Page 33 of Her Savior Biker
The admission costs us both something.
“How do I know you’ll really come?” The question is small, vulnerable. “How do I know this isn’t your way of doing something heroic and stupid?”
“You don’t,” I say honestly. “You have to trust me. I waited thirty-four years to find you. You think I’m throwing that away now?”
Hope wars with fear in her expression.
“We don’t have time to argue,” I continue. “Not if we want Aiden safe. Mason’s coming back at six.”
“Okay.” She nods slowly. “I’ll go with Rector.”
Her trust means everything. “Come here,” I say, my voice rough.
She comes to me. I pull her into my arms, kissing her like it might be the last time, and she kisses me back with the same desperate hunger. “How long?” she asks against my mouth.
“Few days. Maybe a week.”
“Too long.” Her hands are already at my shirt. “Way too long.”
I lift her, carrying her to the bedroom, laying her on the bed we’ve shared. My hands shake slightly as I strip her clothes.
“I need to memorize you,” I say, my voice rough as I trail my mouth down her throat. “Need to remember exactly how you taste when you’re gone.”
She arches beneath me. When I reach the apex of her thighs, settling between her legs to taste her, she cries out softly.
“Hell, Shannon.” I look up at her, her face flushed with need. “I’m memorizing this. The way you taste, the sounds you make.”
I worship her with my mouth until she’s trembling, gasping my name. When she comes apart on my tongue, I hold her through it, storing the memory away.
“My turn,” she breathes when she comes down, pushing me onto my back.
She takes her time, her hands mapping every scar, every line of muscle. When she finally frees me from my jeans and takes me in her mouth with desperate hunger, I nearly lose my mind.
“Fuck, baby. That mouth—” I thread my fingers through her braids, fighting for control. “Need to be inside you.”
I pull her up, positioning her over me. “Ride me, Shannon. I want to see every part of what I’m giving up.”
She sinks down on me, and we both groan. When she starts moving, taking what she needs while I watch every expression cross her face, it’s perfect and heartbreaking.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I rasp, hands gripping her hips. “So perfect. Mine.”
“Yours,” she agrees, moving faster, chasing the pleasure. “Always yours.”
When her second orgasm builds, I flip us, needing to be in control, to claim her completely before I have to let her go. I drive into her harder, letting the desperation fuel my movements. She meets me, thrust for thrust, nails digging into my shoulders.
“Mark me,” I growl against her ear. “Leave something I can feel when you’re gone.”
She bites down on my shoulder. The sharp pain mixed with pleasure sends me over the edge. I come hard, buried deep inside her, her name torn from my throat.
Afterward, we lie tangled together. I trace patterns on her bare shoulder, memorizing the feel of her skin.
“I’ll come for you,” I promise.
“You better,” she whispers. “Because if you don’t—if you get yourself killed playing hero—I’ll never forgive you.”
The threat fills me with a fierce satisfaction. It means she’s planning on forever, too.
“I’ll come for you,” I repeat. “Count on it.”
