Page 40 of The Biker and His Bride

“Only for you.” I leaned down and kissed her shoulder, tasting salt and coconut. My hand followed the pale triangle of her tan line down to the small of her back. Even that contrast turned me on—proof of long days tangled in the sun with nothing between us but heat.

She gasped softly when my palm cupped her hip. “Again?” she whispered.

“Always.”

We’d christened every surface in the beach house over the past week—blankets, counter, hot tub, sand. But the outdoor shower on the deck had become our chapel. A cedar stall half open to the ocean breeze, big enough for two if we didn’t mind bumping into each other—and we never minded.

I coaxed her upright, her body pliant in my hands. A sunbeam feathered over the arch of her spine; I traced it with my mouth, feeling her shiver.

“Logan, the neighbors?—”

“No neighbors for two lots.” I grinned. “And if they complain, I’ll buy the place.”

She laughed, low and throaty. “You would.”

In the shower, warm water hit our shoulders, steam swirling away into blue sky. She braced her palms on the cedar wall, back arched, and I pressed kisses down her neck, across her tan line, worshipping the contrast. My hands slid to her hips, thumbs stroking the hollows there. She made a sound—half sigh, half moan—that tightened every muscle in my body.

I took my time, lathering soap along her arms, across her breasts, watching suds streak brown skin. Every curve, every freckle glowed under sunlight shards cutting through the slats. She pushed back against me, and I felt the heat between her thighs, a silent plea. I slid inside her slowly—no rush, no fight, only that perfect fit that made the world drop away.

Water beat down like warm rain. Her hips rocked. I guided her pace, one hand pressed flat to her belly, the other tangled in salt-damp hair. She moaned my name, soft and urgent. I bent, teeth grazing her shoulder just enough to make her gasp.

I thought about seed and soil—how maybe life grew easiest in sunshine and storms. About the idea of a baby with her smile and my stubborn streak tearing around club grounds on a tiny bike. It filled my chest so full it hurt.

When we both tumbled over the edge, her cry lost in the roar of the surf below, I held her tight, burying my face in her damp hair. “Mine,” I whispered.

“Yours,” she breathed.

We stayed under the spray until water cooled, then wrapped ourselves in oversized towels and padded into the kitchen. I brewed coffee strong enough to wake the dead, added a splash of sweetened condensed milk the way she liked it. She fried eggs in the cast-iron skillet, humming some pop song off-key.

After breakfast we started packing—tossing swimsuits, sunscreen, and half-read paperbacks into duffel bags. I found her bikini buried in the sandy laundry pile and held it up, twirling it on one finger.

“Keep this somewhere safe,” I said. “Tan-line maker.”

She blushed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love.”

Her smile faltered, eyes shining. “I don’t want to go back yet.”

“Neither do I.” I came behind her, arms slipping around her waist. “But the club needs us.”

“And the house?”

“We’ll build it.” I kissed the top of her ear. “First the cabin behind the clubhouse. Then—whatever you want. Porch swings, ocean view, nursery.”

She leaned back, breath hitching at the last word. “You think?—”

“I hope.” My palm spread over her flat stomach. “Been planting seeds.”

Color rushed her cheeks. “Mr. Thorne, you are a romantic.”

“Don’t spread that rumor. I’ve got a reputation.”

We loaded the bike. She straddled behind me, arms looping my waist. Before I revved the engine, I glanced back at the house—the cedar, the deck, the outdoor shower still dripping. An ache tugged at me.

One more night, I thought. One more moonlit hour with her taste on my tongue, her laugh echoing off the dunes.

But war and love share one truth: the world doesn’t wait.

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