Page 10 of Her Dirty Biker
That muscle in his cheek ticks again. “He won’t do it again.”
“Didn’t realize you were my knight in shining ink.”
“I’m not your anything,” he says gruffly.
But his eyes say otherwise. They burn like a fuse—one spark away from a full-blown explosion.
I stand and cross to the window, the blinds half-drawn. Outside, the sun filters through the tall pine trees, casting long shadows across the yard. There’s a stillness here I hadn’t noticed before. The kind that makes your skin itch.
“I’m not built for this,” I murmur.
“For what?”
“Being a pawn in some biker turf war.”
“You’re not a pawn.” His voice is closer now. “You’re a witness, and until I’m sure you’re safe, you’re under my protection.”
I turn around. He’s standing just a few feet away, tall and immovable as a mountain.
His eyes drop to my lips.
And mine? Mine are fucking traitors.
They part. Just slightly. Just enough to let in air and want.
My voice is barely a whisper. “You’re not really good at pretending you don’t want me.”
His throat bobs. “This isn’t about want.”
“No?” I step closer. “So when I called you Daddy last night, that did nothing for you?”
His nostrils flare.
“You shouldn’t say shit like that,” he growls.
“Why not?”
“Because I will spank you if I hear you say it to anyone else.”
I inhale, the sound sharp and involuntary.
Then I laugh—quiet, shaky, breathless. “I don’t think that would really be a punishment.”
He groans under his breath and steps back like he’s physically yanking himself out of the moment.
“You need a shower. There’s one down the hall. Towels are under the sink.”
“Running from me already?” I ask, teasing.
He doesn’t answer. Just storms out onto the porch and slams the door behind him.
The water’s hot and a little too hard, the pressure borderline assault, but it does the job. I scrub the casino sweat and last night’s fear off my skin and try not to replay that moment—his voice low and dangerous, the wordspankrumbling from his chest like a goddamn promise.
It’s useless.
I dry off and wrap myself in one of his shirts I found in the hall closet—big, soft, black cotton that swallows me whole. At least, I assume it’s his. I guess it could be anyone's.
When I step out, he’s still outside. I can see him through the window, crouched by his bike, checking something on the engine, like it’s easier than facing me.
