Page 12 of Her Savior Biker
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s going to refuse. Then: “Alright. Just for a bit.”
Dinner is spaghetti and jarred sauce—nothing fancy, but it’s hot and filling. Aiden perks up with Savior there, telling him about the pictures he colored and asking if he can ride the motorcycle again someday.
“Maybe when you’re bigger,” Savior says. “And your mama says it’s okay.”
After dinner, Aiden starts getting cranky and clingy, the way he does when he’s overtired. I’m about to start the bedtime routine when Savior surprises me.
“Want me to read him a story?”
Aiden’s whole face lights up. “Yes! Savior read story!”
They disappear into the bedroom. The low rumble of Savior’s voice drifts through the walls as he reads. Something about it—this dangerous man being gentle with my son—makes my chest tight with emotion I don’t want to examine too closely.
When he comes back, Aiden’s asleep, and I’m washing dishes at the sink.
“Out cold,” Savior says, leaning against the counter. “Kid was exhausted.”
“Thank you. For reading to him. He doesn’t… he doesn’t have many men in his life who are kind to him.”
Something flickers across Savior’s face, but he just nods.
We clean up together, and it’s awkward again—the kitchen too small, both of us hyperaware of where the other is. When I reach for a dish towel, our hands brush. When he moves to put away the leftovers, I have to step aside, and we’re too close, breathing the same air.
He looks at me for a moment, something hungry and conflicted in his eyes. Then he steps back.
“I should go.”
But he doesn’t move toward the door. Just stands there like he’s fighting with himself.
“Is that really what you want to do?” I ask. “Leave?”
His jaw ticks. “Shannon—”
“No, I need you to tell me. Because I can’t read men, apparently. I’m done trying to figure it out.” I turn to face him fully. “I want a man who’s straightforward. So tell me—do you want to leave?”
“You don’t know what you want.”
The words sting. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been through hell. You’re grateful, confused, probably lonely as hell. But that doesn’t mean—”
“Don’t.” I step closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in his pale eyes. “Don’t tell me what I feel.”
I reach up and touch his chest, feel his heart hammering under my palm. “I know exactly what I want.”
“Shannon, don’t—”
I kiss him.
It’s not gentle or tentative. It’s three years of loneliness and want and need exploding into one desperate moment, our mouths crashing together with pent-up desire. His lips part with a sharp intake of breath just as my tongue glides into the hot, sensuous warmth of his mouth. For one suspended heartbeat, he goes completely still—then his control shatters, and he’s on me like a starving man, his arms crushing me against him as he deepens the kiss with furious possession.
His groan vibrates through me as his tongue strokes against mine, erasing any space between us, making me gasp into his mouth. The kiss turns deeper, darker, a claiming that sends liquid heat pooling low in my stomach. My fingers tangle in hishair, pressing him closer until I can feel the racing thunder of his heart against my chest. The taste of him—coffee and something uniquely male—steals my breath, and I cling to him, our mouths moving together in a frenzied rhythm that threatens to consume us both.
Then he tears himself away so abruptly the loss is a raw ache in my chest, his hands pushing me back so hard I stagger. His chest heaves, his eyes wild and dark with the same desperate hunger surging through my veins.
“Fuck.” He drags both hands through his hair, pacing like a caged animal, the raw need we’d just shared still humming in the air between us. “This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.”
“Why?” The word escapes in a ragged breath, harsher than I intended. “Because you think I don’t know my own mind?”
