Page 10 of Claimed By the Bikers
Everything goes red around the edges.
I cross the distance between us in three steps, grab the bastard by his collar, and slam him face-first onto the nearest table. His arm goes behind his back in a move I learned in the Army, twisted just to the edge of breaking.
“Touch her again and I’ll snap your arm like a twig,” I growl in his ear, my Scottish accent thick with rage. “You understand me?”
“Jesus, okay, okay!”
“You’re going to apologize to the lady, and then you’re going to walk out that door and never come back.”
“Sorry,” he gasps. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything.”
I let him up, but stay ready to put him down again if he tries anything else. He scrambles toward the door, muttering under his breath, and disappears into the night.
When I turn back to Ember, she’s standing exactly where she was, but her face has gone pale and her hands are shaking slightly.
“You all right?” I ask, moving toward her slowly.
She nods, but I can see tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“No, you’re not fine. Come here.”
I lead her toward the back, toward the storage room where we were earlier, because she needs somewhere private to collect herself, and I need somewhere private to deal with the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
In the dim light of the storage room, she leans against the shelving unit and takes a shaky breath.
“I’ve dealt with worse,” she says, but her voice wavers slightly.
“Shouldn’t have to deal with it at all.” I stand in front of her, close enough to offer comfort but not so close as to crowd her. “Nobody puts their hands on you without permission. Not in my bar.”
She looks up at me. “Thank you,” she whispers.
She’s standing there in the dim storage room light, ponytail coming loose from her shift, cheeks still flushed pink from what happened. Lips slightly parted as she tries to catch her breath.
Christ, she’s beautiful.
“Ah, bollocks,” I mutter under my breath. “This is a terrible idea.”
I cup her face in my hands and kiss her, hard and desperate.
Her lips are warm and taste faintly of mint gum. When she kisses me back, her mouth opening under mine, her hands grip the front of my shirt and pull me closer. I back her against the metal shelving, my body pressing into hers, and she makes this soft sound in her throat that goes straight through me.
My hands slide down to her waist, then lower to cup her ass, pulling her hips against mine. She moans into my mouth, the sound muffled but desperate, and her fingers tangle in my hair.
And the only thing I can think is how Atlas is going to kill me if he finds out.
4
EMBER
“Fuck.”I push against Garrett’s chest, breaking the kiss with a gasp. “This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.”
His eyes are dark and confused, but he steps back immediately. “Ember?—”
“No. Just…no.” I smooth down my shirt with shaking hands and bolt.
The walk back to the motel is torture. Ten minutes of replaying every second, analyzing every mistake, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
I’m a federal agent, for Christ’s sake. I don’t lose control. I don’t kiss targets. I don’t risk entire operations because some silver-haired bastard with talented hands made me forget who I am.
