Page 31 of The Girlfriend's Guide to Dating a Biker
My brain took that sentence, lovingly wrapped it in panic, and then launched it into a 40-tab mental browser session.
What is club business?
Is it drugs? Arms dealing? A group therapy session where they all share their feelings in leather vests and sunglasses?
I imagined Jake in a dimly lit warehouse surrounded by other men who looked equally capable of murder and/or carpentry. Were they voting on crimes? Discussing turf wars? Planning a charity ride that also involved strategic intimidation?
Maybe he had blood on his hands. Maybe he didn’t. I DIDN’T KNOW. And somehow, the not-knowing was worse.
Because what if this was the moment in my life where I should walk away? What if this was the romantic red-flag test they put in women’s magazines, and I was failing it in real time?
Question 7: He shows up at your apartment at 3 a.m. after vague “club business.” Do you:
A) Call the police
B) Tell him it’s over
C) Let him in because he smells like danger, and your common sense is duct-taped in the boot of the car
I was a C.
I was such a C.
I was already writing fanfiction about this man in my head, and I didn’t even know if he had an alibi.
And right as I was about to launch myself fully into a mental montage of wedding dresses, court depositions, and witness protection name options?—
He kissed me.
And suddenly there were no thoughts. No tabs. No spirals.
Just his mouth on mine and my last remaining brain cell waving a tiny white flag and whispering, we tried.
His kiss wasn’t soft. It was full tilt, no restraint, kissing-you-like-you’re-the-only-thing-that-matters kind of hunger.
His hands were in my hair, holding me in the way that said I wasn’t lying when I told you I’ve been thinking about you. His tongue swept in like he had unfinished business, and I let him. I wanted this. All of it.
This kiss was the kind that packed all my thoughts up and made them peace out. Even my girl math stopped mathing. And it forced all my survival instincts to sit politely in the corner like we’ll just see ourselves out.
Jake touched me like he was two seconds away from pinning me to the wall and three seconds away from not apologising for it. His hands weren’t asking. They were taking. Rough and possessive. But I felt his restraint, even in his I-want-to-ruin-you grip. I knew he wanted to devour me and was only barely holding back.
When his phone buzzed, the sound he made was so obscene that my entire body stood to attention like yes sir, we are now officially in heat.
We broke apart, both of us breathing hard.
The muscle in Jake’s jaw ticked as he checked the message, but he simply slid the phone back into his pocket and looked at me with an expression that told me nothing was more important than this moment, not even the club.
And me?
I was just over here trying to catch my breath while my ovaries were trying to figure out what life even was anymore.
“Okay, well,” I blurted, unable to stop my mouth from taking action all on its own. “I think you’ve ruined me for other men tonight. So. That’s your fault now.”
His lips immediately lifted into a grin. A smug, sinful grin that made it worse. Way worse.
You’d think I would have stopped after that, wouldn’t you? No. Not me. When I’m on a roll, I just keep rolling.
“Also, I’m pretty sure you’ve become my default setting for everything now.” I gestured helplessly like that would somehow help my dignity regroup. “Like, somewhere in my brain, there’s probably a dropdown menu, and you’re the only option that shows up.”
