Page 5 of Falling for the Biker
Her head snaps up, and those big brown eyes light up when she sees me. It’s like watching the sun break through storm clouds. A smile curves her mouth, and it hits me right in the chest, a punch of warmth I don’t want.
I’m not used to this.
Pretty women don’t look at me like I’m the answer to their prayers; they look at me like I’m the warning. My body’s reaction isn’t confusion; it’s a hunger I’ve disciplined out of myself, roaring back to life for the one woman I can’t have.
There’s a cup tucked inside her folded grip, and I’m willing to bet the drink inside is long gone. Still, she clutches it like it’s some kind of lifeline. Something to ground her.
“Let’s go.” Jerking my chin, I don’t let myself apologize for making her wait for so long.
If she were willing to stay here, then her issue is severe enough to get our help.
“Where are we going?” Fumbling with her words as she gets up, she does as I ask and tosses her cup away as we leave the building.
“To see the guy who will tell me if I can help you or not.” No point in throwing around names just yet.
Leaving the cafe, a gust of wind hits us, and I notice how gray the clouds are looking today. I hope the weatherman knew what he was talking about this morning. I don’t want any rain getting in my way.
She stares at my motorcycle but doesn’t move. Shifting from one foot to the other, I watch as she bites the inside of her cheek. Proving my theory right even more, I’m sure she avoids anything scary.
“I’m a good driver. Never crashed.” Don’t know why I’m feeling the need to reassure her. What I should be doing is moving this along. “Do I need to hold your hand?”
Ruby’s cheeks go red instantly, and she instantly shakes her head. “I’ve just never ridden on one, that’s all.”
My mouth twitches when she tries to keep her head up as she carefully approaches. When she throws her leg over and takes a seat, she looks up at me with a pinched expression.
She’s cute. Okay, I get it. She’s got a face that can easily attract a bastard and trick him into thinking her smile means something else.
I feel like another thought of mine has been proven right.
This womanistrouble.
I swing my leg over the bike, settling in front of her. The engine growls to life beneath us. She doesn’t need instruction; her arms slide around my waist, her hands fisting my shirt.
Her grip is desperate, and the press of her body against my back is a brand of heat that sears through my leather cut.
I reach back to position her thighs for our comfort, avoiding any risk of her burning herself. While my hand engulfs her legs, even through the denim, I feel the slender shape of it, the heat of her skin. A jolt goes through me, straight to my groin. Fuck.
“It’s a short drive. Just lean when I do,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended. I feel her nod, a slight movement against my spine. When we pull out, her grip tightens, and she presses herself flush against me. A few strands of her hair escape, whipping against the back of my neck. Each touch is a tiny lick of fire. I’m hyper-aware of every inch of her—the softness of her chest against my back, the way her thighs bracket my hips.
My cock has a mind of its own, and all I can be is relieved that she’s behind me, not in front.
When was the last time I had someone on my bike? My sister won’t go near it. Many of the women who hang around the clubhouse don’t even try with me.
Ruby’s the first woman on my bike in a long while. I’d forgotten what it felt like—the intimacy of it, the trust it requires.
Her warmth soaks into me, a temporary comfort I have no right to take. This is a job. A favor. For a man like me, it can’t be anything else.
I crush the feeling, smothering it before it can take root.
Women like Ruby offer a glimpse of a life I don’t get to live, the normalcy I don’t know. Once her problem is solved, she’ll see the monster behind the savior and run. And she’d be right to. Enjoying this is a path to pain for both of us.
3
Ruby
The entire drive, my mind isn’t on my bucket list and all the things that would be left unchecked if I die on this deathtrap of a vehicle; it’s trapped in the present, hyper-aware of the solid wall of muscle I’m clinging to.
My arms are wrapped around Diesel’s waist, my front pressed flush against his back. With every shift of the bike, I feel the flex and play of his abdomen beneath my hands. The fear of death is there, but it’s tangled up with a more startling sensation. A thrilling, terrifying sense of being alive.
