Page 19 of Falling for the Biker
She’s crying. Trying to muffle the sound so I won’t hear. The dam has broken, and she’s alone in there, letting it out where she thinks I can’t see.
Shoving my fingers through my hair, I give her a few minutes to herself. As many as I can give her before the need to take away the space grows too big. Approaching the door, I tap my knuckles against the wood.
“Ruby?” My voice is as tight as the rest of my being. “Are you alright in there?”
Then, her voice, small but clear through the door. “You can come in.”
The invitation makes my damn heartflutter. I push the door open slowly, and a cloud of steam, carrying the faint, clean scent of my soap, rolls out to greet me. The room is hazy, the mirror already fogged over.
The shower continues to hiss, water sloshing against tile.
She’s hidden behind the fogged glass of the shower stall, a blurred silhouette. I lean back against the sink, the cool porcelain a stark contrast to the heat in the room. I try to find the right words, the ones that will fix this, but my mind is drawing blanks. All I can manage is a strained, “Talk to me.”
Minutes pass, filled with nothing but the drip of water and the weight of everything unsaid. Then, her voice comes again, softer now, laced with a vulnerability that cracks me wide open.
“Diesel?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
A pause. A deep breath. Then, the unthinkable.
“Will you… join me?” The words are barely a whisper, but they echo in the small, steamy room. “I don’t want to be alone. I just… I need a distraction. From everything in my head.”
Every muscle in my body locks. This isn’t what I expected. This is a trust deeper than any declaration. She’s not asking for a protector right now. She’s asking for a sanctuary. She’s asking for me.
I am happy to be whatever she needs.
“Yeah,” I rasp, the word thick with emotion. “I can do that.”
My first instinct is to look at her, but I force my gaze down, focusing on the task at hand.
I grab the hem of my shirt, the fabric stiff and unyielding. Peeling it over my head is a struggle; the blood from my arm has dried, acting like a cruel glue, tugging at the wound and the hairs on my skin with a sharp, sticky pull. I hiss through my teeth, finally wrenching it off and letting it fall to the floor.
My hands go to my belt next. The leather is cool and familiar under my fingers, a stark contrast to the humid air. I work the buckle, the metallic clink unnaturally loud in the steamy silence. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, on the water droplets beading near my boots. I can feel her presence just a few feet away, a warm, living shape in the mist. I don’t let my eyes drift. Not yet.
I can do this. I can be what she needs.
Toeing off my boots, shucking my jeans, and stepping out of them, I will my cock not to thicken. Easier said than done when the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with stands only a couple of feet away.
I’m a grown man, I can control myself. Whatever she wants, I’ll give it to her.
When there’s nothing left between me and this moment, do I finally slide the shower door open, the steam billowing out like a breath. There she is, no longer a blur but real and breathtaking, her skin flushed, her eyes holding a silent plea while her hair clings to her body in long tendrils.
Her beautiful, perfect body.
“Turn around for me.” The order comes out in a rasp as I pinch my eyes shut only moments after she does. Only a couple of seconds to drink in the front of her feels like a lifetime. “You’re gorgeous, Ruby. You know that?”
She lets out this dry laugh and hums. Then, I feel her fingers against my skin. Cracking my eyes open, I’m quick to see she’s not only following my demands, but doing what she wants, too. Her attention is glued to the sun on my right pec. As she traces the thick lines, her eyes explore.
“You have tattoos everywhere.” Murmuring the observation, her eyes flicker low enough to make my stomach clench. Her fingers slide low, and as a way to distract herself from her problems, she traces my scars next.
I’ve been stabbed twice, no—three times now. Broke a rib or two in a couple of fights. Somehow, I haven’t been shot like some of my brothers. Other injuries are less lethal. A few scuffs from fights occurring over too many drinks and disagreements, or fights between my guidance and prospects questioning my methods.
“Not a lot of people like tattoos.” I look over her body, forcing my eyes past her rosy nipples and the swell of her stomach. Her skin is bare, not a single line in sight. “Some hate them.”
“I like them.” The words come out soft, and she tilts up to look at me. “They look really good on you.”
Her compliment makes me smile. Not like I could take the art away, nor would I want to. But having her take in my appearance like this is something I could get used to. There’s always an openspot somewhere. Whenever she gets tired of looking, I’ll add something new.
