Page 10 of My Wild Biker

We agreed on one night. That's what she wanted. What we both said we wanted. Clean ending, no complications, she leaves Sunday.

So why does leaving feel wrong?

I make it five miles before I slow down, pull onto the shoulder, kill the engine. Sit there in the growing heat trying to figure out what the hell is happening. It was good sex. Great sex. That's all. I've had good sex before and moved on just fine.

Except I'm sitting on the side of Route 9 at seven forty-five in the morning trying to convince myself of that, which means it's not working.

I start the bike again and ride toward the clubhouse because Clint's waiting and the club comes first. Always has.

But the whole ride my hand feels wrong without her hip under it.

That's not normal.

I push the thought away and focus on the road.

By the time I reach the clubhouse I've almost convinced myself last night was just good sex with an attractive woman and nothing more complicated than that.

Almost.

Chapter 3 — Isla

The sheets beside me are cool. He's been gone a while.

I lie there for a minute staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what I'm feeling. We agreed on one night. He honored that. When his phone buzzed this morning he got dressed, said something like see you around maybe, and walked out.

This is exactly what I said I wanted.

So why does my chest feel tight?

I get up and the rental feels too quiet. My clothes from last night are still scattered on the living room floor. His aren't. He gathered them before he left, got dressed while I sat in bed trying to arrange my face into something that looked like fine.

In the bathroom mirror I see the evidence. Mark on my neck that will be visible for days. Hair a disaster from his hands. My thighs aching in the specific way that comes from being held up against a wall.

I shower and try to wash away the confusion along with his touch.

It doesn't work.

I make coffee in the generic drip machine and sit at the small kitchen table checking emails on my phone. Trying to focus on work.

Mrs. Jones sent a follow-up about the volunteer training workshop we finalized yesterday. The regional director wants my summary report by Monday.

I type responses and delete them three times because my brain keeps sliding back to last night.

The way he looked at me at the bar. How his hands felt on my body. The sounds he made. How he stayed after, his hand on my hip while I fell asleep.

Around eight-thirty I give up on emails and get dressed. Jeans, clean shirt, hair pulled back. The mark on my neck is visible, but I don't have anything that will cover it completely and, honestly, I don't care enough to try.

I have meetings at the community center starting at nine. Final week means wrapping up projects, making sure everything is documented for the next rotation, saying goodbyes to people who've been generous with their time and trust.

The work matters and I'm good at it. I can focus on this.

The community center is a converted church building with high ceilings and excellent natural light.

Mrs. Jones is already there when I arrive, setting up for the morning workshop on donor management.

"Isla." She smiles and then her eyes catch on my neck. Her expression shifts to something knowing and amused. "Good evening?"

My face heats. "That obvious?"