Page 13 of Her Dirty Biker
I narrow my eyes. “What makes it special?”
He sets a second mug on the counter in front of me. “You’re in it.”
Goddamn. My stomach flips at the way he says it, and the glint in his eyes tells me he knows exactly what it does to me.
I wrap my hands around the warm mug and blow on the steam. “What now? You babysit me while the big bad biker world keeps spinning?”
His jaw tightens, just enough for me to notice. “This isn’t a game, Willow. You heard something you weren’t supposed to. That puts a target on your back.”
I sip the coffee to hide my expression. It’s good. Of course it is.
“And you? Are you my bodyguard or just the muscle they sent to make sure I don’t talk?”
“I’m the one keeping you alive.”
The room crackles with something unspoken. A dare. A promise.
He steps closer. Not enough to touch me, but enough that I can smell him—motor oil, leather, and something warm that makes my pulse stutter.
“Are you always this intense in the morning?” I tease, needing the distance, the banter, anything to break the tension.
“You always this mouthy before caffeine?”
“Touché.”
He leans against the counter, folding those tattooed arms,
“I don’t trust easily,” I say, quietly. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you’re scared. I know you didn’t sleep much and that you flinched when I opened the door just now.”
I hate how accurate he is. How observant. How calm.
“I’m not used to men like you,” I admit. “Big. Quiet. Broody. The kind who steps in like some dark knight and then disappears before I figure out what he wants.”
His gaze lowers, skimming my legs before settling back on my face. “You don’t wanna know what I want, little fox.”
I swallow hard.
He straightens, brushing past me to set his mug in the sink. As he does, his arm grazes mine, bare skin to bare skin, and I swear my whole body sparks.
It’s not even a touch, not really. Just heat and muscle and the suggestion of what it would feel like if he meant it.
“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he says, voice low and sure. “But don’t try to lie to me either.”
“Why not?”
He turns, eyes sharp. “Because I’ll always know.”
The words slam into me, cracking something open. I can’t decide if I want to punch him or pull him closer.
Instead, I stare at the floor and mutter, “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“No one ever does,” he replies. “But once you’re in, you don’t get to pretend you’re not.”
I look up sharply. “You think I’m part of this now?”
“You are.”
