Page 12 of Her Dirty Biker
His eyes flick down again and I see it. The crack in his armor. The dark hunger he’s barely holding back.
“No,” he says, voice wrecked. “Because if I tuck you in, I won’t leave that bed.”
My pulse hammers. The room suddenly feels five degrees hotter. My skin tingles. Every inch of me is aware of him—his presence, his strength, the scent of leather and sweat and danger that clings to him like sin.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper.
“You should be.”
“Why?”
He steps closer. Too close. I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes. His fingers graze my cheek.
“You’re a good girl, Willow. But you keep poking the wolf.”
I smile, slow and sure. “Maybe I want to see his teeth.”
He stares at me, breathing hard. Then he backs away, voice like gravel. “Sleep, little fox, before you get bitten.”
I don’t sleep, not really.
I lie on the small bed in the back room, staring at the ceiling, my body on fire from the inside out. Every brush of the sheets feels like temptation. Every creak of the floorboards reminds me he’s out there. Awake. Fighting the same thing.
I’m twenty-one. I’ve never been in love. Never even let a man close enough to hurt me. But Diesel? He’s different. He’s not a man you let in. He’s a man whodemandsit. And something in me… wants to give it to him.
I don’t know if it’s because I feel safe with him or because I don’t. It’s already too late to run. He’s under my skin and in my blood.
I must doze off at some point. I wake up to silence.
Not the kind you get in your average sleepy neighborhood, where birds chirp and sprinklers click on and someone’s dog barks in the distance. This silence is thick, weighted, like it’s holding its breath.
The room is dim with heavy curtains drawn over the single window, filtering in just enough morning light to paint shadows across the wooden floor. The bed is too big for just one person. I’m curled up on one edge, tangled in a sheet that smells faintly of laundry detergent and leather.
I sit up slowly, brushing hair from my face, and listen.
There’s no traffic. No hum of nearby voices. Nothing familiar. Just the low creak of the floorboards beyond the bedroom door.
I remember everything all at once—Guardrail’s hand on my arm, the gleam of that slick guy’s ring, the threat wrapped in hushed tones.
Diesel.
His body between mine and danger. The bite of command in his voice. That dark, unreadable expression as he looked at me like I was something delicate and combustible all at once.
I shiver and climb out of bed, the oversized shirt I wore to sleep slipping off one shoulder.
Tiptoeing into the hallway, I follow the faint sound of metal clinking and the soft hum of music playing low from a speaker somewhere. As I reach the living room, I freeze in the doorway.
Diesel’s in the kitchen.
His back is to me, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black T-shirt as he leans over the counter, pouring coffee. His jeans hang low on his hips, and I can’t stop myself from tracing the inked lines of his arms down to the veins in his hands.
He turns just as I enter, coffee in one hand, eyebrow raised. “Sleep okay?”
His voice is too much for before breakfast.
I nod, but it’s awkward. My bare legs and wrinkled shirt feel like a neon sign under his gaze. I force a smirk. “Didn’t realize safehouses came with barista service.”
Diesel’s mouth twitches, almost smiling. “Don’t get used to it. This one’s special.”
