Page 31 of Burly Biker of Misty Mountain

“Don’t look,” I said, covering Maverick’s eyes with my hand. “I wasn’t expecting company, so I haven’t had a chance to clean.”

He chuckled, curving his palms around my waist as he slowly moved forward.

“Do you really think I give a shit whether you’ve cleaned or not, dove? I’ll only be looking at you anyway.”

I huffed, leading him to the bedroom.

“Damn you and that silver tongue. It’s too easy for you to flatter me.”

He grinned.

“Should I stop?”

No, I thought.Never.

But he would one day. When the road called to him. When he left everything behind—including me—and I had nothing but the echo of his words and the cold memory of his touch.

I walked backward as Maverick and I entered my bedroom, my hand still over his eyes. My heart thundered against my ribs with anticipation. When I bumped against my mattress,he nearly collided with me, briefly stepping on my toes before adjusting his position.

Then he removed my hand and gazed down at me. I hadn’t bothered to turn on the light, so my room was dim and swathed in shadows. The only illumination came from the street lamp on the corner, filtering through a gap in my curtains.

“Are you going to say I can’t look at you again?” he asked.

I didn’t answer, gliding my palms down his chest. Mapping the firm muscle and scorching body heat through the fabric of his shirt. Slowly, I pushed his cut off his shoulders. He took it gently from my hands and draped it on a nearby chair.

“You can look,” I whispered. “And taste. And touch. And…everything else.”

Even if it means you’ll break my heart. Even if it means I’ll shatter into a million pieces.

Maverick’s eyes darkened, guiding my arms around his neck.

“Then you better hold onto me for dear life, sweetheart.”

The next thing I knew, he hooked his hands behind my knees, hoisted me clear off my feet, and we tumbled onto the mattress together. I gulped at the sight of Maverick above me, arms braced on either side of my head, his hips pushed between my thighs. His broad shoulders filled my view.

I felt small in comparison—a strange, foreign sensation when I was so used to men making remarks about my size and how much space I took up.

“And here I thought you’d be blushing beet red by now,” Maverick said. “Don’t you want to see the marks you left on me earlier today?”

Reaching between his shoulder blades, I grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt. Maverick smirked and lowered his head, making it easier for me to pull his shirt off.

Red welts from my fingernails scored his chest. Seeing his tattoos unimpeded by clothes like this was mesmerizing. Icouldn’t stop looking, drinking in every detail—the ink on his arms from wrists to shoulders, even more ink that cascaded over his chest, but his ribs were mostly bare, down to his hips. A few pale, raised scars were visible, faded with time, and dark hair dusted his torso.

“Tell me your name,” I said softly.

Maverick’s throat worked as he swallowed. The weight of his hand settled on my hip, and he pushed the hem of my t-shirt up, grazing his knuckles across my bare stomach.

“I haven’t used my real name since I was a kid,” he said. “Everyone just calls me Maverick. It’s been that way for years.”

“Then tell me what a club bunny is,” I countered.

He huffed and bowed his head in defeat.

“I can look it up on my phone—” I started.

“No,” Maverick cut in. “God, no. I don’t need you getting lost in the sleazy underbelly of the internet when it comes to biker gang life, all right? A club bunny doesn’t belong to any specific member. She’s…shared. Consensually, of course. She’s not a wife, or a girlfriend—”

“So, she’s a prostitute,” I said.

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