Page 22 of Her Dirty Biker
He grabs my wrist. Not hard. Just firm enough to stop me.
“Don’t twist it.” Diesel sits up. Rakes a hand through his messy dark hair. “I don’t regret you.I never could. I just—fuck, Willow. You’re twenty-one.”
“So?”
“So you’re soft and good and you don’t know what you’re getting into.”
I yank my arm free. “Wow. You know, I thought I was done being told who I am and what I can handle. Guess I was wrong.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Save it,” I snap, climbing out of bed and wrapping myself in the nearest oversized tee. Probably his. Doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I stomp out of the room like a toddler throwing a tantrum, because apparently, I’m too soft to fuck a biker and not catch feelings.
The hallway is narrow, the walls bare. There’s no decoration. No warmth. Just cold wood and colder air.
When I find the kitchen, I flip on the light, blink against the sudden brightness, and breathe deep.
I fix a cup of coffee, but my hands are shaking, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep from spilling it.
Why does this feel like rejection?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be smarter. Tougher.
Footsteps behind me make me stiffen. I don’t turn around. Just keep sipping the coffee.
“You gonna stay mad at me all day?” he asks from the doorway.
“Thinking about it.”
He exhales. “You want me to lie?”
I spin, hot tears threatening to humiliate me. “I want you to want me, Diesel. Not because I’m young or innocent or in danger. I want you toseeme.”
His face changes. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like I just knocked the air out of him.
“I do see you.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer. “You see some fragile little girl you’ve gotta protect. But I’m not. I’ve taken care of myself my entire life. You don’t have to save me. Just don’t push me away.”
“I’m not trying to push you away,” he says, low and rough. “I’m trying not to ruin you.”
“You won’t.”
“I could.”
I touch his chest, press my hand flat over his heart. “Then don’t.”
We stand there in silence, my fingers over his heartbeat, his eyes boring into mine like he wants to devour me and run at the same time.
“You scare the shit out of me,” he finally admits.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Same.”
Something shifts in his gaze.
He cups my jaw, tilting my face up. “You’re not a mistake, Willow. You’re the first thing in a long time that feels right.”
My breath catches. He kisses me. Gentle. No heat, just lips and truth and aching promises he doesn’t know how to say yet.
