Page 17 of Her Dirty Biker
“I don’t know what to do here,” she whispers. “With you.”
“Then don’t do anything,” I murmur.
She sucks in a breath, eyes locked on mine.
“Diesel…”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“I know.”
“I probably should be.”
“Probably.”
We stand there in silence, our bodies swaying toward each other without meaning to. I want to touch her. Fuck, Iacheto. I also know if I cross that line, there’s no going back.
She’s twenty-one. A baby compared to me. And yeah, I’ve seen things, done things, that would curl her pretty little toes.
She deserves a nice, boring guy with a 401 (k) and a golden retriever. Not a biker with blood on his hands and scars no one sees.
But when she looks at me like that—eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed—I’m not a fucking saint. I’m a man. And this girl’s my fucking kryptonite.
I step closer. Her chest rises with a shaky breath, and then—
A loud crash sounds inside. Something falls in the kitchen.
I spin, instincts flaring, hand already reaching for the knife at my hip.
Willow gasps and stumbles back. “What was that?”
“Stay here.”
I burst through the door and sweep the space quickly. It’s just a pan, knocked off the counter by a damn raccoon who somehow jimmied the back screen door open.
But the tension lingers.
I return to the porch. She’s still standing there, shaking slightly.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Just a nosey animal.”
She swallows. “I thought—”
“I know.”
Without thinking, I wrap my arm around her and pull her in.
She doesn’t resist. She melts. My hand curves over her lower back, fingers splaying against warm skin just under the hem of her shirt. She shivers.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispers into my chest.
“Yeah,” I agree. “The worst.”
“So why does it feel like the only one?”
I lean down, my lips a breath from her temple. “Because it is.”
