Page 19 of My Wild Biker

"Probably."

"But you didn't because you're stubborn and you wanted to understand."

"Yes."

"You understand now?"

I look at him, at the split knuckles and the blood still on his forearms, at the control in his expression. At how he's watching me like he's bracing for me to leave. "I understand this is your world. That violence is part of it. That you're good at it and you don't apologize for it because the code says it's necessary." I pause. "I understand that if I want these two days with you, this is what I'm choosing."

"And you still want them?"

Instead of answering I pull him down and kiss him.

He makes a sound low in his throat and kisses me back, one hand sliding into my hair, the other gripping my hip hard. The kiss tastes like everything that just happened, adrenaline and fear and relief that we're both here, both whole, both choosing this despite everything.

I break away breathing hard. "Bedroom."

"You sure?"

"Very sure. Stop asking me if I'm sure."

The corner of his mouth lifts. Then he takes my hand and leads me through the sparse house to a bedroom that's just as empty. Queen bed with a dark blue comforter, nightstand, lamp, nothing else. No pictures, no decorations, nothing personal.

He pulls his shirt off, mindful of his wrapped hands. I watch him undress and see the scars I noticed last night in better light now. The knife scar across his ribs, white and puckered. The bullet wound on his shoulder, circular and smooth. Other marks too, smaller ones, years of violence written on his body.

I pull off my tank top and jeans while he watches. When I'm down to my bra and underwear, he steps close and runs his hands over my curves, palms sliding over my hips, my waist, up to cup my breasts through the fabric.

"I kept thinking about you all day," he says. "About this. About how you felt."

"I kept thinking about your hands." I reach up and touch his jaw, feel stubble rough against my palm. "And now they're hurt because of me."

"They're hurt because some drunk kid pulled a knife."

"He came there looking for you. He knew you'd be at The Anchor."

"Yeah. Probably." His thumb traces my bottom lip and I feel it everywhere. "That scare you?"

"Yes. But I'm still here."

He unhooks my bra with one hand and slides it off my shoulders. Then his mouth is on my breast and I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair. He works my nipple with his tongue while his hands push my underwear down over my hips. I step out of them and then we're both naked and he's walking me backward to the bed.

We fall onto it together and he covers my body with his, the weight of him settling between my thighs. When he kisses me this time it's deeper, more urgent, like he's trying to confirm I'm really here, really choosing this, really not running.

His hand slides between my legs and finds me already wet. He makes a sound against my mouth.

"Tell me what you need," he says.

"You. Just you. I need to feel you."

He shifts his weight and I feel him hard against my thigh. Then he's positioning himself and pushing inside and we both make sounds that aren't quite words.

The stretch and fullness of him makes my back arch off the bed. He goes slow at first, letting me adjust, but I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him deeper.

"Don't be gentle," I say against his mouth. "I don't need gentle right now."

Something in his expression shifts. He pulls out almost completely and then drives back in hard. The force of it makes me cry out and my nails dig into his shoulders.

"Like that?" His voice is rough.