Page 11 of Her Dirty Biker
Good. Gives me time to snoop.
I wander through the cabin. It’s an open concept, with dark wood and no personal touches. Just a coffee maker, a battered sofa, and a gun tucked under the couch cushion.
Classy.
His bag’s by the door, half-zipped. Inside: a knife, a burner phone, a patch kit, and an extra set of dog tags.
I pause, brushing my fingers over the metal.
S. DIESEL TURNER. USMC. O NEG. CATHOLIC.
Of course, he was military. It explains a lot. The posture. The silence. The shadows in his eyes. I let the tag drop and close the bag.
When the door opens behind me, I jump.
Diesel steps inside, eyes tracking the oversized shirt clinging to my damp skin like it’s painted on. His jaw clenches.
“Shower help?”
“Not even a little.”
He exhales hard. Runs a hand through his hair, ruffling the dark strands.
“You shouldn’t wear my clothes.”
My heart jumps. It is his shirt. “Why not?”
His eyes drop to my legs, still bare. “Because they don’t cover enough.”
I tilt my head. “Sounds like a you problem.”
“You’re twenty-one,” he growls.
“And you’re what, thirty-two? Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Oh no,” I gasp, mock-dramatic. “You’re ancient. Better wheel you into a nursing home.”
He stares.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters.
“I’m curious.”
“Curious girls get hurt.”
“Maybe I like a little pain.”
He rounds on me so fast I suck in a breath.
“Keep talking, Willow. See how long I let you run your mouth before I shut it with my mine.”
My thighs clench. I have no idea if I like a little pain, but he’s so easy to mess with.
His groan sounds like it costs him something. “You need to go lie down.”
“You offering to tuck me in?”
