Page 20 of Falling for the Biker
Her hands drag along my skin until she’s collecting my hands in hers. Compared to my rough, calloused paws, hers look so small, so delicate. “Will you wash my hair?”
A simple request, but it feels far from it. I nod without thinking twice, my throat too tight for words.
When she turns away, presenting me with the vulnerable line of her back, and tilts her head back under the spray, I can’t help myself. I bend, pressing a chaste, lingering kiss to the damp slope of her shoulder.
I lather my hands with the simple soap I use—the same scent that now clings to her. As my fingers work into her hair, massaging her scalp, her whole body seems to sigh. It’s a soft, surrendering sound that goes straight through me.
I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve had women, but it was always about friction and release. This is different. This is about care. I watch, mesmerized, as the suds slide down her neck, over her shoulders, tracing the paths my lips just touched.
Her skin flushes a beautiful, warm pink under the hot water and my touch. Her eyes are closed, her lips slightly parted. She looks utterly at peace. Trusting. In my hands.
The sight of it, the feeling of her yielding to me so completely, is something I’ve never experienced.
“Step back.” The words come out rough. “Let me wash all of you.”
I want to get rid of any of her worries about that bastard’s touch remaining. When she thinks about tonight, I only want her to think about my hands and no one else’s.
9
Ruby
I used to be a girl who hoarded firsts like precious gems. I didn’t give away my first kiss until I was eighteen, and even then, it was a clumsy, breathless thing born from a dare, not desire. I was so terrified of giving a piece of myself away, of the vulnerability it required.
For most of my life, I’ve let fear be the architect of my boundaries. It built tall, sturdy walls that kept the world out, and more importantly, kept me safely contained inside. I never tried to change things because the unknown was always more frightening than the quiet misery of the familiar.
Not until I met Diesel.
He didn’t just make me feel safe; he made feeling afraid feel pointless. How can I be scared of the dark when he is a living shield, a constant, solid presence between me and any threat?
But now, under the spray of hot water, the threat is gone. And the man who demolished my fear of the world is now treading a line toward another first I’ve always been terrified to give away.
What happened in the stairwell was one thing, but this is different. Completely different.
Here I am—not frozen, not fleeing. I’m the one leaning into the rough warmth of his hands, arching into his touch. A low moan escapes my lips as his fingers, slick with soap, slide through the suds down my stomach and spread a different, hotter heat between my thighs.
What started as a simple, innocent washing has spiraled into something wild and undeniable. All because, without fear, a new part of me is emerging. A brave part. A hungry part.
Diesel’s trying to be a good man. He’s trying to be respectful. But just like everything else that’s happened since I stumbled into his life, I’m making something simple into something far more difficult.
The throb he’s created is deep inside, the ache that begs for more, isn’t something he’s taking on his own. Not without me begging for it.
Dragging his hand between my thighs had only been out of impulse to feed what I’m starving for, but now, I wish he’d follow along.
There’s no denying he wants this too. I can feel his arousal, too. His cock, stiff, presses into me with every shift, teasing me with what could come.
I want to give myself to this man. Right now, I’m not afraid. I’m really freaking turned on.
Tilting my head to look up at him, the hunger filling the depths of black is consuming, enough to make my thighs shake.
Turning around, I pull away from his touch, and my hands have a little shake to them. “Should I return the favor?”
I’m nowhere near tall enough to wash his hair, but his body? I can reach that.
His jaw clenches so tight I can see the muscle jump, and for a long moment, he just breathes. Finally, he nods.
I start by lathering my hands, then smoothing the suds over the hard planes of his chest, tracing the dark ink that tells stories I’m desperate to learn. I wash his arm, careful to keep his bandage as dry as I can. He seems less worried about it than I am.
Finally, I get to address the part of him that makes my stomach clench.
