Page 39 of The Biker and His Bride

“Mmm?”

He pulled a jar from the tote bag—my coconut lotion. “Dream ended too soon in Vegas.”

Heat flushed. He squeezed a dollop into his palm, warmed it, then began spreading it up my calves. The scent of coconut bloomed, thick and sweet, mixing with salt and sex.

His slick hands glided over my knees, thighs, hips. He massaged my belly, across ribs, up to breasts. Everywhere he touched left my skin glowing. My pulse galloped. By the time he reached the curve of my neck, I was molten.

“You smell like paradise,” he said, voice gravel. “Paradise that belongs to me.”

I pulled him down, whispered filthy promises. He fulfilled every one—on the blanket, then against the porch railing back at the house, then in the heart-shaped hot tub just before dawn.

—

Daylight found us sprawled in bed, muscles languid. Rogue rose first, brewed coffee strong enough to revive the dead. He brought two mugs, set them on the bedside table, and crawled under the sheets.

“Morning, wife.”

“Morning, outlaw.”

We sipped coffee, feet tangled. After caffeine we rummaged through the pantry and found pancake mix, chocolate chips, maple syrup. He manned the griddle while I chopped strawberries. We ate on the deck, chocolate smeared on mouths, sticky fingers licked clean.

The afternoon rolled hot and slow. He read an old paperback western in a hammock. I lounged beside him with a dog-earedthriller. Occasionally we swapped books or kisses or both. When sweat beaded under my bikini, we took the kayaks out and paddled through marsh channels, herons bursting into flight ahead of us.

At sunset, he fired the grill again—steaks this time, searing over open flame, asparagus wrapped in foil with garlic. He mixed bourbon and sweet tea in mason jars. We clinked to sunsets, to scars, to second chances.

And after we ate, he carried me back to bed, coconut lotion in hand, eyes smoldering, moonlight slicing across muscle and ink.

We didn’t leave the island for three days.

We loved until the lotion jar emptied, until the sunburns faded, until laughter stitched every bruise.

And on the fourth morning, when we finally packed up to ride back to Sable Creek, Rogue pulled me against the bike, kissed the ring on my finger, and said, “Next time I buy property, it’s gonna face the ocean.”

“Beach house?” I teased.

“Beach house,” he affirmed. “For our future.”

I thought of sun-bleached porches, tiny coconut-scented footprints, maybe a little Harley trike engine revving on the sand.

Paradise had never felt so possible.

And for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be home wherever his arms were.

20

ROGUE

Leaving the Isle of Palms felt like trying to crawl out of a dream that still clung to my skin.

Sunlight streamed through the bedroom’s sheer curtains, turning the waves outside into molten silver. Riley lay sprawled across the sheets, naked, brown as honey, the tan lines of her bikini painting pale ribbons over her hips and the swell of her breasts. Her hair had picked up gold streaks in the salt and sun—wild highlights that shimmered every time she moved.

I propped myself on an elbow and took my time looking. She always said I stared too much. She never understood it was because I still couldn’t quite believe she was real, that after everything—gunfire, broken vows, country-club sneers—I ended up here, with her, in a house that smelled like sunscreen and coffee grinds.

She sighed, rolling toward me, sleepy smile curving her lips. “Why are you awake?”

“Can’t sleep.” I brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “Dangerous angel in my bed.”

Her lashes fluttered. “You’re cheesy.”

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