Page 20 of The Biker and His Bride

Riley finished drying her hands, then reached under the bar—stretching, body curving—and the scent of coconut hit me full force. I imagined my hands sliding over her shoulders, down her back, palms gliding over lotion-soft skin. Heat pooled low and fierce.

She straightened and caught me watching. Her lips parted. Slow, shy smile tugging the corners.

“Like the smell?” she asked.

I pushed off the counter, closing the space between us until her back met the shelf. My arms framed her. “Couldn’t miss it.”

Her eyes darkened. “Too much?”

“Not enough,” I growled.

Her breath stuttered. She glanced at the busy room, then back to me. “You’re supposed to be working.”

“Delegated.” I brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, fingertips grazing lotion-slick skin. “Later tonight, when the brothers clear out?—”

“Yeah?”

“Gonna find out if every inch of you tastes like coconut.”

Color flared across her cheekbones. She licked her lips. “You talk big, outlaw.”

“Never bluff, angel.”

Boots stomped at the doorway. Pitbull hollered for another round. Riley’s gaze flickered to the noise—and back to me, pupils blown wide.

“Go,” I said, stepping back before I forgot where we were. “We’ll finish this later.”

She smirked, grabbed a pitcher, and disappeared into the crowd—hips swaying, scent lingering, knotting me up tighter than any fight ever could.

Brielle had been fake sparkle and hollow promises. But Riley? Riley was soft cotton and buried steel, sunshine and wild storms.

And she sure as hell was mine to keep safe.

The club might not know it yet.

But I did.

9

RILEY

Guilt is a stubborn whisper—it crawls into your ear when the room is quiet and reminds you of every secret you’re hiding from the people who deserve the truth.

For two weeks Rogue treated me like I mattered.

Two weeks of calloused hands leaving gentle fingerprints on my waist when he slid behind the bar. Two weeks of him leaving protein bars and bottled water on my nightstand after long shifts. Two weeks of him letting me use the laundry machines first—brothers be damned—because he said my delicates didn’t belong in a load full of grease-stained denim.

Two weeks of quiet kisses stolen in the walk-in cooler and a promise of more once life slowed down.

And I repaid him with half-truths.

Tonight the clubhouse was unusually calm: no brawls, no Brielle, no blaring jukebox. The brothers were in the rec room arguing over which action movie to stream. Rogue sat through half of it then headed to the garage to finish patching a fender.

I claimed a headache and retreated to his room, phone in hand, guilt in my gut.

The burner screen glowed as I typed: **RILEY ANDERSON MISSING CHARLESTON**.

Boom.

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