
“Flip it!” Aiden commands, and Reyes obliges with a theatrical flourish that makes my son giggle.
I lean against the counter, sipping coffee and watching the man who's become central to our world in the span of a week. Reyes is wearing yesterday’s jeans and a black t-shirt that molds to his shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry. His hair is mussed from sleep, and the stubble darkening his jaw is a texture I want to feel under my fingertips. When he reaches for the maple syrup, I see how the shirt pulls across his back, and remembering his muscles under my hands last night makes my pulse quicken.
“Mama, you hungry?” Aiden asks, pulling me out of thoughts that have no business in a kitchen with a three-year-old present.
“Starving,” I say, with pure truth.
Reyes’s eyes meet mine, heat flaring there despite his carefully controlled expression. So maybe we’re not pretending nothing happened. Maybe we’re just… postponing the conversation.
“One Mickey Mouse special, coming up.” He slides the pancake onto a plate and hands it to Aiden, then starts pouring batter for the next one. “Regular shape okay for you, or did you want Mickey too?”
