Page 3 of Her Possessive Biker
“That happen often?” His voice is low, deliberate, every word heavy like he’s weighing it before letting it go.
“No.” I shrug, aiming for casual. “Jim usually makes me leave before nine. Tonight ran long.”
“Good he does.” A grunt more than a sentence, but it rumbles through him, dark and certain.
The diner is almost empty. Two ranchers linger over pie, chewing slow. A teenage couple shares fries, faces lit up like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Jim scrapes the grill clean, humming off-key. For a moment, everything feelsnormal.
Except it doesn’t. Not withhimhere.
Reaper.
Every nerve in me buzzes like a live wire. He feels familiar, though I know we’ve never met. For months I’ve had that prickling sense that someone’s been watching me from the shadows. Probably just nerves. Or maybe the stubborn craving for a protector I pretend I don’t need.
I’m twenty-two, and my romantic résumé is about aspatheticas it sounds. A few stolen kisses under the bleachers in high school, clumsy and forgettable, the kind you try to laugh about later but don’t.
Nothing close tothis. Nothing close to the way this man makes meachefor things I’ve only ever read about in secret, cheeks burning while I flipped creased paperbacks. And someone like him? He doesn’tseegirls likeme. Not likethat.
I fuss with a spotless table just to keep my hands busy. His eyes follow me, heavy and hot. There’s possession in his gaze, though he hasn’t moved an inch.
I should be unnerved. And part of me is. The girl raised to flinch at the sound of fists should beterrifiedof a man like him. But I’m not. With him, I feelsafe. And that scares me more than anything.
My father is gone. My mother walked out years ago. My brother’s off in the military, God knows where. What’s left is this little life I’ve patched together. I don’t need a biker tearingit apart. But deep down, a reckless voice whispers that maybe Iwantit torn apart—if it’s by him.
I turn too quickly with the coffeepot and crash into solid muscle.
“Easy, Angel.” His hands close over my shoulders, big and warm, calloused palms steadying me.
The touch sends a jolt through me, heat and lightning tangled together, and for a second I swearhe breathes me in. His gaze drops, quick and sharp, like he’s taking in every inch of me, curves included, before he reins it in.
“S-sorry,” I stammer, my cheeks flaming.
“Nothing to be sorry for.” His thumb brushes the edge of my collarbone. Even that tiny touch makes my skin pebble. He steps away, giving me space, but the imprint of his hands lingers.
I retreat to the counter, my pulse racing.Get it together, Cassie. He’s just a man.
A man who calls youAngellike it belongs to you.
A man who looks like he’s built to fight, built to ruin, built to protect.
A man who makes you feel like maybe you’reworth something.
No. Stop.I scrub a hand over my face. I’m losing it.
“Need a ride home tonight?” His voice is casual, but it lands heavy.
“No, my truck’s out back.” I lift my chin, leaving out the part where it barely runs and sometimes dies at stop signs. Pride keeps that secret locked tight.
“You sure?” His eyes drop to my hands, lingering on the tiny cuts from the kitchen, the flour smudge on my knuckle. His jaw ticks, like the sight bothers him.
“Positive.” I paste on a grin. “Go do whatever bikers do when they’re not terrifying diner staff.”
His mouth tilts, slow. “You mean when we’re not catching them before they hit the pavement?”
My pulse trips. The heat of his hands is still stamped on my skin, a brand I can’t shake. My throat tightens.
“Yeah. That too. Thanks… for that.”
A sound rumbles out of him, low and deep, almost a laugh. It slides through me, hot and heavy.
