Page 38 of The Biker and His Bride

“Only when I plan on stripping my wife of her clothes after she loses.”

“Bold of you to assume.”

We played three rounds of gin rummy at the rickety picnic table. He won the first; I won the second; the third disintegrated when he slipped a queen of hearts up his sleeve and I accused him of cheating. He tried to bribe me with kisses. I countered with an ice cube slipped down the back of his shorts. The game ended in a tickle war that tumbled us onto the weathered planks, both breathless with laughter, sunburn blooming.

“You’re trouble, Mrs. Thorne,” he murmured, teeth grazing the curve of my shoulder.

“And you love it.”

He kissed me quiet.

By dusk, the ocean called. We left our phones inside, grabbed a faded beach blanket, and wandered down the private wooden walkway. Sand squeaked under our feet. The tide was rollingin heavy, waves cresting white. Moonrise painted silver on the water.

I stripped first—sundress over my head, nothing but a black bikini beneath. Rogue’s eyes tracked every inch, darkening like a storm bank. He lost the tank top, the board shorts, followed me into the surf.

The first wave hit waist-high, cool and insistent. I squealed and splashed him; he lunged, swept me against him. Salt spray kissed my cheeks, his lips tasted of sea and hunger. He cradled the back of my skull, tilting me into a kiss that was all tongue and tidal pull.

Another wave broke, pushing water up to our chests. He caught my thighs, lifted me so my legs wrapped around his waist. I clung, laughing into his mouth.

“Rogue, we’ll get caught,” I gasped when he nipped my earlobe.

“Only if they have night-vision,” he growled.

Water rushed between us; I felt him hard against my center even through wet fabric. Heat spiraled low in my belly. I rocked once—small, testing. His grip tightened.

“Off,” he ordered, reaching behind to untie the knot of my bikini top. Saltwater slicked his fingers but he worked the knot free, then another. The top fell away, floating like dark seaweed. His palm covered my bare breast, thumb brushing my nipple until it peaked from heat and chilled night air.

Lightning streaked far out over the ocean—silent, spectacular. He watched the flash flicker across my skin, made a raw sound in his throat.

“Never seen anything this beautiful,” he said.

I believed him because his voice broke on the word *beautiful*.

He carried me out past the breakers until water came to his ribs, then let gravity slide me down. I treaded water, legsbrushing his. He reached, hooked fingers in the waistband of my bikini bottoms. I shivered as he peeled them down, the fabric sliding off my ankles, disappearing into the dark.

“Now you,” I whispered.

He pushed his trunks down, letting them drift away. Wordless. Waves rocked us. He cupped my face, kissed me slow, letting me taste his confession—the relief of survival, the promise of forever. Then I felt him guide me, the press of him slipping between my legs with the gentle inevitability of tide meeting shore.

I wrapped arms around his neck, legs around his waist. He thrust shallow at first, adjusting to balance and waves. Water splashed against shoulders, stars spun overhead. The ocean was warm silk against our hips and thighs.

“Logan,” I murmured, nails digging into wet skin.

“Say my name again,” he demanded, voice ragged.

“Logan,” louder this time, and he thrust deep. Pleasure cracked through me like surf against jetty. I buried my moan in his mouth, tasting salt and want. He angled deeper, rhythm syncing to the push-pull of waves. Our bodies found a cadence—ebb, flow, surge. Far-off thunder rolled as lightning lit our drenched, naked forms in electric white.

Climax hit like undertow. My breath stuttered. He swallowed my cry, hissing my name as he followed, hips driving once, twice, then shuddering to stillness. We clung there, drifting, hearts pounding.

When our legs trembled from treading water, he carried me ashore. Sand stuck to our wet skin. He laid me on the blanket, kissed the grains from my shoulders, down my chest, across my belly.

“I’m not done,” he said, grin feral in moonlight.

We made love again, slower, on soft sand while waves hissed mere feet away.

Later, wrapped in the blanket, we watched moonlit foam paint silver ribbons on the beach. He rubbed my legs, murmuring nonsense until chills faded.

“I need to tell you something,” he said.

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