Page 8 of Her Dirty Biker
My jaw flexes. “I might.”
She breathes in sharply, and for a moment, we stare. Heat. Hunger. A ticking bomb of need.
“Get in the damn truck,” I growl.
She smirks. “Yes,Daddy.”
The ride to the safehouse is silent, yet electric. Her arms are crossed, her legs pressed tight together, her eyes flicking to me every few seconds like she’s trying to figure out how I’m put together.
She won’t. No one does.
When we pull into the drive, she raises a brow. “Is this your secret murder cabin?”
“Only for women who don’t listen.”
She hums. “Guess I’m screwed.”
You have no idea.
I unlock the door and hold it open. She steps inside, nose wrinkling.
“Charming,” she mutters. “Do all biker places smell like whiskey and gun oil?”
“Only the good ones.”
She wanders the living room, touching nothing but looking at everything. It’s like she’s cataloging exit points—weak spots.
Smart girl.
“This is where you bring all your girls?” she asks, glancing at the couch.
“No.”
“Good. I don’t share.”
The words hang there between us. Heavy. Suggestive. Dangerous.
“You should see the look on your face. I’m joking, obviously,” she fires back, all fire and fearlessness.
I move in closer, until we’re a breath apart. “You don’t want this, Willow. You think you do, but you don’t know what I’m made of.”
Her eyes burn into mine. “Try me.”
I back off because if I don’t, I’ll slam her against the wall and fuck her senseless. That’s not why I brought her here. Protecting her might be a flimsy excuse, given I don’t know what I’m protecting her from, but that’s what this is.
I’m supposed to be keeping her safe. Not imagining how she’d look with her knees spread and her lip between her teeth, moaning for me to ruin her.
I grip the counter so hard my knuckles crack.
She watches me from the hallway. Her shirt is riding up a little, and her legs are bare. Her gaze isn’t soft. It’s full of challenge.
“You wanna know what I overheard?” she asks.
“I’m gonna find out.”
“What if I lie?”
“I’ll know.”
