Page 75 of The Girlfriend's Guide to Dating a Biker
When I turned the corner into our apartment complex, I found Jake in the car park with his bike like a live-action thirst trap. He was crouched low, arms flexing, hands doing something suspiciously competent with a spray can and a rag.
Bestie, my hormones launched a denial-of-service attack on my brain. Because apparently my new kink is watching him maintain machinery while radiating unlawful levels of arm porn and testosterone.
“Hey, darlin’.” He glanced up, grease on his fingers. “C’mere. It’s time you learned how to lube a chain.”
Excuse me???
Sir. You’re abusing your power and your biceps, and I need you to know that. This feels like entrapment.
“That was . . . aggressively hot,” I said, after what was either a five-second pause or a full hour of bicep-induced drooling. I can’t be sure which. “Did you rehearse that? Was that a line? Be honest.”
Jake looked at me like I was adorable and doomed. One corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk that was all sin and no apology. He didn’t answer. Just dragged the rag through his hands. Slow. Deliberate. Then tossed it aside and stood.
“If I’d rehearsed it,” he said, his voice low and calm and cocky as hell, “I would’ve made it so much fucking filthier.”
He took one step towards me. Then another. Eyes locked on mine.
“You wanna know what it sounds like when I’m trying?”
Another step. His boots stopped just short of me.
His gaze dipped to my mouth, then lower. Unhurried. Like he’d studied the effect and enjoyed weaponising it. He probably graduated top of his class at Feral Biker Academy, where they teach you how to wreck a woman in ten easy steps and one look.
“If I was trying, sweetheart . . .” His voice dropped to a growl. “I’d tell you to open this mouth—” he gripped my jaw “—and let me ruin that pretty throat before dinner.”
Entrapment, your honour.
This was a targeted attack on my panties.
“I’d tell you to bend over my bike and let me give you what I’ve been thinking about all fuckin’ day.”
Absolute abuse of power.
He leaned in, brushed his mouth against my ear. “I’d stuff you with my cum all fuckin’ night long so you’re still leaking it two days from now.”
My breath caught. Fully caught. Like my lungs just gave up and decided oxygen was a luxury I no longer deserved. My thighs squeezed together on instinct. And somewhere deep in my soul, a tiny internal voice screamed, Not in the car park. Not in the car park. NOT in the car park.
“You do realise there are people around, right?” I finally managed. “Like, normal humans who did not sign up for . . . for this. You’re out here casually dropping X-rated content, like Mr Weatherby doesn’t have a full surveillance setup trained on this car park. So, now it’s on you that the Wine Club’s gonna think I’m some cum-filled gangster’s girl every time they see me. And the worst part? I’m actually considering letting you commit every illegal and morally questionable thing you just described.”
Jake chuckled, a sound made entirely of sex and smugness that I absolutely would not be dreaming about later. His hand came to the back of my neck, firm, like he was grounding me and claiming me all at once.
“That right?” he murmured, brushing his thumb over my skin. “You think you’d let me, darlin’?” His smirk smirked harder. “Sweetheart, you’ve been lookin’ at me like I already stuffed my cum in you and stamped gangster’s girl across your fuckin’ forehead.”
He did not just say that.
He did not just say he’d stamped gangster’s girl across my forehead like he was leaving a claim tag on a piece of property.
I felt my eye twitch.
I opened my mouth to say something.
Anything.
Something that didn’t sound like please do that.
But before I had a chance, Jake gripped my jaw again and kissed me.
Hot.
