Page 26 of Her Savior Biker
He grabs the thick blankets from behind the couch—the ones he’s been sleeping on—and spreads them on the floor. It’s not romantic, but it’s ours. This space where he’s read bedtime stories to my son and held me through nightmares.
When he turns back to me, his shirt is gone, and I forget how to breathe.
Broad shoulders, a chest carved with muscle and marked with scars that tell stories I want to learn. Dark hair trailing down hisstomach to disappear beneath his jeans. He’s beautiful in a way that’s purely masculine, dangerous, and protective all at once.
“Come here,” he says, patting the pallet he's made.
I don't hesitate. When his hands find the clasp of my bra, and the lace falls away, his eyes darken. I feel powerful instead of vulnerable.
“Perfect,” he breathes, cupping my breasts. “So fucking perfect.”
When his mouth finds my nipple, circling it with his tongue before drawing it between his lips, I cry out softly and bury my fingers in his dark hair. The sensation shoots straight through me, pooling hot and low between my thighs.
He worships me with his mouth, his hands, learning what makes me gasp and arch against him. When he lays me back on the blankets, working his way down my body with slow, deliberate kisses, I’m already trembling.
“Reyes, please—”
“I got you, baby.” He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my jeans, looking up at me with those hazel eyes. “Let me take care of you.”
I lift my hips, helping him strip away the last barriers. Then I’m finally naked beneath him, sprawled on his blankets. I should feel exposed. Instead, I feel claimed.
“You’re mine,” he says, and it’s not a question.
“Yes.” The word is a whisper, but it carries everything I feel for this man who saved me, who protected me, who’s about to lose everything because he chose me.
His hands slide up my thighs, parting them gently. His fingers find me wet and needy; we both groan.
“So ready for me,” he murmurs, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves until I’m writhing. “How long has it been, baby?”
“Three years.” I can barely get the words out. “Since before Aiden.”
Something flickers across his face—possessiveness, or just pure male satisfaction at being the first to touch me in so long. He slides one finger inside me, then two; my back arches off the blankets.
“Tight,” he grits out. “So fucking tight.”
He works me with patient skill, adding a third finger when I start rocking against his hand, his thumb never stopping its maddening circles. The pleasure builds until I’m gasping his name, until I’m on the edge of something I haven’t felt in years.
“That’s it,” he encourages. “Come for me, Shannon. Let me see you fall apart.”
When the orgasm hits, it steals my breath. I cry out, my body clenching around his fingers as pleasure crashes through me. He works me through it, murmuring praise against my skin until I’m boneless and shaking.
“Beautiful,” he says when I finally come down, pressing soft kisses to my stomach. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”
But I’m not done. Not even close.
I sit up, pushing him back so I can work on his jeans.
“Shannon, you don’t have to—”
“I want to." My hands move frantically "Need to touch you. Taste you. I want everything.”
When I free him from his boxers, my mouth goes dry. He’s thick and hard and perfect. When I wrap my hand around him, his head falls back with a groan that goes straight to my core.
“Fuck, baby. Your hands—”
I stroke him slowly, learning the weight of him, the way he pulses in my palm. When I lean down and take him in my mouth, tasting salt and heat, he threads his fingers through my braids and holds on like I’m his anchor.
“Jesus, Shannon.” His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. “Your mouth—fuck, I’m not gonna last.”
